1. THE ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD (650-1066)

BEOWULF: THE STORY

Hrothgar, king of the Danes, or Scyldings, builds a great mead-hall, or palace, in which he hopes to feast his liegemen and to give them presents. The joy of king and retainers is, however, of short duration. Grendel, the monster, is seized with hateful jealousy. He cannot brook the sounds of joyance that reach him down in his fen-dwelling near the hall. Oft and anon he goes to the joyous building, bent on direful mischief. Thane after thane is ruthlessly carried off and devoured, while no one is found strong enough and bold enough to cope with the monster. For twelve years he persecutes Hrothgar and his vassals. Over sea, a day's voyage off, Beowulf, of the Geats, nephew of Higelac, king of the Geats, hears of Grendel's doings and of Hrothgar's misery. He resolves to crush the fell monster and relieve the aged king. With fourteen chosen companions, he sets sail for Dane-land. Reaching that country, he soon persuades Hrothgar of his ability to help him. The hours that elapse before night are spent in beer-drinking and conversation. When Hrothgar's bedtime comes he leaves the hall in charge of Beowulf, telling him that never before has he given to another the absolute wardship of his palace. All retire to rest, Beowulf, as it were, sleeping upon his arms. Grendel comes, the great march-stepper, bearing God's anger. He seizes and kills one of the sleeping warriors. Then he advances towards Beowulf. A fierce and desperate hand-to-hand struggle ensues. No arms are used, both combatants trusting to strength and hand-grip. Beowulf tears Grendel's shoulder from its socket, and the monster retreats to his den, howling and yelling with agony and fury. The wound is fatal. The next morning, at early dawn, warriors in numbers flock to the hall Heorot, to hear the news. Joy is boundless. Glee runs high. Hrothgar and his retainers are lavish of gratitude and of gifts. Grendel's mother, however, comes the next night to avenge his death. She is furious and raging. While Beowulf is sleeping in a room somewhat apart [x] from the quarters of the other warriors, she seizes one of Hrothgar's favorite counsellors, and carries him off and devours him. Beowulf is called. Determined to leave Heorot entirely purified, he arms himself, and goes down to look for the female monster. After traveling through the waters many hours, he meets her near the sea-bottom. She drags him to her den. The Pilgrim’s Progress

There he sees Grendel lying dead. After a desperate and almost fatal struggle with the woman, he slays her, and swims upward in triumph, taking with him Grendel's head. Joy is renewed at Heorot. Congratulations crowd upon the victor. Hrothgar literally pours treasures into the lap of Beowulf; and it is agreed among the vassals of the king that Beowulf will be their next liegelord. Beowulf leaves Dane-land. Hrothgar weeps and laments at his departure. When the hero arrives in his own land, Higelac treats him as a distinguished guest. He is the hero of the hour. Beowulf subsequently becomes king of his own people, the Geats. After he has been ruling for fifty years, his own neighborhood is wofully harried by a fire-spewing dragon. Beowulf determines to kill him. In the ensuing struggle both Beowulf and the dragon are slain. The grief of the Geats is inexpressible. They determine, however, to leave nothing undone to honor the memory of their lord. A great funeral-pyre is built, and his body is burnt. Then a memorial-barrow is made, visible from a great distance, that sailors afar may be constantly reminded of the prowess of the national hero of Geatland. The poem closes with a glowing tribute to his bravery, his gentleness, his goodness of heart, and his generosity.

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THE QUEEN PLEDGES BEOWULF

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THE DEATH OF BEOWULF

Beowulf | III. Grendel The Murderer. {Grendel attacks the sleeping heroes} When the sun was sunken, he set out to visit The lofty hall-building, how the Ring-Danes had used it For beds and benches when the banquet was over. 5 Then he found there reposing many a noble Asleep after supper; sorrow the heroes,[8] Misery knew not. The monster of evil Greedy and cruel tarried but little, {He drags off thirty of them, and devours them} Fell and frantic, and forced from their slumbers Thirty of thanemen; thence he departed 10 Leaping and laughing, his lair to return to, With surfeit of slaughter sallying homeward. In the dusk of the dawning, as the day was just breaking, Was Grendel's prowess revealed to the warriors: 20 The Pilgrim’s Progress

{A cry of agony goes up, when Grendel's horrible deed is fully realized.} Then, his meal-taking finished, a moan was uplifted, 15 Morning-cry mighty. The man-ruler famous, The long-worthy atheling, sat very woful, Suffered great sorrow, sighed for his liegemen, When they had seen the track of the hateful pursuer, The spirit accursed: too crushing that sorrow, {The monster returns the next night.} 20 Too loathsome and lasting. Not longer he tarried, But one night after continued his slaughter Shameless and shocking, shrinking but little From malice and murder; they mastered him fully. He was easy to find then who otherwhere looked for A pleasanter place of repose in the lodges, 25 A bed in the bowers. Then was brought to his notice Told him truly by token apparent The hall-thane's hatred: he held himself after Further and faster who the foeman did baffle. 30 [9]So ruled he and strongly strove against justice Lone against all men, till empty uptowered {King Hrothgar's agony and suspense last twelve years.} The choicest of houses. Long was the season: Twelve-winters' time torture suffered The friend of the Scyldings, every affliction, 35 Endless agony; hence it after[10] became Certainly known to the children of men Sadly in measures, that long against Hrothgar Grendel struggled:--his grudges he cherished, Murderous malice, many a winter, 40 Strife unremitting, and peacefully wished he [11]Life-woe to lift from no liegeman at all of The men of the Dane-folk, for money to settle, No counsellor needed count for a moment On handsome amends at the hands of the murderer; {Grendel is unremitting in his persecutions.} 45 The monster of evil fiercely did harass, The ill-planning death-shade, both elder and younger, Trapping and tricking them. He trod every night then The mist-covered moor-fens; men do not know where Witches and wizards wander and ramble. 50 So the foe of mankind many of evils

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Grievous injuries, often accomplished, Horrible hermit; Heort he frequented, Gem-bedecked palace, when night-shades had fallen {God is against the monster.} (Since God did oppose him, not the throne could he touch,[12] 55 The light-flashing jewel, love of Him knew not). 'Twas a fearful affliction to the friend of the Scyldings {The king and his council deliberate in vain.} Soul-crushing sorrow. Not seldom in private Sat the king in his council; conference held they What the braves should determine 'gainst terrors unlooked for. {They invoke the aid of their gods.} 60 At the shrines of their idols often they promised Gifts and offerings, earnestly prayed they The devil from hell would help them to lighten Their people's oppression. Such practice they used then, Hope of the heathen; hell they remembered 65 In innermost spirit, God they knew not, {The true God they do not know.} Judge of their actions, All-wielding Ruler, No praise could they give the Guardian of Heaven, The Wielder of Glory. Woe will be his who Through furious hatred his spirit shall drive to 70 The clutch of the fire, no comfort shall look for, Wax no wiser; well for the man who, Living his life-days, his Lord may face And find defence in his Father's embrace! Beowulf | VI. Beowulf Introduces Himself At The Palace. The highway glistened with many-hued pebble, A by-path led the liegemen together. [19]Firm and hand-locked the war-burnie glistened, The ring-sword radiant rang 'mid the armor 5 As the party was approaching the palace together {They set their arms and armor against the wall.} In warlike equipments. 'Gainst the wall of the building Their wide-fashioned war-shields they weary did set then, Battle-shields sturdy; benchward they turned then; Their battle-sarks rattled, the gear of the heroes; 10 The lances stood up then, all in a cluster, The arms of the seamen, ashen-shafts mounted

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With edges of iron: the armor-clad troopers {A Danish hero asks them whence and why they are come.} Were decked with weapons. Then a proud-mooded hero Asked of the champions questions of lineage: 15 "From what borders bear ye your battle-shields plated, Gilded and gleaming, your gray-colored burnies, Helmets with visors and heap of war-lances?-- To Hrothgar the king I am servant and liegeman. 'Mong folk from far-lands found I have never {He expresses no little admiration for the strangers.} 20 Men so many of mien more courageous. I ween that from valor, nowise as outlaws, But from greatness of soul ye sought for King Hrothgar." {Beowulf replies.} Then the strength-famous earlman answer rendered, The proud-mooded Wederchief replied to his question, {We are Higelac's table-companions, and bear an important commission to your prince.} . 25 Hardy 'neath helmet: "Higelac's mates are we; Beowulf hight I. To the bairn of Healfdene, The famous folk-leader, I freely will tell To thy prince my commission, if pleasantly hearing He'll grant we may greet him so gracious to all men." 30 Wulfgar replied then (he was prince of the Wendels, His boldness of spirit was known unto many, His prowess and prudence): "The prince of the Scyldings, {Wulfgar, the thane, says that he will go and ask Hrothgar whether he will see the strangers.} The friend-lord of Danemen, I will ask of thy journey, The giver of rings, as thou urgest me do it, 35 The folk-chief famous, and inform thee early What answer the good one mindeth to render me." He turned then hurriedly where Hrothgar was sitting, [20]Old and hoary, his earlmen attending him; The strength-famous went till he stood at the shoulder 40 Of the lord of the Danemen, of courteous thanemen The custom he minded. Wulfgar addressed then His friendly liegelord: "Folk of the Geatmen {He thereupon urges his liegelord to receive the visitors courteously.} O'er the way of the waters are wafted hither, Faring from far-lands: the foremost in rank

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45 The battle-champions Beowulf title. They make this petition: with thee, O my chieftain, To be granted a conference; O gracious King Hrothgar, Friendly answer refuse not to give them! {Hrothgar, too, is struck with Beowulf's appearance.} In war-trappings weeded worthy they seem 50 Of earls to be honored; sure the atheling is doughty Who headed the heroes hitherward coming." Beowulf | XII. Grendel And Beowulf. {Grendel comes from the fens.} 'Neath the cloudy cliffs came from the moor then Grendel going, God's anger bare he. The monster intended some one of earthmen In the hall-building grand to entrap and make way with: {He goes towards the joyous building.} 5 He went under welkin where well he knew of The wine-joyous building, brilliant with plating, Gold-hall of earthmen. Not the earliest occasion {This was not his first visit there.} He the home and manor of Hrothgar had sought: Ne'er found he in life-days later nor earlier 10 Hardier hero, hall-thanes[35] more sturdy! Then came to the building the warrior marching, {His horrid fingers tear the door open.} Bereft of his joyance. The door quickly opened On fire-hinges fastened, when his fingers had touched it; The fell one had flung then--his fury so bitter-- 15 Open the entrance. Early thereafter The foeman trod the shining hall-pavement, {He strides furiously into the hall.} Strode he angrily; from the eyes of him glimmered A lustre unlovely likest to fire. He beheld in the hall the heroes in numbers, 20 A circle of kinsmen sleeping together, {He exults over his supposed prey.} A throng of thanemen: then his thoughts were exultant, He minded to sunder from each of the thanemen The life from his body, horrible demon, Ere morning came, since fate had allowed him {Fate has decreed that he shall devour no more heroes. Beowulf suffers

24 The Pilgrim’s Progress from suspense.} 25 The prospect of plenty. Providence willed not To permit him any more of men under heaven To eat in the night-time. Higelac's kinsman Great sorrow endured how the dire-mooded creature In unlooked-for assaults were likely to bear him. 30 No thought had the monster of deferring the matter, {Grendel immediately seizes a sleeping warrior, and devours him.} But on earliest occasion he quickly laid hold of A soldier asleep, suddenly tore him, Bit his bone-prison, the blood drank in currents, Swallowed in mouthfuls: he soon had the dead man's 35 Feet and hands, too, eaten entirely. Nearer he strode then, the stout-hearted warrior {Beowulf and Grendel grapple.} Snatched as he slumbered, seizing with hand-grip, Forward the foeman foined with his hand; Caught he quickly the cunning deviser, 40 On his elbow he rested. This early discovered The master of malice, that in middle-earth's regions, 'Neath the whole of the heavens, no hand-grapple greater {The monster is amazed at Beowulf's strength.} In any man else had he ever encountered: Fearful in spirit, faint-mooded waxed he, 45 Not off could betake him; death he was pondering, {He is anxious to flee.} Would fly to his covert, seek the devils' assembly: His calling no more was the same he had followed Long in his lifetime. The liege-kinsman worthy {Beowulf recalls his boast of the evening, and determines to fulfil it.} Of Higelac minded his speech of the evening, 50 Stood he up straight and stoutly did seize him. His fingers crackled; the giant was outward, The earl stepped farther. The famous one minded To flee away farther, if he found an occasion, And off and away, avoiding delay, 55 To fly to the fen-moors; he fully was ware of The strength of his grapple in the grip of the foeman. {'Twas a luckless day for Grendel.} 'Twas an ill-taken journey that the injury-bringing, Harrying harmer to Heorot wandered:

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{The hall groans.} The palace re-echoed; to all of the Danemen, 60 Dwellers in castles, to each of the bold ones, Earlmen, was terror. Angry they both were, Archwarders raging.[36] Rattled the building; 'Twas a marvellous wonder that the wine-hall withstood then The bold-in-battle, bent not to earthward, 65 Excellent earth-hall; but within and without it Was fastened so firmly in fetters of iron, By the art of the armorer. Off from the sill there Bent mead-benches many, as men have informed me, Adorned with gold-work, where the grim ones did struggle. 70 The Scylding wise men weened ne'er before That by might and main-strength a man under heaven Might break it in pieces, bone-decked, resplendent, Crush it by cunning, unless clutch of the fire In smoke should consume it. The sound mounted upward {Grendel's cries terrify the Danes.} 75 Novel enough; on the North Danes fastened A terror of anguish, on all of the men there Who heard from the wall the weeping and plaining, The song of defeat from the foeman of heaven, Heard him hymns of horror howl, and his sorrow 80 Hell-bound bewailing. He held him too firmly Who was strongest of main-strength of men of that era. Beowulf | XXIII. Beowulf's Fight With Grendel's Mother. {Beowulf makes a parting speech to Hrothgar.} Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son: "Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene, Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready, Gold-friend of earlmen, what erst we agreed on, {If I fail, act as a kind liegelord to my thanes,} 5 Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance, When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve me In stead of a father; my faithful thanemen, My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for, Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar beloved, {and send Higelac the jewels thou hast given me} 10 Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewels Thou to me hast allotted. The lord of the Geatmen

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May perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see it {I should like my king to know how generous a lord I found thee to be.} When he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found I Good over-measure, enjoyed him while able. 15 And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou, The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid[66] The hard-edged weapon; with Hrunting to aid me, I shall gain me glory, or grim-death shall take me." {Beowulf is eager for the fray.} The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words and 20 Heroic did hasten, not any rejoinder Was willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowed {He is a whole day reaching the bottom of the sea.} The doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ere He was able to see the sea at its bottom. Early she found then who fifty of winters 25 The course of the currents kept in her fury, Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominion {Grendel's mother knows that some one has reached her domains.} Some one of men from above was exploring. Forth did she grab them, grappled the warrior With horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injured 30 His body unscathed: the burnie out-guarded, That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor, The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers. The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she, {She grabs him, and bears him to her den.} The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless 35 (He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons, But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming, {Sea-monsters bite and strike him.} Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks did Break through his burnie, the brave one pursued they. The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern 40 Where no water whatever anywise harmed him, And the clutch of the current could come not anear him, Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster, {Beowulf attacks the mother of Grendel.} 45 The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset

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With weapon-of-battle, his hand not desisted From striking, that war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then {The sword will not bite.} The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, 50 But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered, Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor: 'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after, 55 Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory, Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed; {The hero throws down all weapons, and again trusts to his hand-grip.} He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. 60 So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder[67] The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle 65 Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled, That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple {Beowulf falls.} She gave him requital[68] early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, {The monster sits on him with drawn sword.} 70 Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn. {His armor saves his life.} His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 75 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corslet, comfort and succor, {God arranged for his escape.} And had God most holy not awarded the victory, 80 All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven's

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Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;[69] Uprose he erect ready for battle. Beowulf | XLIII. The Burning Of Beowulf. {Beowulf's pyre.} The folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knights' targets, And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; 5 Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain, Their liegelord beloved, laid in the middle. {The funeral-flame.} Soldiers began then to make on the barrow The largest of dead-fires: dark o'er the vapor The smoke-cloud ascended, the sad-roaring fire, 10 Mingled with weeping (the wind-roar subsided) Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces, Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin; And mournful measures the much-grieving widow 15 * * * * * * * 20 * * * * * * * {The Weders carry out their lord's last request.} The men of the Weders made accordingly A hill on the height, high and extensive, Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance, And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was, 25 In ten-days' space, with a wall surrounded it, As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. They placed in the barrow rings and jewels, {Rings and gems are laid in the barrow.} All such ornaments as erst in the treasure War-mooded men had won in possession: 30 The earnings of earlmen to earth they entrusted, The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle, Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people, {They mourn for their lord, and sing his praises.} 35 More would they mourn, lament for their ruler, Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure,

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Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his Liegelord in words and love him in spirit, 40 When forth from his body he fares to destruction. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond-loving vassals, the fall of their lord, {An ideal king.} Said he was kindest of kings under heaven, Gentlest of men, most winning of manner, 45 Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.

……………………………………………………………………………

- the elegies (The Wanderer)

The Wanderer

Often the solitary one finds grace for himself the mercy of the Lord, Although he, sorry-hearted, must for a long time move by hand [in context = row] along the waterways, (along) the ice-cold sea, tread the paths of exile. Events always go as they must!

So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships, of fierce slaughters and the downfall of kinsmen:

Often (or always) I had alone to speak of my trouble each morning before dawn. There is none now living to whom I dare clearly speak of my innermost thoughts. I know it truly,

30 The Pilgrim’s Progress that it is in men a noble custom, that one should keep secure his spirit-chest (mind), guard his treasure-chamber (thoughts), think as he wishes. The weary spirit cannot withstand fate (the turn of events), nor does a rough or sorrowful mind do any good (perform anything helpful). Thus those eager for glory often keep secure dreary thoughts in their breast; So I, often wretched and sorrowful, bereft of my homeland, far from noble kinsmen, have had to bind in fetters my inmost thoughts, Since long years ago I hid my lord in the darkness of the earth, and I, wretched, from there travelled most sorrowfully over the frozen waves, sought, sad at the lack of a hall, a giver of treasure, where I, far or near, might find one in the meadhall who knew my people, or wished to console the friendless one, me, entertain (me) with delights. He who has tried it knows how cruel is sorrow as a companion to the one who has few beloved friends:

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the path of exile (wræclast) holds him, not at all twisted gold, a frozen spirit, not the bounty of the earth. He remembers hall-warriors and the giving of treasure How in youth his lord (gold-friend) accustomed him to the feasting. All the joy has died!

And so he knows it, he who must forgo for a long time the counsels of his beloved lord: Then sorrow and sleep both together often tie up the wretched solitary one. He thinks in his mind that he embraces and kisses his lord, and on his (the lord's) knees lays his hands and his head, Just as, at times (hwilum), before, in days gone by, he enjoyed the gift-seat (throne). Then the friendless man wakes up again, He sees before him fallow waves Sea birds bathe, preening their feathers, Frost and snow fall, mixed with hail.

Then are the heavier the wounds of the heart, grievous (sare) with longing for (æfter) the lord. Sorrow is renewed when the mind (mod) surveys

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the memory of kinsmen; He greets them joyfully, eagerly scans the companions of men; they always swim away. The spirits of seafarers never bring back there much in the way of known speech. Care is renewed for the one who must send very often over the binding of the waves a weary heart.

Indeed I cannot think why my spirit does not darken when I ponder on the whole life of men throughout the world, How they suddenly left the floor (hall), the proud thanes. So this middle-earth, a bit each day, droops and decays - Therefore man (wer) cannot call himself wise, before he has a share of years in the world. A wise man must be patient, He must never be too impulsive nor too hasty of speech, nor too weak a warrior nor too reckless, nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for goods, nor ever too eager for boasts, before he sees clearly. A man must wait when he speaks oaths, until the proud-hearted one

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sees clearly whither the intent of his heart will turn. A wise hero must realize how terrible it will be, when all the wealth of this world lies waste, as now in various places throughout this middle-earth walls stand, blown by the wind, covered with frost, storm-swept the buildings. The halls decay, their lords lie deprived of joy, the whole troop has fallen, the proud ones, by the wall. War took off some, carried them on their way, one, the bird took off across the deep sea, one, the gray wolf shared one with death, one, the dreary-faced man buried in a grave. And so He destroyed this city, He, the Creator of Men, until deprived of the noise of the citizens, the ancient work of giants stood empty.

He who thought wisely on this foundation, and pondered deeply on this dark life, wise in spirit, remembered often from afar many conflicts,

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and spoke these words:

Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of treasure? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall? Alas for the bright cup! Alas for the mailed warrior! Alas for the splendour of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been! Now there stands in the trace of the beloved troop a wall, wondrously high, wound round with serpents. The warriors taken off by the glory of spears, the weapons greedy for slaughter, the famous fate (turn of events), and storms beat these rocky cliffs, falling frost fetters the earth, the harbinger of winter; Then dark comes, nightshadows deepen, from the north there comes a rough hailstorm in malice against men. All is troublesome in this earthly kingdom, the turn of events changes the world under the heavens. Here money is fleeting, here friend is fleeting, here man is fleeting, here kinsman is fleeting, all the foundation of this world turns to waste!

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So spake the wise man in his mind, where he sat apart in counsel. Good is he who keeps his faith, And a warrior must never speak his grief of his breast too quickly, unless he already knows the remedy - a hero must act with courage. It is better for the one that seeks mercy, consolation from the father in the heavens, where, for us, all permanence rests.

"The Wanderer," (before 1072)

Genre: epic song, sometimes described as an "elegy" or lament for things and/or persons lost to death. The predominant features of Anglo-Saxon verse are produced by oral-formulaic composition, in which an illiterate but immensely learned bard sings, to his own instrumental accompaniment, a song he composes as he sings by following strict metrical rules and a huge array of thematic content strands. Epic singers of this type survived in Serbia, Bosnia and Albania until the early part of this century. (See Albert Lord, The Singer of Tales [1971] for further information.) The poem's date is impossible to determine except that it must have been composed and written down before the Exeter Book, in which its sole surviving copy was found, was donated to the Exeter Cathedral library by Exeter's first bishop, Leofric, upon his death in 1072. Scholars generally accept the conclusion that this, the largest surviving collection of Anglo-Saxon poetry (131 parchment leaves measuring roughly 12.5 by 8.6 inches), is the manuscript the bishop's will calls ".i. mycel englisc boc be gehwilcum þingum on leoðwisan geworht." ["one great English book with many things written in verse."] Form: four-stress lines of varying syllable lengths, divided in halves by a caesura which often indicates a breath pause. The prose translation obscures many of the work's poetic features, but Anglo-Saxon verse is notoriously difficult to translate into Modern English verse. For a transcription of the first four lines in Old English, click here. To see an enlarged image of the first page of "The Wanderer" with information about the Exeter Book's survival, click here. Characters: the narrator of the "wise man"'s speech, and the "wise man," presumably the "Wanderer," himself. (Some critics have argued "Wanderer" was the product of three poems' fusion, but contemporary readers tend to

36 The Pilgrim’s Progress distrust this, arguing that Anglo-Saxon poetic productions need not satisfy Modern English aesthetic standards for aesthetic unity.) Summary: The narrator advises us to listen to the voice of the Wanderer, whose recollections of lost lords, ladies, and courtly settings, establishes the need for self-restraint, endurance, and an appreciation for the fleeting nature of all earthly things.

1) "Elegy"as a Genre:

An elegy laments the loss or passing of beloved persons, places, or things. That they are common in world literature tells us something about the human condition and poetry’s function independent of cultural difference. In some national literatures, elegies are formally defined in meter, rhyme, and stanzaic structure. In Old English, elegy is more of a "mode" or manner of writing that can produce poems of many types, all using the basic four-stress, oral-formulaic line. In the elegiac mode, we see evidence that the poet’s job as keeper of the community’s collective memory produced frequent occasions on which the dead and the vanished must be recalled in sadness. Like the biblical psalmist, however, the Anglo-Saxon bards tended to generalize the consequences of Time’s corrosive effect on all human ambitions, turning the poems into fierce, sad condemnations of the very structures whose glories are celebrated in the epic war songs: rings, horses, falcons, swords, warriors, ladies, and the great halls of kings. The elegy confronts the epic with the inevitable extinction of its subjects, listing them in acts of repeated, balanced parallelism similar to the syntax with which both poems like to construct their sentences. Consider Hrothgar’s reward given to Beowulf for the destruction of Grendel: "Then the son of Healfdene gave Beowulf a golden standard to reward his victory—a decorated battle banner—a helmet and mail-shirt: many saw the glorious costly sword borne before the warrior. Beowulf drank of the cup in the mead-hall. He had no need to be ashamed before fighting men of those rich gifts. I have not heard of many men who gave four precious, gold- adorned things to another on the ale-bench in a more friendly way. The rim around the helmet’s crown had a head-protection, wound of wire, so that no battle-hard sharp sword might badly hurt him when the shield-warrior should go against his foe. Then the people’s protector commanded eight horses with golden bridles to be led into the hall, within the walls. The saddle of one of them stood shining with hand-ornaments, adorned with jewels: that had been the war-seat of the high king when the son of Healfdene would join sword- play: never did the warfare of the wide-known one fail when men died in battle. " (E.T. Donaldson's translation from the Norton 6th edition)

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Then compare the Wanderer’s view of a similar scene: "Where has the horse gone? Where the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure? What has become of the feasting seats? Where are the joys of the hall? Alas, the bright cup! Alas, the mailed warrior! Alas, the prince’s glory! How that time has gone, vanished beneath night’s cover, just as if it never had been! The wall, wondrous high, decorated with snake-likenesses, stands now over traces of the beloved company. The ash-spears’ might has borne the earls away—weapons greedy for slaughter, Fate the mighty; and storms beat on the stone walls, snow, the herald of winter, falling thick binds the earth when darkness comes and the night-shadow falls, sends harsh hailstones from the north in hatred of men. All earth’s kingdom is wretched, the world beneath the skies is changed by the work of the fates. Here wealth is fleeting, here friend is fleeting, here man is fleeting, here woman is fleeting —all this earthly habitation shall be emptied." (101-2) Now the hall, conquered by Fate, is ruled by winter, whose herald, snow, announces the new lord’s arrival with hail, and the entire earth (not just the hall) is stripped of all significance. • So what does this parallelism mean? Does the elegy "answer" the epic in some manner, and if so, from what position in time or culture? It is a common error to assume that "Wanderer" must have been written after Beowulf because the former’s pessimism arises from the destruction of Anglo-Saxon culture which Beowulf’s sad funeral at the end of the latter poem might also seem to anticipate. To be sure, history records that Beowulf’s Geats ceased to exist as a tribe soon after the time in which the epic was set, and the poem may be somewhat older than "Wanderer," but the culture which produced the ring-givers and their households continued until some time after the Norman invasion of 1066. With what intent did they reward the poet of "Wanderer" for telling them, as they feasted in their glory, that they all were doomed to dust? This poem is not an isolated incident, moreover, as a reading of "Seafarer," "Deor," "Wife’s Lament," and other poems will confirm. • How would the elegiac poem operate side-by-side with the epic? Would one only sing them at certain occasions, like dirges at funerals, or were they considered a tonic which balanced the epic hero’s triumphs with a healthy skepticism, much as each competitor in ancient Greek dramatic festivals mingled three tragedies with the ribaldry of a satyr play? If the second interpretation better describes the Anglo-Saxons’ cultural use of the poems, what does that mean for the modern reader who is assigned to read only Beowulf or the Battle of Maldon? To what degree does Modern English literature retain

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traces of the elegiac mode and to what uses is it put? What kinds of loss does it now lament, and to what extent does its audience heed its message?

2)Old English Syntax and Usage:

E. T. Donaldson’s translation does a remarkable job of transmitting, in Modern English, the convoluted, puzzling, and surprising turns of the Old English poet’s sentences. Each one is grammatically complete, if one allows for ellipsis (omission of words one assumes from context), but most are masterpieces of suspended development. The poet often builds them up using a set of parallel subject-noun phrases, either following or preceding the verb, which may act on some similarly suspended object-nouns that coil sinuously among the poem’s half-lines (see Caedmon’s hymn, pages 24-5). The nouns, themselves, often are puzzles, metaphors for the thing itself in a short phrase called a "kenning." For instance, the poet might refer to the sea as the "whale’s road" or to a flight of arrows as "battle-adders." Kennings have the uncanny ability to conjure the noun to which they refer along with a surprising second image, the whale undulating along the surface beside a boat, or the hissing, snake-like peril of the arrows’ flight toward a line of warriors. Those stacked nouns become richly inscribed with these associative textures rather like the miniature scenes, faces, and symbols worked into Anglo-Saxon decorative arts. The larger form of the poem grows by accumulation of many smaller forms which, in the form of kennings, flash before our eyes while we wait for the sentence to complete its utterance. • How many metaphors can you spot in a line of typical modern poetry? If you were to insert metaphors in place of every noun and verb in the line (also called "mixed metaphor" by grammar handbooks), what would happen to the sense of the line? How does the Anglo-Saxon poem's metaphor use avoid the "mixed metaphor problem?

3) The War Band’s Customs:

"Wanderer" alludes familiarly to numerous now-vanished aspects of Anglo- Saxon culture as known to the warrior elite who ruled and defended it. The dryghten or "leige lord" stands at the top of the hierarchy, taking oaths and dispensing treasure, serving all of the socially constituative functions Americans assign to employers, priests and rabbis, presidents, teachers, judges, bankers, and generals. The warrior serves the warlord eagerly because there is no other route of advancement, no other way to be, in the

39 The Pilgrim’s Progress culture. The alternative to this association, which the Wanderer describes, is the lonely life of the viking, those who have taken ship for foreign places, hoping to survive by plunder in solitary struggle with no land-based community to which they may return. (The vikings who attacked Byrtnoth’s warriors may have been members of a single war band who would return to their own hall at the end of the raiding season, rather than the true loners who had no kin and no "gold friend" to shelter them.) Such warriors apparently were extremely wary of loose talk—the poem’s repeated praise of taciturnity are echoed in other Old English works—perhaps because the war band’s social relations were constructed in the language of deadly serious promises. • How does the poet, a necessarily "open-mouthed" man, fit into this culture's reigning rule of silence? Does the poet have a special exemption from the rule, and if so, what is that exemption's price? Consider current debates on "freedom of speech" in artistic performances when offensive things are said and done. How would you compare us as latter-day Anglo-Saxons? The "gift-giving" (101) was a formal ceremony repeated many times to as a stage in forming the associative link begun by the warrior’s oath. The laying of a kneeling warrior’s hands and head upon the knee of a seated lord is nearly the same gesture used in the Norman-French-influenced medieval custom of homage during later eras. It emphasizes the lord’s "fatherly" relation to the warrior, his "battle-son," in a pseudo-kinship nearly as powerful as blood relation. The treasure referred to in the poem is amply represented in the artifacts discovered at the famous ship-burial at Sutton Hoo, England. • How would a gift-giving society differ from a "work-for-salary" society in the ways their members related to one another? Under what circumstances would money be an appropriate gift in the former, and would gifts ever be an appropriate substitute for money in the latter? What kind of gift or work is the poem, and how might it be rewarded or paid for?

COLLEEN L. KLEES The Old English, or Anglo-Saxon, era of England lasted from about 450- 1066 A.D. The tribes from Germany that conquered Britain in the fifth century carried with them both the Old English language and a detailed poetic tradition. The tradition included alliteration, stressed and unstressed syllables, but more importantly, the poetry was usually mournful, reflecting on suffering and loss.1These sorrowful poems from the Anglo Saxon time period are mimetic to the Anglo-Saxons themselves; they reflect the often

40 The Pilgrim’s Progress burdened and miserable lives and times of the people who created them. The Anglo-Saxon poems, “The Wanderer,” “The Seafarer,” and “The Wife’s Lament,” are three examples how literature is mimetic, for they capture the culture’s heroic beliefs of Fame and Fate, the culture’s societal structure, and religious struggle of the Old English time period: making the transition from paganism to Christianity. In order to understand how these poems mirror the Anglo-Saxons’ lives, one must know a little history about the culture. In the fifth century, the inhabitants of the island of Britain hired German mercenaries to defend them against their warring neighbors, the Picts and the Scots. 2 After having defeated the enemies, the pagan Angles, or Saxons, revolted against their former allies, the Britons, killing everyone, no matter what their status or occupation, destroyed towns and buildings, and drove out Christianity, the Britons’ religion. The conquerors were Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Franks, and Frisians, but they all had a similar culture so they became known as Anglo- Saxons. 3 Anglo-Saxons set up Germanic kingdoms, each one ruled by a lord. In the new Anglo-Saxon society, the strongest bonds were not between a husband and wife, or parents and children, but were between a lord and his kin.4 The Germanic comitatus was made up of men who served this lord with a fierce loyalty and would selflessly fight for him.5 They were his warriors. The comitatus “stressed the loyalty of a thane to his chieftain and treated exile and outlawry as the most tragic lots that could befall one. This secular sense of loss is keen in The Wanderer.”6 Not only is the loss of a lord evident in “The Wanderer,” but in “The Seafarer” and “The Wife’s Lament” as well. The poem “The Wanderer” speaks of a man who has been exiled from his clan, and is now forced to roam the land alone. Separation from his fellow kinsmen and lord seems to be the worst fate imaginable. The man speaks of his great loss, remembering the time when he was happy with his liege, When friendships are no more. His fortune is exile, Not gifts of fine gold; a heart that is frozen, Earth’s wisomeness dead. And he dreams of the hall-men, The dealing of treasure, the days of his youth, When his lord bade welcome to wassail and feast. But gone is that gladness, and never again Shall come the loved counsel of comrade and king. (II. 27- 34) The speaker of “The Seafarer” is also an outcast sailing the sea in solitude, and he speaks similarly of his exile from his lord and kinsmen: “Wretched and anxious, in the paths of exile/ Lacking dear friends, hung round by icicles.” (II. 14-15) He seems to believe that if he has lost his fellow warriors and lord, or his friends, the only thing left in life is the nature that surrounds him.

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The speaker of “The Wife’s Lament” is also in exile, but she is no warrior; she is a lord’s wife, and is distressed because she has been separated from him: I ever suffered grief through banishment. For since my lord departed from his people Over the sea, each dawn I had care Wondering where my lord may be on land.When I set off to join and serve my lord, A friendless exile in my sorry plight. . .(II. 6-10) All three mournful poems act mimetically, because they prove the importance of a lord and comitatus to the Anglo-Saxon society by showing the great sorrow the people go through when they lose their leader. The lord of a comitatus would care for his warriors; he allowed them to dine in mead halls, and if a warrior were loyal to his lord, the lord would reward his subject with treasures. “The Wanderer” and “The Seafarer” are mimetic when the speakers reflect on the dining halls and rewards during the Anglo- Saxon times. “The Seafarer” speaks of rewards from the lord, and refers to them as “ring receiving,”7 (I. 44) which was described as “rings or gold or other valuable objects were customarily given by Anglo-Saxon kings to their retainers to affirm a mutual bond of loyalty and protection.”8 Because a powerful lord could provide protection, food, and gifts to his weaker, lower kin, the Anglo-Saxons felt they needed a leader, someone to whom they could be loyal, for without him they would have nothing.9 It is evident that “The Wanderer” is mimetic, because the speaker reflects how the people of the time longed for such a leader: Even in slumber his sorrow assaileth, And, dreaming he claspeth his dear lord again, Head on knee, hand on knee, loyally laying, Pledging his liege as in days long past. Then from his slumber he starts lonely hearted. . . The longing for loved one: his grief is renewed. (II. 25-39, 44) These three poems, “The Wanderer,” “The Seafarer,” and “The Wife’s Lament” are considered to be elegiac, one of the main categories of Old English poetry. Elegiac poems are mournful, reflecting on a great loss or losses, and reminisce about the better, happier times one once knew.10 The Old English elegy is defined by Stanley B. Greenfield as “ ‘a relatively short reflective or dramatic poem embodying a contrasting pattern of loss and consolation, ostensibly based upon a specific personal experience or observation, and expressing an attitude towards that experience.’”11 Therefore, because these three poems are considered elegiac, the situations that are written, namely, the exiles and separation from lords, are indeed true, personal experiences or observations of the speakers. Whether observation or personal experience, these are events that actually occurred in Anglo-Saxon

42 The Pilgrim’s Progress time. They are not simply stanzas of fiction written by an imaginative author; these poems are reflections of the life of the Anglo-Saxon culture, experiences of the people, and therefore are mimetic. The Anglo-Saxons brought with them their Germanic philosophies of paganism to the island. As pagans, they believed in many gods, but they also believed strongly in pagan heroic traditions that ruled their society and literature.12 These heroic traditions were based on the philosophies of Fame and Fate. It was believed that Fate, or Wyrd, controlled people’s lives and could “put men and women into positions whence it seems impossible for them to emerge with honor. They are judged by their choice, still more, perhaps, by the steadfastness with which they carry out their chosen aim, never looking back.”13 Heroes and heroines often could not leave a situation with honor because they could only choose between two evils. This usually meant that they could either succumb to their fate and show no valor, or try to resist it with violence, which probably ended in one’s death.14 The courage to resist one’s fate brought about the idea of Fame, which “is something greater than Fate: the strength of will and the courage of human beings, and the memory which could preserve their deeds.”15 If one resisted his fate, he had to have courage because it often meant facing great physical hardships, knowing that he would most likely die. But heroes would rather die an early, courageous death, trying to achieve Fame rather than sitting back and doing nothing, because “fame dies never for him who gets it worthily.”16 For the pagan Anglo-Saxons, there was no afterlife or reward in heaven, so the people wanted to forever be remembered on earth for their great feats. The famous poem Beowulf shows that the Anglo-Saxon culture regarded Fame as very appealing: “So fame/ Comes to the men who mean to win it/ And care about nothing else!”17 (II. 507-509). Around the end of the sixth century, however, Christian missionaries arrived from Rome and Ireland, and successfully began to convert the former polytheistic Anglo-Saxons into monotheistic Christians.18 The Christian religion included the belief of an afterlife in Heaven or Hell; where one went depended on the sins he had committed during his earthly life. Because where one went in his afterlife resulted from his actions, Christians did not believe in the pagan concept of Fate. Instead they trusted in the justice of God. Defeat and misfortune were easier to understand in this new religion. If one suffered on earth, but led a good life devoted to God, Christians believed that he would be rewarded for his suffering in the heaven.19 Because of this more hopeful outlook on life, it is easy to understand why many pagans converted to Christianity, no force needed. Even though the king of Kent converted to Christianity, he did not demand

43 The Pilgrim’s Progress the people also convert; he wanted conversions to be voluntary.20 But Christian and pagan philosophies are strikingly different, and the Anglo- Saxons had difficulty shifting their beliefs so quickly. The literature of the time tells of the people’s struggle to understand which faith was valid, after they discover that Christians do not honor their familiar pagan beliefs of Fame and Fate. The glory of Fame and riches on earth holds no value in heaven, so therefore material items mean nothing. Accepting the Christian religion meant that their heroes in literature could no longer follow tradition by fighting off Fate to gain Fame.21 The Anglo-Saxons were torn between the familiar religion they once knew and the potentially more hopeful one that was presented to them. Because of “the markedly elegiac note of such poems as “The Wanderer,” and “The Ruin,” scholars usually assume that melancholy was an inborn trait of the Anglo-Saxons.”22 But when considering the new religion to which they quickly tried to adapt, scholars then realized that the transition in Anglo-Saxon thought from pagan defiance to Christian resignation, from the glory of undying Fame to the nothingness of this world, might well produce the melancholy in Anglo- Saxon poetry, which strikes such an alien note in the chorus of heroic song.23 In other words, the conflicting ideas and beliefs during the time of the confused Anglo-Saxons are conveyed in the poems “The Wanderer,” “The Seafarer” therefore giving them the right to be called mimetic. The speaker of “The Wanderer” seems to be struggle with the Germanic and Christian philosophies, trying to understand why he suffers in life, and how, or if, he can obtain relief. It can be seen in the opening lines how he clings to both religions: Oft to the Wanderer, weary of exile, Cometh God’s pity, compassionate love, Though woefully toiling on wintry seas With churning oar in the icy wave, Homeless and helpless he fled from Fate. (II. 1-5) These first five lines introduce his struggle. The speaker at first seems to have accepted Christianity as he embraces God’s love for him, but at the same time he still believes in the pagan belief of fate. As the poem continues, it seems as if the speaker is still a pagan, for he longs for the days of mead-halls and earthly riches from his lord: ‘Where now is the warrior? Where is the war horse? Bestowal of treasure, and sharing of feast? Alas! The bright ale-cup, the byrny-clad warrior, The prince in his splendor—those days are long sped In the night of the past, as if they never had been! (II. 84-88) The speaker wants materialistic possessions and to live the life he once knew with the comfort of a lord; he wants to live the heroic culture, even though

44 The Pilgrim’s Progress this former life caused him to be the wandering outcast that he is. He mourns for the old pagan life, yet in the last lines of the poem, he remembers God’s eternal love for those who suffer, and once again turns to Christianity as he says, He must never too quickly unburden his breast Of its sorrow, but eagerly strive for redress; And happy the man who seeketh for mercy From his heavenly Father, our Fortress and Strength. (II. 105-108) Because the original Anglo-Saxon poems were originally preserved orally by scops24, and were not written down until many years later, there is speculation that the Christian lines could have possibly been added in when recorded, and were not part of the original work. “The Wanderer” acts mimetically as it reflects the Anglo-Saxon traditions of its former heroic culture, and as it perfectly captures one man’s efforts to find answers to his deepest questions. His faith in the Germanic heroic code has been shaken, for it has forced him into a wretched existence. Yet even as he turns to Christianity for a new purpose and direction, he cannot help looking back fondly and sadly on the traditions that were a part of him.25 The speaker in “The Seafarer” seems to have more readily accepted Christianity than the speaker in “The Wanderer,” yet he also is shaky about this conversion. In the beginning of the poem it is obvious that he yearns for his former heroic days as he mistakes “the cries / Of curlews for the missing mirth of men, / The singing gull instead of the mead in hall.” (II. 19-21). But he then seems to shake these memories and turns steadfast the Christian faith as he proclaims that his mind doesn’t focus on earthly hopes and treasures “Because the joys of God mean more to me / Than this dead transitory life on land.” (II. 65-66). The speaker gives a Christian-like sermon, encouraging others to obey the Lord, and again repeats that riches on earth mean nothing after death. One might assume that he is a devoted, newly converted Christian, but words about the pagan beliefs of Fate and Fame, indicate “the poem is a direct reflection of the speaker’s own uncertainty and conflict.”26 In the poem, the speaker seems to think that he understands the Christian religion, but in reality he does not. He entwines his new faith with his old; he still believes in Fame and Fate, but in a Christian way. He defies the old belief of Fame, saying, “Fame is brought low,” (II. 88). Yet only a few lines earlier, he talks about the fame one will achieve on earth after he his death for the devoted life he lived: Memorial is the praise of living men After his death, that ere he must depart He shall have done good deeds on earth against The malice of his foes, and noble works Against the devil, that the sons of men May praise after him, and his glory live For ever with the angels in the splendor. . .(II. 73-78)

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The speaker seems to think that by doing good works and getting to heaven, one will gain fame for doing so. He also still believes in the pagan philosophy of Fate: “Yet fate is mightier, the Lord’s ordaining / More powerful than any man can know.” (II. 118-119). Even though he thinks the one and only true God creates one’s destiny, his belief is wrong because Christians do not believe in the concept of fate; they believe in free will. Though the speaker is truly trying to act like a Christian, he cannot escape the former traditions of the Anglo-Saxon time. There has been endless debate about what parts of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Beowulf, are original and what parts were added in. Some believe that the Christian components were added in later centuries. Some ponder whether the poem was written by a Christian or a pagan.27 One thing is for certain however: “the most striking feature of the poem, namely the fact that, though it abounds in expressions of Christian sentiment, yet the customs and ceremonies to which it alludes are uniformly heathen.”28 Like “The Seafarer” and “The Wanderer,” Beowulf has both Christian and pagan elements, and also similar to the poems, Beowulf speaks of the lords and mead halls of the time period. Beowulf is so mimetic to the Anglo-Saxon time that Archibald Strong went so far to declare, “ ‘Beowulf is the picture of a whole civilization. . . Beowulf is an important historical document.’”29 Because Beowulf is mimetic, and “The Wanderer” and “The Seafarer” are so similar to the epic poem, they too can be considered mimetic. The three elegiac poems, “The Wanderer,” “The Seafarer,” and “The Wife’s Lament” give the modern day world a glimpse how life was for the Anglo- Saxons in the early centuries. These three experiences or observations of the time show how the Anglo-Saxon society was organized and the importance of the lord to his comitatus; they speak of the former heroic tradition and the belief and Fame and Fate; the speakers of the poems question the beliefs of their new religion, and show the main struggle of the culture during that time: the transition from paganism to Christianity. By mirroring the lives of Anglo- Saxons, these poems behave mimetically. …………………………………………………………………………… ……………… - the religious poetry (The Dream of the Rood)

The Dream of the Rood

Behold! The best of dreams I shall tell, what I dreamt in the midnight, after mortal men upon couches dwell. It seem to me that I perceived a rare and wondrous tree

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5 extending on high a surrounding light alit the wood brightly. All that beacon was covered with gold; jewels studded lovingly at its Earthen base, while likewise there were five upon that shoulder-span. Behold there the Angel of God, 10 lovely through-out eternity. There was not an evil criminal on the gallows, but it was at He there gazed the Holy Spirits, men throughout Earth and all this glorious creation. Wondrous was that Victory Tree, and I the sinner guilty and badly wounded with stain. There I observed the glorious wood 15 adorned with garment that beautifully beamed, garnished with gold; with it gems stood covering splendidly the Lord's tree. But nevertheless through that gold I understood the wretched ancient struggle, when it first began 20 bleeding on the right side. I was with sorrow disturbed, frightened for this stunning vision. Saw I that brilliant beacon then change garment and color: sometimes with moisture soaked, drenched in flowing blood, sometimes with treasure still adorned. But nevertheless I there lay a long time I took 25 sorrowfully gazing at the Saviours's tree, until then I dreamt that it spoke; beginning with these words the tree did decree: "A long time ago -- yet still I remember-- that I was cut down from the edge of the timber, 30 and removed from my roots. Powerful fiends there held me off, for a spectacle to make, command me a criminal to aloft. I on their shoulders these men bore up the top of a hill to plant; fastened there amid enemies aplenty. Then I saw the Lord of mankind hasten with great zeal that he would on me climb. 35 There I did not dare to break God's word and bend down or break, though I felt the tremble of the Earthen surface. I might have been able upon those fiends to fall, yet I stood stable. "Then the young hero did disrobe -- that was God Almighty--,

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40 strong and resolute; on the wretched gallows he did ascend, bold and courageous as many observed for mankind's past he would amend. Tremble did I as the hero embraced me; but yet I dared not bend, and fall to the Earth's surface, therefore I stood firm. A cross I became; lifted up with the mighty King, 45 the Heavenly Master; but yet I dared not bend. With dark nails they pierced me: on me the scars are visible, the open and malicious wounds. For him I dared not, so no one did I injure. Mocked they us both together. I was all with blood sodden from the side of the Hero after his spirit was ceded. 50 Much ridicule on that hill did I experience with this cruel event: The God of Hosts hideously stretched out. Darkness had now covered with clouds the Lord's corpse, and its shining radiance; A darkness went forth, 55 black under the clouds. Weep all creation, lament the King's fall: Christ was on the Cross. "But then there hastened many from afar to that Prince: I beheld it all. I was with sorrow troubled, so bowed I did to the hands of men, 60 with great humility. They then took the almighty God, and removed him from that bitter punishment. Left me then those warriors sprinkled with blood; all badly wounded with spears. They laid him down weary of limb, and at his head they stood; gazing there at Heaven's Lord, as He there rested, 65 exhausted from his bitter struggle. A sepulcher they began to build before the eyes of His tormenters, carved out of the brightest of stone, there the Victorious Lord was placed; then they began a sorrowful dirge, as evening time came. Afterwards they went wearily from the glorious Prince; there he rested alone. 70 Even so there we wept a good while standing affixed, after which departed the warrior. His corpse grew cold,

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that lovely body. Then men chopped us down to the Earth; that was such a terrible event! 75 They buried us in a deep pit; but there the Lord's servants, discovered us, and girded me with gold and silver. "Now you may have heard, my dear beloved man, of the deeds of evil men I have experienced, 80 sore and grievous they are. But now is the time that I be revered far and wide by men throughout the Earth and all this glorious creation, should pray to this beacon. On me the Son of God did suffer; for that I gloriously now 85 tower under heaven, that I might heal each and everyone that shows awe of me. Of old I was once the most bitter of tortures, hated by people, until I showed him life's path properly opened, before mortal man. 90 Behold, me the honored glorious lord above all the trees of the forest, the Guardian of Heaven, just as His mother, Mary herself, almighty God all men honor above all of womankind. 95 Now I do command, my dear beloved one, that you this vision tell to man: reveal the word that it is this glorious tree, on which almighty God did suffer for mankind's many sins 100 and Adam's misdeeds of old. Death he there tasted; yet the Lord arose again with his great power to help man. He then to Heaven ascended. To here again on this Middle Earth shall come to mankind 105 on Doomsday the Lord himself, almighty God, and with his Angels, that we will adjudge, using that power of judgment, upon each individual as to their past lives here in this fleeting life to prepare. 110 Nor may there any be not afraid for the words that the Lord may say: He shall ask before the multitude where is that man, who in the Lord's name would take death's

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bitter taste, just as He did before on the tree. 115 But they then shall be afraid and few will imagine what to Christ they can begin to say. Of no benefit then for anyone to be very frightened if Him in their breast they carry this select of beacons, and by virtue of the Cross shall come to the Kingdom 120 of Earth each and every soul, to with the Lord desire to dwell." Prayed I then to the tree in joyful spirit, with great zeal, and then there I was alone in small company. It was by my heart 125 urging on forward, the many experiences do I long for. It is now my life's joyous hope that I the Victory Tree may be allowed to seek and moreover that all men, eagerly honor it thus: it is my desire that 130 I grow great in spirit and that my hope of protection is proper to the Cross. Although I do not have many powerful friends in this world, for they have left from here and departed the worldly joys, and sought the wondrous King, who lives now in Heaven with the Heavenly Father, 135 where they dwell in glory, so I look forward each day to the time when my Lord's Cross, which here on Earth I had earlier beheld, will from this fleeting life carry me off and bring me then there with great bliss, 140 the heavenly dream, there with the Lord's people to be with always, there in perpetual bliss, and I then shall live there ever after and allowed to dwell in glory, with the Saints and in joyful bliss. I shall be the Lord's friend, 145 who here on Earth did suffer once on that gallows tree for man's sins: He redeemed us and gave us life, and a heavenly home. Hope has been renewed with blessings and with bliss for those who endured the fire; 150 the Son was victorious on that journey, powerful and successful, that he left with a large army of souls to God's kingdom, the Ruler almighty, to angelic bliss he brought all the souls and came to Heaven

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155 to dwell in glory, and that the Lord came, the almighty God, there to his homeland went.

'The Dream of the Rood' on the Ruthwell Cross and in the Vercelli Book

The poem in runes on the Ruthwell Cross is the first written religious poem and prayer in English we have today (Bede's version of Cædmon's Creation Hymn is in Latin translation, not its Anglo-Saxon original), and, like the Hymn to the Creation, it is similarly a dream vision. The Roman Empress Helena, who likely came from York, where her son had been proclaimed Emperor, had commenced the practice and contemplation of pilgrimage to the Holy Places, to be followed in turn by women such as Paula, Eustochium, Fabiola, Marcella, Egeria and others. Emperor Constantine had himself been converted to Christianity, and converted the whole Roman Empire with him to Christianity, because of his Christian mother Helena and because of the dream vision he experienced (A.D. 312) of the Cross seen by him in the sky, prior to his victory over a pagan enemy. Northumbria's King Oswald (A.D. 634), a successor to King Edwin, then erected a cross prior to the Battle of Heavenfield in imitation of the Emperor Constantine. The Anglo-Saxon Ruthwell Cross, reflecting Constantine and Oswald's crosses, allows those who see and read it to contemplate in turn each place concerning the life of Christ, Nazareth, the Egyptian Wilderness, the Jordan Wilderness, Galilee, and Jerusalem, culminating with the Crucifixion. It is a map of the Holy Places that pilgrims may read. The runes of the 'Dream of the Rood' inscribed about their edges, their margins, describe the writer, likely Cædmon, dreaming of the Cross speaking to him, narrating of the wood and blood and of the sacred burden it had once borne; then, in Cynewulf's longer version, of its being turned into the sacred reliquary bedecked by the Emperor Constantine with gold and rubies at Constantinople.

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The Dream of the Rood is part of the 10th century Vercelli Book, but the text itself is older. Part of it is chiselled as runic text onto the Ruthwell Cross of Northumbria, which stems from the early eighth century. The image on the left is a photograph of the cross, and the text can be seen as lines in the frames around the reliefs. According to Keenan, the poem 'shows an affinity with Elene in that both are discoveries of the cross. The discovery in Elene is pseudo- historical; that in the Dream is visionary.' In fact, the Dream of the Rood is the earliest English dream-vision. It is divided into three parts - the vision of the Cross, its speech and the concluding reflections of the dreamer. The role of the Cross formulates an interesting paradox: The Cross serves as a faithful retainer, but in order to obey its Lord, it has to become his slayer. The poem has quite a few apocalyptic elements. One of those is the idea of the Cross as a salvatory instrument before judgement. The delight of being a pilgrim scholar is in journeying to Carlisle, then across the border from Hadrian's Wall to Bewcastle and Ruthwell to see these ancient monuments, and then to Vercelli in Italy and seeing its manuscript. None of the original versions of this poem are today in England. Today, the English language in the world's eyes, is the language of commerce, of power, of imperium, like that of pagan Rome. We tend to forget its earliest poem, centred most crucially upon the Cross , upon spirituality. Though I earlier made the claim that Hilda was responsible for the Ruthwell Cross, I now believe that it is specifically the result of Ceolfrith and Bede's mission to King Nechtan in 710. (We recall that Ceolfrith was journeying to

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Rome with the huge CODEX AMIATINUS when he died in 713.) Jarrow has the same inhabited vine sculpture as has the Ruthwell Cross, copying classicizing scuptural elements foreign to Hibernian or Anglo-Saxon work, and Ceolfrith was specifically noted by Bede to have sent such stone-masons skilled in Roman work to King Nechtan. The elements comprising the Ruthwell Cross and that at Bewcastle, as well as the famous poem in runes sculpted upon Ruthwell, seem to come from all the cultural elements present at Iona, Whitby, Lindisfarne and Jarrow, to be a glorious mixture of Irish, Anglo-Saxon, and Byzantine styles, to be a truly cosmopolitan gathering. Similarly Bede demonstrates, in his writings, such a cosmopolitan gathering of materials.

Hilda, Cædmon and the Ruthwell Cross Abbess Hilda was the great niece of King Edwin, being baptised with him by Paulinus, Augustine's associate, at York Minster (A.D. 625). She spent the first thirty-three years of her life as a secular noblewoman, the second thirty- three years as a consecrated nun and abbess at Hartlepool, later coming to Whitby (A.D. 680). In these places she established the monastic life observing righteousness, mercy, peace and charity. Bede tells us that: 'After the example of the primitive Church, no one there was rich, no one was needy, for everything was held in common, and nothing was considered to be anyone's personal property. So great was her prudence that not only ordinary folk, but kings and princes used to come and ask her advice in their difficulties and take it. Those under her direction were required to make a thorough study of the Scriptures and occupy themselves in good works, to such good effect that many were found fitted for Holy Orders and the service of God's altar. Five men from this monastery later became bishops.' At Whitby the cowherd Cædmon was too ashamed to sing in turn to the harp the pagan lays, such as Beowulf, that the others sang. But one night he received a vision in which he was told by an angel to sing of the Creation of the World. Like Mary at the Annunciation he protested his unworthiness but then obeyed. Bede records the song he sang for the angel and for Hilda. Praise we the Fashioner now of Heaven's fabric, The majesty of his might and his mind's wisdom, Work of the world warden, worker of all wonders, How he the Lord of Glory everlasting, Wrought first for the race of men Heaven as a rooftree, Then made he Middle Earth to be their mansion. Lindisfarne was settled from Iona (A.D. 635), the English Church in Northumbria, unlike that in Kent, maintaining good relationships between Celts and Anglo-Saxons. The Celts had been Christianized long before, the Anglo-Saxon invaders and settlers only recently becoming converted to

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Christianity. From Hilda's Whitby went missioners to complete that task, especially along Hadrian's Wall. At Bewcastle and at Ruthwell stand seventh-century Anglo-Saxon preaching crosses, the first celebrating peace- weaving marriages between Christian and pagan Anglo-Saxon kings and queens, the second having on it, in Anglo-Saxon runes , the poem of ' The Dream of the Rood'. Ruthwell, just across the border in Scotland, was only under Anglo-Saxon control until A.D. 685. 'The Dream of the Rood' is likely Cædmon's composition. Its pagan counterpart may be found in the Havamal, where Odinn learns the runes of life by being hanged upon the tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nights. Centuries later 'The Dream of the Rood' was revised by Cynewulf and is to be found in a manuscript left by an English pilgrim at Italian Vercelli, along with Cynewulf's other works, such as a poem on St Helena , the British mother to the Emperor Constantine, who, in the legend, discovered the True Cross in Jerusalem.

2. THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD (1066-1400)

- the dream allegory (Langland, The Vision of Piers the Plowman)

Piers Plowman

Piers Plowman (w. ca. 1360–1399) or Visio Willelmi de Petro Ploughman (William's Vision of Piers Plowman) is the title of an apocalyptic Middle English allegorical narrative written by William Langland. It is written in unrhymed alliterative verse divided into sections called "passus" (Latin for "step"). Piers is considered one of the early great works of English literature. It is one of a very few Middle English poems that can stand beside Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. The poem concerns the narrator's intense quest for the true Christian life, in the terms of the medieval Catholic mind. That quest entails a series of dream-visions and an examination into the lives of three allegorical characters, Do-Wel ("Do-Well"), Do-Bet ("Do-Better"), and Do-Best, who are sought by Piers, the humble plowman of the title. The poem begins on the Malvern Hills in Malvern, Worcestershire.

Title and authorship

The most likely (now commonly accepted) candidate for Piers' authorship is a recent scholarly attribution to a William Langland, about whom little is

54 The Pilgrim’s Progress known. This attribution to Langland is based on internal evidence, primarily a seemingly autobiographical section in Passus 5 of the C-text of the poem. The main narrator of the poem in all the versions is named Will, with allegorical resonances clearly intended, and Langland (or Longland) is thought to be indicated as a surname through apparent puns; e.g., the narrator calls himself "long Will" who has lived "long in the land."In the sixteenth century, when Piers was first printed, authorship was attributed by various antiquarians (such as John Bale) and poets toJohn Wycliffe and Geoffrey Chaucer, amongst others. Some sixteenth and seventeenth-century persons regarded the poem as anonymous, and/or associated it with texts in the plowman tradition of social complaint, particularly the Chaucerian pseudepigrapha, The Plowman's Tale and Pierce the Ploughman's Crede. (The latter was appended to Owen Rogers' 1560 edition of Piers Plowman, a degraded version of Robert Crowley's 1550 editions.) The character of Piers himself had come to be considered by many readers to be in some sense the author.The first printed editions by Crowley named the author as "Robert Langland" in a prefatory note. Langland is described as a probable protegé of Wycliffe. With Crowley's editions, the poem followed an existing and subsequently repeated convention of titling the poem The Vision of Piers [or Pierce] Plowman, which is in fact the conventional name of just one section of the poem.

DURING the long years after the Norman Conquest when English was a despised language, it became broken up into many dialects. But as time went on and English became once more the language of the educated as well as of the uneducated, there arose a cultured English, which became the language which we speak to-day. In the time of Edward III England was England again, and the rulers were English both in heart and in name. But England was no longer a country apart, she was no longer a lonely sea-girt island, but had taken her place among the great countries of Europe. For the reign of Edward III was a brilliant one. The knightly, chivalrous King set his country high among the countries of Europe. Men made songs and sang of his victories, of Cre 繠 and of Calais, and France bowed the knee to England. But the wars and triumphs of the King pressed hardly on the people of England, and ere his reign was over misery, pestilence, and famine filled the land. So many men had been killed in Edward's French and Scottish wars that there were too few left to till the land. Then came a terrible disease called the Black Death, slaying young and old, rich and poor, until nearly half the people in the land were dead.

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Then fewer still were left to do the work of the farms. Cattle and sheep strayed where they would, for there were none to tend them. Corn ripened and rotted in the fields, for there were none to gather it. Food grew dear as workers grew scarce. Then the field laborers who were left began to demand larger wages. Many of these laborers were little more than slaves, and their masters refused to pay them better. Then some left their homes and went away to seek new masters who would be willing to pay more, while others took to a life of wandering beggary.

The owners of the land had thought that they should be ruined did they pay the great wages demanded of them. Now they saw that they should be ruined quite as much if they could find no one at all to do the work. So laws were made forcing men to work for the same wages they had received before the plague, and forbidding them to leave the towns and villages in which they had been used to live. If they disobeyed they were imprisoned and punished. Yet these new laws were broken again and again, because bread had now become so dear that it was impossible for men to live on as little as they had done before. Still many masters tried to enforce the law, and the land was soon filled not only with hunger and misery, but with a fierce class hatred between master and man. It was the beginning of a long and bitter struggle, and as the cry of the poor grew louder and louder, the hatred and spirit of revolt grew fiercer. But the great of the land seemed little touched by the sorrows of the people. While they starved and died, the King, surrounded by a glittering court, gave splendid feasts and tournaments. He built fair palaces and chapels, founded a new round table, and thought to make the glorious days of Arthur live again. And the great among the clergy cared as little for the poor as did the great among the nobles. Many of them had become selfish and worldly, some of them wicked, though of course there were many good men left among them too. The Church was wealthy but the powerful priests kept that wealth in their own hands, and many of the country clergy were almost as miserably poor as the people whom they taught. And it was through one of these poor priests, named William Langland, that the sorrows of the people found a voice. We know very little about Langland. So little do we know that we are not sure if his name was really William or not. But in his poem called The Vision of Piers the Ploughman he says, "I have lived in the land, quoth I, my name is long Will." It is chiefly from his poem that we learn to know the man. When we have read it, we seem to see him, tall and thin, with lean earnest face, out of which shine great eyes, the eyes that see visions. His head is shaven like a monk's; he wears a shabby long gown which flaps in the breeze as he strides along. Langland was born in the country, perhaps in Oxfordshire, perhaps in Shropshire, and he went to school at Great Malvern. He loved school, for he says:--

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"For if heaven be on earth, and ease to any soul, It is in cloister or in school. Be many reasons I find For in the cloister cometh no man, to chide nor to fight, But all is obedience here and books, to read and to learn." Perhaps Langland's friends saw that he was clever, and hoped that he might become one of the great ones in the Church. In those days (the Middle Ages they were called) there was no sharp line dividing the priests from the people. The one shaded off into the other, as it were. There were many who wore long gowns and shaved their heads, who yet were not priests. They were called clerks, and for a sum of money, often very small, they helped to sing masses for the souls of the dead, and performed other offices in connection with the services of the Church. They were bound by no vows and were allowed to marry, but of course could never hope to be powerful. Such was Langland; he married and always remained a poor "clerk." But if Langland did not rise high in the Church, he made himself famous in another way, for he wrote Piers the Ploughman. This is a great book. There is no other written during the fourteenth century, in which we see so clearly the life of the people of the time. There are several versions of Piers, and it is thought by some that Langland himself wrote and re-wrote his poem, trying always to make it better. But others think that some one else wrote the later versions. The poem is divided into parts. The first part is The Vision of Piers the Ploughman, the second is The Vision Concerning Do Well, Do Bet, Do Best. In the beginning of Piers the Ploughman Langland tells us how "In a summer season when soft was the sun, I wrapped myself in a cloak as if I were a shepherd In the habit of a hermit unholy of works, Abroad I wandered in this world wonders to hear. But on a May morning on Malvern Hills Me befell a wonder, a strange thing. Methought, I was weary of wandering, and went me to rest Under a broad bank by a burn side. And as I lay, and leaned, and looked on the waters I slumbered in a sleeping it sounded so merry." If you will look back you will see that this poetry is very much more like Layamon's than like the poetry of Havelok the Dane. Although people had, for many years, been writing rhyming verse, Langland has, you see, gone back to the old alliterative poetry. Perhaps it was that, living far away in the country, Langland had written his poem before he had heard of the new kind of rhyming verses, for news traveled slowly in those days. Two hundred years later, when The Vision of Piers the Ploughman was first printed, the printer in his preface explained alliterative verse very well.

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"Langland wrote altogether in metre," he says, "but not after the manner of our rimers that write nowadays (for his verses end not alike), but the nature of his metre is to have three words, at the least, in every verse which begin with some one letter. As for example the first two verses of the book run upon 's,' as thus: 'In a somer season whan sette was the sunne I shope me into shrobbes as I a shepe were.' The next runneth upon 'h,' as thus: 'In habite as an Hermite unholy of workes.' This thing being noted, the metre shall be very pleasant to read. The English is according to the time it was written in, and the sense somewhat dark, but not so hard but that it may be understood of such as will not stick to break the shell of the nut for the kernel's sake." This printer also says in his preface that the book was first written in the time of King Edward III, "In whose time it pleased God to open the eyes of many to see his truth, giving them boldness of heart to open their mouths and cry out against the works of darkness. . . . There is no manner of vice that reigneth in any estate of man which this writer hath not godly, learnedly, and wittily rebuked."* *R. Crowley is his preface to Piers Ploughman, printed in 1550. I hope that you will be among those who will not "stick to break the shell of the nut for the kernel's sake," and that although the "sense be somewhat dark" you will some day read the book for yourselves. Meantime in the next chapter I will tell you a little more about it. WHEN Langland fell asleep upon the Malvern Hills he dreamed a wondrous dream. He thought that he saw a "fair field full of folk," where was gathered "all the wealth of the world and the woe both." "Working and wondering as the world asketh, Some put them to the plough and played them full seldom, In eareing and sowing laboured full hard." But some are gluttons and others think only of fine clothes. Some pray and others jest. There are rogues and knaves here, friars and priests, barons and burgesses, bakers and butchers, tailors and tanners, masons and miners, and folk of many other crafts. Indeed, the field is the world. It lies between a tower and a dungeon. The tower is God, the dungeon is the dwelling of the Evil One. Then, as Langland looked on all this, he saw "A lady lovely in face, in linnen i-clothed, Come adown from the cliff and spake me fair, And said, 'Son, sleepest thou? Seest thou this people All how busy they be about the maze?'" Langland was "afeard of her face though she was fair." But the lovely lady, who is Holy Church, speaks gently to the dreamer. She tells him that the tower is the

58 The Pilgrim’s Progress dwelling of Truth, who is the lord of all and who gives to each as he hath need. The dungeon is the castle of Care. "Therein liveth a wight that Wrong is called, The Father of Falseness." Love alone, said the lady, leads to Heaven, "Therefore I warn ye, the rich, have ruth on the poor. Though ye be mighty in councils, be meek in your works, For the same measure ye meet, amiss or otherwise, Ye shall be weighed therewith when ye wend hence." "Truth is best in all things," she said at length. "I have told thee now what Truth is, and may no longer linger." And so she made ready to go. But the dreamer kneeled on his knees and prayed her stay yet a while to teach him to know Falsehood also, as well as Truth. And the lady answered:-- "'Look on thy left hand and see where he standeth, Both False and Flattery and all his train.' I looked on the left hand as the Lady me taught. Then was I ware of a woman wondrously cloth 餬 Purfled with fur, the richest on earth. Crowned with a crown. The King hath no better. All her five fingers were fretted with rings Of the most precious stones that a prince ever wore; In red scarlet she rode, beribboned with gold, There is no queen alive that is more adorned." This was Lady Meed or Bribery. "To-morrow," said Holy Church, "she shall wed with False." And so the lovely Lady departed. Left alone the dreamer watched the preparations for the wedding. The Earldom of Envy, the Kingdom of Covetousness, the Isle of Usury were granted as marriage gifts to the pair. But Theology was angry. He would not permit the wedding to take place. "Ere this wedding be wrought, woe betide thee," he cried. "Meed is wealthy; I know it. God grant us to give her unto whom Truth wills. But thou hast bound her fast to Falseness. Meed is gently born. Lead her therefore to London, and there see if the law allows this wedding." So, listening to the advice of Theology, all the company rode off to London, Guile leading the way. But Soothness pricked on his palfrey and passed them all and came to the King's court, where he told Conscience all about the matter, and Conscience told the King. Then quoth the King, "If I might catch False and Flattery or any of their masters, I would avenge me on the wretches that work so ill, and would hang them by the neck and all that them abet."

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So he told the Constable to seize False and to cut off Guile's head, "and let not Liar escape." But Dread was at the door and heard the doom. He warned the others, so that they all fled away save Meed the maiden. "Save Meed the maiden no man durst abide, And truly to tell she trembled for fear, And she wept and wrung her hands when she was taken." But the King called a Clerk and told him to comfort Meed. So Justice soon hurried to her bower to comfort her kindly, and many others followed him. Meed thanked them all and "gave them cups of clean gold and pieces of silver, rings with rubies and riches enough." And pretending to be sorry for all that she had done amiss, Meed confessed her sins and was forgiven. The King then, believing that she was really sorry, wished to marry her to Conscience. But Conscience would not have her, for he knew that she was wicked. He tells of all the evil things she does, by which Langland means to show what wicked things men will do if tempted by bribery and the hope of gain. "Then mourned Meed and plained her to the King." If men did great and noble deeds, she said, they deserved praise and thanks and rewards. " 'Nay,' quoth Conscience to the King, and kneeled to the ground, 'There be two manner of Meeds, my Lord, by thy life, That one the good God giveth by His grace, giveth in His bliss To them that will work while that they are here.'" What a laborer received, he said, was not Meed but just Wages. Bribery, on the other hand, was ever wicked, and he would have none of her. In spite of all the talk, however, no one could settle the question. So at length Conscience set forth to bring Reason to decide. When Reason heard that he was wanted, he saddled his horse Suffer-till-I-see-my- time and came to court with Wit and Wisdom in his train. The King received him kindly, and they talked together. But while they talked Peace came complaining that Wrong had stolen his goods and ill-treated him in many ways. Wrong well knew that the complaint was just, but with the help of Meed he won Wit and Wisdom to his side. But Reason stood out against him. "'Counsel me not,' quoth Reason, 'ruth to have Till lords and ladies all love truth And their sumptuous garments be put into chests, Till spoiled children be chastened with rods, Till clerks and knights be courteous with their tongues, Till priests themselves practise their preaching And their deeds be such as may draw us to goodness.'"

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The King acknowledged that Reason was right, and begged him to stay with him always and help him to rule. "I am ready," quoth Reason, "to rest with thee ever so that Conscience be our counsellor." To that the King agreed, and he and his courtiers all went to church. Here suddenly the dream ends. Langland cries:-- "Then waked I of my sleep. I was woe withal That I had not slept more soundly and seen much more." The dreamer arose and continued his wandering. But he had only gone a few steps when once again he sank upon the grass and fell asleep and dreamed. Again he saw the field full of folk , and to them now Conscience was preaching, and at his words many began to repent them of their evil deeds. Pride, Envy, Sloth and others confessed their sins and received forgiveness. Then all these penitent folk set forth in search of Saint Truth, some riding, some walking. "But there were few there so wise as to know the way thither, and they went all amiss." No man could tell them where Saint Truth lived. And now appears at last Piers Ploughman, who gives his name to the whole poem. "Quoth a ploughman and put forth his head, 'I know him as well as a clerk know his books. Clear Conscience and Wit showed me his place And did engage me since to serve him ever. Both in sowing and setting, which I labour, I have been his man this fifteen winters.'" Piers described to the pilgrims all the long way that they must go in order to find Truth. He told them that they must go through Meekness; that they must cross the ford Honor-your-father and turn aside from the brook Bear-no-false-witness, and so on and on until they come at last to Saint Truth. "It were a hard road unless we had a guide that might go with us afoot until we got there," said the pilgrims. So Piers offered, if they would wait until he had plowed his field, to go with them and show them the way. "That would be a long time to wait," said a lady. "What could we women do meantime?" And Piers answered:-- "Some should sew sacks to hold wheat. And you who have wool weave it fast, Spin it speedily, spare not your fingers Unless it be a holy day or holy eve. Look out your linen and work on it quickly, The needy and the naked take care how they live, And cast on them clothes for the cold, for so Truth desires." Then many of the pilgrims began to help Piers with his work. Each man did what he could, "and some to please Piers picked up the weeds."

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"But some of them sat and sang at ale And helped him to plough with 'Hy- trolly-lolly.'" To these idle ones Piers went in anger. "If ye do not run quickly to your work," he cried, "you will receive no wage; and if ye die of hunger, who will care." Then these idle ones began to pretend that they were blind or lame and could not work. They made great moan, but Piers took no heed and called for Hunger. Then Hunger seized the idle ones and beat and buffeted them until they were glad to work. At last Truth heard of Piers and of all the good that he was doing among the pilgrims, and sent him a pardon for all his sins. In those days people who had done wrong used to pay money to a priest and think that they were forgiven by God. Against that belief Langland preaches, and his pardon is something different. It is only "Do well and have well, and God shall have thy soul. And do evil and have evil, hope none other That after thy death day thou shalt turn to the Evil One." And over this pardon a priest and Piers began so loudly to dispute that the dreamer awoke, "And saw the sun that time towards the south, And I meatless and moneyless upon the Malvern Hills." That is a little of the story of the first part of Piers Ploughman. It is an allegory, and in writing it Langland wished to hold up to scorn all the wickedness that he saw around him, and sharply to point out many causes of misery. There is laughter in his poem, but it is the terrible and harsh laughter of contempt. His most bitter words, perhaps, are for the idle rich, but the idle poor do not escape. Those who beg without shame, who cheat and steal, who are greedy and drunken have a share of his wrath. Yet Langland is not all harshness. His great word is Duty, but he speaks of Love too. "Learn to love, quoth King, and leave off all other." The poem is rambling and disconnected. Characters come on the scene and vanish again without cause. Stories begin and do not end. It is all wild and improbable like a dream, yet it is full of interest. But perhaps the chief interest and value of Piers Ploughman is that it is history. It tells us much of what the people thought and of how they lived in those days. It shows us the first mutterings of the storm that was to rend the world. This was the storm of the Reformation which was to divide the world into Protestant and Catholic. But Langland himself was not a Protestant. Although he speaks bitter words against the evil deeds of priest and monk, he does not attack the Church. To him she is still Holy Church, a radiant and lovely lady.

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- the Arthurian romance (Sir Gawain and the Green Knight)

Historical Prologue (1)

The siege and assault having ceased at Troy as its blazing battlements blackened to ash, the man who had planned and plotted that treason had trial enough for the truest traitor! Then Aeneas the prince and his honored line plundered provinces and held in their power nearly all the wealth of the western isles. Thus Romulus swiftly arriving at Rome sets up that city and in swelling pride gives it his name, the name it now bears; and in Tuscany Tirius raises up towns, and in Lombardy Langoberde settles the land, and far past the French coast Felix Brutus founds Britain on broad hills, and so bright hopes begin, where wonders, wars, misfortune and troubled times have been, where bliss and blind confusion have come and gone again.

(2)

From the founding of Britain by this brave prince,

63 The Pilgrim’s Progress bold men have bred there, burning for war, stirring up turmoil through the turning years. More wonders in the world have been witnessed here than anywhere else from that age forward. But of all who were crowned kings over Britain the most honor was Arthur's, as old tales tell. So I mean to make known a marvel on earth, an astonishing sight, as some men would call it, an extraordinary exploit among Arthur's wonders. Listen to this lay for a little while and as townsmen tell it, so this tale will trip along, a story pinned in patterns steadfast, steady, strong: aligned in linking letters as folk have loved so long.

Book I: Christmas in Camelot (3)

One Christmas in Camelot King Arthur sat at ease with his lords and loyal liegemen arranged as brothers round the Round Table. Their reckless jokes rang about that rich hall till they turned from the table to the tournament field and jousted like gentlemen with lances and laughs, then trooped to court in a carolling crowd. For the feast lasted a full fifteen days of meals and merriment (as much as could fit.) Such gay glee must gladden the ear -- by day what a din, and dancing by night! The halls and chambers were heaped with happy lords and ladies as high as you like! There they were gathered with all the world's goodness: knights as kind as Christ himself, ladies as lovely as ever have lived, and the noblest king our nation has known. They were yet in the pride, in the prime of their youth, and filled as full of heaven's blessing as the king had strength of will.

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And mighty men surpassing all were gathered on that hill.

(4)

While the year was as young as New Years can be the dais was prepared for a double feast. The king and his company came in together when mass had been chanted; and the chapel emptied as clergy and commons alike cried out, "Noel! Noel!" again and again. And the lords ran around loaded with parcels, palms extended to pass out presents, or crowded together comparing gifts. The ladies laughed when they lost at a game (that the winner was willing, you may well believe!) Round they milled in a merry mob till the meal was ready, washed themselves well, and walked to their places (the best for the best on seats raised above.) Then Guinevere moved gaily among them, took her place on the dais, which was dearly adorned with sides of fine silk and a canopied ceiling of sheer stuff: and behind her shimmering tapestries from far Tarsus, embroidered, bedecked with bright gems that the jewelers would pay a pretty price for any day, but the finest gem in the field of sight looked back: her eyes were grey. That a lovelier's lived to delight the gaze - is a lie, I'd say!

(5)

But Arthur would not eat till all were served. He bubbled to the brim with boyish spirits: liked his life light, and loathed the thought of lazing for long or sitting still longer. So his young blood boiled and his brain ran wild, and in many ways moved him still more as a point of honor never to eat on a high holiday till he should have heard

65 The Pilgrim’s Progress a strange story of stirring adventures, of mighty marvels to make the mind wonder, of princes, prowess, or perilous deeds. Or someone might come, seeking a knight to join him in jousting, enjoying the risk of laying their lives on the line like men leaving to fortune the choice of her favor. This was the king's custom at court, the practice he followed at pleasant feasts held in his hall; therefore with bold face he stood there straight and tall. As New Years proceeded apace he meant to have mirth with them all.

(6)

So he stood there stock-still, a king standing tall, talking of courtly trifles before the high table. By Guinevere sat Gawain the Good, and Agravaine of the Heavy Hand on the other side: knights of great worth, and nephews to the king. Baldwin, the bishop, was above, by the head, with Ywain, Urien's son, sitting across. These sat at the dais and were served with due honor; and many mighty men were seated on either side. Then the first course came with a clamor of trumpets whose banners billowed bright to the eye, while kettledrums rolled and the cry of the pipes wakened a wild, warbling music whose touch made the heart tremble and skip. Delicious dishes were rushed in, fine delicacies fresh and plentiful, piled so high on so many platters they had problems finding places to set down their silver bowls of steaming soup: no spot was clear. Each lord dug in with pleasure, and grabbed at what lay near: twelve platters piled past measure, bright wine, and foaming beer.

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(7)

I need say no more how they served the food, for what fool would fancy their feast was a famine? But a new noise announced itself quickly enough to grant the high lord leave to have dinner. The music had finished but a moment before, the first course just served, and set before the court, when a horrible horseman hurtled through the doors, his body as brawny as any can be, so bull-necked, big-thighed, bulky and square, so long-legged, large-limbed, looming so tall I can hardly tell if he were half troll, or merely as large as living man can be -- a handsome one too; as hearty a hulk as ever rode horse. His back and chest were broad as a barrel, but he slimmed at the waist, with a slender stomach, and his face was well formed, with features sharp and clean -- Men sat there gaping, gasping at his strange, unearthly sheen, as if a ghost were passing, for every inch was green.

(8)

He was got up in green from head to heel: a tunic worn tight, tucked to his ribs; and a rich cloak cast over it, covered inside with a fine fur lining, fitted and sewn with ermine trim that stood out in contrast from his hair where his hood lay folded flat; and handsome hose of the same green hue which clung to his calves, with clustered spurs of bright gold; beneath them striped embroidered silk above his bare shanks, for he rode shoeless. His clothes were all kindled with a clear light like emeralds: His belt buckles sparkled, and bright stones were set in rich rows arranged up and down himself and his saddle. Worked in the silk were too many trifles to tell the half of:

67 The Pilgrim’s Progress embroidered birds, butterflies, and other things in a gaudy glory of green and inlaid gold. And the bit and bridle, the breastplate on the horse, and all its tackle were trimmed with green enamel, even the saddlestraps, the stirrups on which he stood, and the bows of his saddle with its billowing skirts which glimmered and glinted with green jewels. The stallion that bore him was the best of its breed it was plain, a green horse great and strong, that sidled, danced and strained, but the bridle-braid led it along, turning as it was trained.

(9)

He was a fine fellow fitted in green -- And the hair on his head and his horse's matched. It fanned out freely enfolding his shoulders, and his beard hung below as big as a bush, all mixed with the marvelous mane on his head, which was cut off in curls cascading to his elbows, wrapping round the rest of him like a king's cape clasped to his neck. And the mane of his mount was much the same, but curled up and combed in crisp knots, in braids of bright gold thread and brilliant green criss-crossed hair by hair. And the tossing tail was twin to the mane, for both were bound with bright green ribbons, strung to the end with long strands of precious stones, and turned back tight in a twisted knot bright with tinkling bells of burnished gold. No such horse on hoof had been seen in that hall, nor horseman half so strange as their eyes now held in sight. He looked a lightning flash, they say: he seemed so bright; and who would dare to clash in melee with such might?

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(10)

Yet he had on no hauberk, nor a helmet for his head, neither neck-guard nor breastplate to break heavy blows, neither shaft nor shield for the shock of combat. But he held in one hand a sprig of holly that bursts out greenest when branches are bare; and his other hand hefted a huge and awful ax, a broad battleax with a bit to tell (take it who can) with a large head four feet long: the green steel down the grain etched with gold, its broad edge burnished and bright, shaped razor-sharp to sheer through steel, and held high on a heavy staff which was bound at the base with iron bands gracefully engraved in bright green patterns. A strap was strung through the steel head, running loop after loop down the length of the handle, which was tied with tassels in abundance, attaching by rich braids onto bright green buttons. This rider reined in as he rode through the doors direct to the high dais without a word, giving no greeting, gazing down on them all. His first word came when he stopped. "Where," he said, "is the master of these men? I've a mind to see his face and would fancy a chat with the fellow who wears the crown." To each lord he turned and glancing up and down he fixed each face to learn which knight held most renown.

(11)

They stared at the stranger, stunned, a very long time. For each man wondered what it might mean that man and mount both shone a shade as green as the grass, and greener even than green enamel glows when gold makes it brighter. All eyes were on him, and some edged closer, wondering what in the world he would do.

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They had seen enough strange sights to know how seldom they are real; therefore they feared him for a phantom, a sending from the Unseen Realm. So of all those noble knights, none dared answer but sat there stupefied by the strength of his voice. A silence fell filling that rich hall as if they'd all fainted or suddenly slept: their voices just vanished at their height. Some, I suppose, were not floored, but chose to be polite, letting their leader and lord be first to speak to that knight.

(12)

Arthur stood watching adventure advance and answered quickly as honor bid, neither awed nor afraid, saying, "Wanderer, know you are welcome here. dismount, if you may; make merry as you wish, and we may learn in a little while what you would like." "So help me God who sits on high," he said, "No." "It is not my purpose to pass any time in this place. But I have been told that your reputation towers to heaven: that your court and castle are accounted the finest, your knights and their steeds as the sturdiest in steel, the best, the boldest, the bravest on earth, and as fitting foes in any fine sport. True knighthood is known here, or so the tale runs, which is why I have come calling today. You may be sure by this branch that I bear that I come in peace, with no plans for battle. I have a hauberk at home, and a helmet too, and other weapons I know well how to wield. Yet as war is not my wish I am wearing soft silk, but, if you are as bold as men believe you to be, you will be glad to grant me the game that is mine by right." Then Arthur said, "I swear," "most courteous, noble knight, if you'd like to battle bare, you'll not fail to find a fight."

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(13)

"Never fear," he said, "I'm not fishing for a fight with the beardless children on the benches all about. If I were strapped on steel on a sturdy horse no man here has might to match me. No, I have come to this court for a bit of Christmas fun fitting for Yuletide and New Years with such a fine crowd. Who here in this house thinks he has what it takes, has bold blood and a brash head, and dares to stand his ground, giving stroke for stroke? Here! I shall give him this gilded blade as my gift; this heavy ax shall be his, to handle as he likes. and I shall stand here bare of armor, and brave the first blow. If anyone's tough enough to try out my game, let him come here quickly and claim his weapon! I give up all rights; he will get it for keeps. I'll stand like a tree trunk -- he can strike at me once, if you'll grant me the right to give as good as I get in play. But later is soon enough, a full year and a day. Get up, if you think you're rough, let's see what you dare to say!"

(14)

If at first he had stunned them, now they sat stone-still: the whole hall, both high and low. The mounted man moved in his saddle, glared a red glance grimly about, arched his bushy brows, all brilliant and green, his beard waving as he waited for one man to rise, to call or came forward. He coughed loudly, stretched slowly, and straightened to speak. "Hah! They call this King Arthur's house, a living legend in land after land? Where have your pride and your power gone, your bragging boasts, your big words? The glories and triumphs of the Round Table have toppled at the touch of one man's words!

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What? Fainting with fear, when no fight is offered?" He let out a laugh so loud that Arthur winced with shame; the blood shot to his flushed face and churned with rage and raised a storm until their hearts all burned. All king in face and form, he reached that rider, turned,

(15) and said, "Look here, by heaven! Have you lost your mind? If you want to be mad, I will make you welcome! Nobody I know is bowled over by your big words, so help me God! Hand me that ax -- I will grant you the gift you beg me to give!" He leaped lightly up and lifted it from his hand. Then the man dismounted, moving proudly, while Arthur held the ax, both hands on the haft, hefted it sternly, considered his stroke. That burly man bulked big and tall, a head higher than anyone in the house. He stood there hard-faced, stroking his beard, impassively watching as he pulled off his coat, no more moved or dismayed by his mighty swings than anybody would be if somebody brought him a bottle of wine. Gawain, sitting by the queen, could tell the king his mind: "Lord, hear well what I mean, and let this match be mine."

(16)

"Grant leave, good lord," said Gawain to the king, "to stir from my seat and stand by your side; that I might rise without rudeness from this table without fear of offending your fair queen, and come before your court as a counselor should. It is plainly improper, as people know well, to point this proposal at the prince himself.

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Though you may be eager to act for yourself, there are so many bold knights on the benches all about, none more masterful in mind maybe than move move under heaven, nor many built better for the field of battle. Of all your men of war I am the weakest and least wise, and my life little enough to lose, if you look at it clearly. My only honor is that you are my uncle; my only boast is that my body carries your blood. Since this whole matter is such a mockery, it is not meant for you; and I am first on the field: let this folly be mine. If my claim is uncalled-for let the court judge; I will bear the blame." They huddled hushed around and all advised the same: respect the royal crown, and give Gawain the game.

(17)

Then the king commanded him to rise and come forward, and he stood quickly, walked with stately steps to kneel before the king and claim his weapon. Arthur handed it over and held up his hand to give him God's blessing. With a glad smile he charged him to be hardy in heart. "Cousin, careful," he said, "cut him but once. and if you teach him truly, I trust you will find you can bear the blow that he brings you later." Gawain went to the warrior, weapon in hand, not the least bit bashful, as bold as can be. Then the Green Knight said to Gawain, "We should go over our agreement before we begin. First, knight, I would know your name, told truly as one I can trust." "My name is Gawain," he said, "I give it in good faith, as I will give you a blow and bear what comes after. At this time in twelve months I will take a blow back from what weapon you wish, but from no other knight alive." The other answering spoke, "Sir Gawain: good. I derive

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great pleasure from the stroke your hardy hands will drive."

(18)

"Gad!" the Green Knight said. "Sir Gawain, I am glad that your fist will fetch me the fun I hoped to find. You have quickly retold in trustworthy words a correct account of the contract I asked of the king, save one stipulation that I must state: let it stand as your oath that you will seek me yourself, and search anywhere you feel I may be found to fetch back the same wages I am paid today before this proud court." "Where should I look?" Gawain asked, "Where do you live?" "By Him that made me, your house is not known to me, neither do I know you, knight, nor your court nor your name. But teach me truly, tell me where to find you and I shall work my wits out to win my way there. I give my plain promise; I pledge you my word." "That is enough for a New Year's pledge; you need say no more," -- So the green man answered gracious Gawain -- "If I'm telling the truth, why, when I've taken your tap, and you've lopped me lovingly, you'll learn at once of my house and my home and how I am named. Then you can try my hospitality and be true to our compact. Or I'll have no words to waste, which would be well for you: you'd relax in this land, and not look for me further. But stop! Take up the grim tool you need, and show me how you chop." "Gladly, sir," he said, "Indeed," and gave the ax a strop.

(19)

The green knight got ready, feet firm on the ground; leaned his head a little to let the cheek show, and raised the rich riot of his hair so the nape of his neck was naked and exposed. Gawain held the ax high overhead, his left foot set before him on the floor,

74 The Pilgrim’s Progress swung swiftly at the soft flesh so the bit of the blade broke through the bones, crashed through the clear fat and cut it in two, and the brightly burnished edge bit into the earth. The handsome head fell, hit the ground, and rolled forward; they fended it off with their feet. The red blood burst bright from the green body, yet the fellow neither faltered nor fell but stepped strongly out on sturdy thighs, reached roughly right through their legs, grabbed his graceful head and lifted it from the ground, ran to his horse, caught hold of the reins, stepped in the stirrup, strode into the saddle, the head dangling by the hair from his hand, and seated himself as firmly in the saddle as if he were unhurt, though he sat on his horse without a head. He swiveled his bulk about; the ugly stump still bled. They gaped in fear and doubt because of the words he said.

(20)

For he held the head up evenly in his hand, turned the face toward the top of the high table, and the eyelids lifted and looked on them all while the mouth moved, making these words: "Gawain, get ready to go as you have promised, Seek me out, sir; search till you find me as sworn here in this hall where all these knights heard. I charge you, come as you chose to the Green Chapel to get as good as you gave -- you've got it coming and will be paid promptly when another year has passed. Many men know me as the Knight of the Green Chapel, so search faithfully and you'll not fail to find me. Come, or be called a faithless coward!" He roared like a raging bull, turned the reins, and drove for the door, still dangling the head, while fire flashed from the horse's feet as if its hooves were flints. Where he went no one knew,

75 The Pilgrim’s Progress nor could they name the country he came from nor his kin. What then? The king and Gawain grinned and laughed at the Green Knight when they knew full well it had been a portent to their men.

(21)

Though High King Arthur's heart was heavy with wonder he let no sign of it be seen, but said aloud with a king's courtesy to his lovely queen: "Beloved lady, never let this dismay you. It is good to get such games at Christmas, light interludes, laughter and song, or the whole court singing carols in chorus. But truly, I can turn now to my table and feast; as my word is good, I have witnessed a wonder." He turned to Sir Gawain and tactfully said, "Hang up your ax; it has cut all it can." It was attached to a tapestry above the high table for all men to marvel on who might see it there, as a true token of a tale of wonder. Then they sat in their seats to resume their feast, Gawain and the king together, while good men served them the rarest, dearest delicacies in double portions, with whole batteries of the best foods, and the singing of bards. The day finished, and their feast was filled with joy and zest. Sir Gawain, have a care to keep your courage for the test, and do the deed you've dared. You've begun: now brave the rest. Forward to Book II Gawain's Journey (Lines 491-784, sections 22-33) (22)

This gift of adventure is what Arthur got to bring in the year with the boasts he liked best. Yet they said little, but sat, took their seats,

76 The Pilgrim’s Progress gorged with grim business heaped in their hands. Gawain was glad when those games began, but no one should wonder at the weighty ending. Men's minds may grow merry when their drinks are mighty, but a year paces past in unforeseen patterns: The model seldom matches what is made. So Yule raced by, and the year ran after, each season passing in set sequence. After Christmas comes the discomfort of Lent, which tries the flesh with fish and simple food. But then the world's weather wrestles with winter: cold clings to the ground, but clouds rise, releasing warm rain; rinsing showers fall to the flat earth; flowers appear, both field and forest are fringed with green. Birds busy themselves building, and with brilliant song celebrate summer, for soon each slope will rush to bloom with blossoms set in lines luxuriant and lush, while noble notes form nets that fill the forest hush. (23) Then the summer season when the west breeze blows and soft winds sigh on seed and stem. How the green things glory in their urgent growth when the dripping dew drops from the leaves, waiting for the warm sun's welcome glance. But then Fall flies in, and fills their hearts, Bidding them be rich, ripe, and ready for winter. The autumn drought drives up dust that billows in clouds above the broad earth. Wild winds whistle, wrestling the sun; Leaves launch from each limb and land on the soil, while the green grass fades to grey. What rose at the first now ripens and rots till the year has gathered its full yield of yesterdays. In the way of the world, winter winds Around til the Michaelmas moon brings frost to touch the ground.

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When Gawain remembers all too soon that he is duty bound. (24) Yet he lingered with Arthur past All Saints Eve who set up a feast to send his knight off with revelry rich as the Round Table offered. Yet lordly knights and lovely ladies gazing at Gawain anxious with grief let nothing but laughter pass through their lips. They made themselves merry for one man's sake. Sad after supper he sought out his uncle, spoke of his quest, and clearly proclaimed: "My life's own liege lord, I ask now your leave. What this matter means, and how much it costs you know well enough: nothing worth words. But soon after dawn I must search out onslaught and meet the green man: may God be my guide." Then the highest in that hall hastened together, Iwain, and Erric, and many another – Sir Dodinel de Sauvage, the Duke of Clarence, Lancelot, and Lyonel, and Lucan the Good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere (big men both) And many proud lords, with Mador de la Port. Thus the court collected and came near the king to offer advice with anguished hearts. So much secret sorrow swept through that hall that one so good as Gawain must go forth doomed to bear the brunt of a blow and let his own blade rest. But Gawain said with cheerful face: "Why shrink back from the quest? Though fate bring glory or disgrace A man must meet the test." (25) He rested till morning then rose to get ready, asked early for his armor and they brought it all out, arranging each piece on a rich, red rug where the gear all glittered like a gallery of gold. The strong knight stood there to take up his steel, dearly dressed in a doublet of silk and a hooded cloak cunningly made

78 The Pilgrim’s Progress with a lining of ermine layered inside. His feet were fitted in fine steel shoes, and his legs were sheathed in shining greaves with kneeguards above them, burnished bright and tied to his knees with tassels of gold -- Then cuisse-plates whose clever curves enclosed his thick, hard thighs, and were bound there with thongs; while the mesh of his mail-shirt with its rings of bright metal richly quilted, wrapped him round, and well-burnished braces on both of his arms, gallant elbow-gear and gauntlets of steel, and all the finest, fairest stuff to fit him for his ride a surcoat richly made, his gold spurs worn with pride, girt with a glistening blade, a silk sash round his side. (26) When he got it all on his gear was splendid: each loop and latch-hook lustrous with gold. He left as he was, then listened to mass offered in honor before the high altar, came to the king and his court companions, took loving leave of lords and ladies in a crowd of kisses and hopes for Christ's care. Gringolet was groomed and ready to go, his gleaming saddle gaily fringed with gold newly nailed there for this matter of note. His striped bridle was bound with bright gold. The pattern of the harness and the proud skirts, of saddle-bow, caparison, crupper were all the same: red arrayed with rich gold studs that glinted and glittered like the glance of the sun. Then he held up his helm and kissed it in haste: It was stiffened with staples, padded with stuffing, Sat high on his head, and buckled behind where the neck-guard was graced with gleaming silk bedecked and embroidered with the best gems. There were birds on the seams of the broad silk bands: painted parrots on a field of periwinkles, turtledoves entwined with truelove blooms too thick

79 The Pilgrim’s Progress to be sewn by many women in seven winters' care. Yet nothing half so dear brought color anywhere as the circlet's bright and clear diamonds in his hair. (27) When they brought him his shield, it was bright red gules, painted with a pentacle of purest gold. Holding the baldric, he hung it from his neck, and the sign thus set suited him well. Why the pentacle is proper to that noble prince I must let you know, though I linger in the telling. It is a sign that Solomon set long ago to signify truth by a trustworthy token. It is a figure with five fine points and each line overlaps and locks with the others, everywhere endless: the English, I hear, most often call it the Endless Knot. And so it fits this knight with his flashing armor, who was faithful five ways and five times each. All knew Gawain to be good as purified gold: devoid of villainy, his virtues were a court's delight. Thus he wore the five-point star on shield and surcoat in plain sight, his honor without stain or scar, a gentle, low-voiced knight. (28) First, he was found faultless in his five senses, and his five fingers never failed him in any deed, and all his faith in this world was in the five wounds that Christ carried on the cross, as the Creed informs us. No matter where he moved in melee or in battle it was his fervent thought through thick or thin that when he fought his courage came from the five joys the high Queen of Heaven had of her child. (And so the noble knight would never wear his shield till her image had been painted on the inner half; for when he saw her face his courage never failed.) And a fifth five was found in Gawain:

80 The Pilgrim’s Progress bounty and brotherhood above all else; courtesy and a clean heart (these were never crooked) and the finest point, compassion -- these five virtues marked him more than any man alive. Now all these five fives were fastened round this knight and each embraced the others in unbroken pattern and met in five fixed points that never failed, nor bunched together, nor split in pieces, but ran on endlessly at every point -- where the figure failed, it found new beginnings. Therefore the shield shone with the knot thus shaped, gold royally arranged against red gules -- the noble pentacle as it is known by men of lore. Now ready to go his way, he lifted his lance as if for war, gave them all good day -- and left them there forevermore. (29) He set spurs to his steed and sprang on his way so swiftly the sparks sprayed out behind him. All that saw him so splendid sighed deep within and whispered soft words one to another in compassion for that prince: "By Christ, what a pity, to lose such a leader, wh ose life is so noble! There is hardly his equal anywhere on earth! A wary approach would have been wiser; better to have made such a man a duke -- such a brilliant leader; the best in the land. Better by far than this foolish waste, beheaded by an elf, and all for arrogant pride! What kind of king would take such counsel when his courtiers quarrel over Christmas games? How the warm tears welled till all their eyes were wet when that handsome lord left his home behind that day, nor lingered on his road, but swiftly found his way. Through pathless realms he rode -- so I heard the annal say. (30)

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So this rider rode through the realm of Britain, Sir Gawain in God's service: and to him it was no game. He would lie down alone with no one to lead, nor find before him any food that he liked, Nor any help but his horse over hill and wood, Nor any man but his Maker to make conversation -- till he neared the neighborhood of North Wales, held all the isles of Anglesey on his left and reached the river where its headlands rose high near Holyhead, and held on across through the Forest of Wirral. Few or none lived there whom God could love, or a good-hearted man. And he asked often, of all whom he met if they could give him news of a green knight or how he could get to the Green Chapel. And they all said no, never in their lives had they seen someone who was such a shade as green. The paths he would take were strange, with little cheer to glean, and his hopes would often change till that chapel could be seen. (31) He climbed past cliffs in unknown country, a stranger faring far from his home. At each stream and ford that he found in those lands enemies lurked (unless his luck held) -- vicious, violent, hard to avoid. In those mountains he met so many strange wonders a tenth of the total could hardly be told. He dared to fight dragons and warred with wolves, or lurking woses, living wild on the crags, or with bulls, or bears, or boars on occasion, and trolls that hunted him across the high hills. Only constant courage and the care of his God could save him sometimes from certain death. For if warfare was hard, winter was worse, when the clouds shed water cold and clear which froze in the air and fell as sleet. He lay down half-dead, drenched in his armor, too many times to bear: and on barren stone

82 The Pilgrim’s Progress where cold-running creeks came clattering down and icecicles hardened high overhead. Thus with peril and pain, in difficult plight, he carried on alone till the Eve of Christmas fell. Then lifting head he cried: "Good Mary, hear me well -- and grant me grace to ride to realms where people dwell." (32) With sunrise his heart rose as he rode from the highlands deep into woodland wild past belief. There the high hills hemmed in a forest of huge and hoary oaks -- hundreds together; and heavy hazel and hawthorn thickets with rags of rough moss wrapped round each limb -- while on the bare branches the huddled birds were perched, piping pitifully in the cold. Gawain passed them on Gringolet, going on through marsh and mire, a man all alone and worried. He wondered what he could do to celebrate our Savior's service on the very night he was born of a virgin to bear our sorrows. And therefore sighing he said, "I beseech thee, Lord and Mary, the mildest, dearest of mothers: Help me to some haven where mass can be heard, and matins tomorrow. I ask this meekly, and in token now pray my Pater, my Ave, my Creed. He continued on his way, confessing his misdeeds, and crossed himself to pray, "Christ's cross now grant me speed!" (33) He had signed himself scarcely three times when he made out a moat and a mound in the wood -- a low hill with a lawn, through a lacework of branches that grew from great oaks guarding a dike. He had found there a castle fit for a lord, placed in the open, a park all around it, with bristling stakes in a strong stockade

83 The Pilgrim’s Progress that turned for two miles round groves of trees. Sir Gawain saw one whole side of that stronghold as it shimmered and shone through the shaking leaves. He held his helm, with head bowed in thanks to Jesus and Saint Julian, whose gentle grace had cared for his needs and come to his aid. "Safe lodging," he called, "I beseech of you yet!" Then he goaded Gringolet with gilded heels and choosing the chief roadway by sheer chance he came quickly to the causeway's end at last to drawbridge lifted tight to gateway shuttered fast. Such walls in granite might would shrug off wind or blast. (The next part of Book II covers Gawain's reception at this castle.) Christmas at a Strange Castle (Lines 785-1125, sections 34-45) (34)

He held back his horse where the bank halted in a deep double ditch close dug to the wall, which plunged in the pool impossibly deep -- and then its full, huge height heaved itself up in tiers of tough stone straight to the top, its battlements built in the best style, its guard-towers rising in graceful rows lined with loopholes covered and latched: a barbican better than the best he knew. He noticed behind it a high-roofed hall tucked among towers, from whose clustered tips buttresses sprang, and pinnacled spires cunningly carved, and crafted with skill. Chalk-white chimneys were checkered about like radiance rising from rooftops and towers. So many painted pinnacles stood round that place or climbed from the castle's crenellated walls that it seemed like a cutout clipped from paper. As he sat there in saddle, it seemed very fine if only he could enter the innermost court, and win welcome there to worship in a house

84 The Pilgrim’s Progress so blessed. A porter came at call, more gracous than the best, who stood upon the wall and hailed that knight on quest. (35)

"Good sir," said Gawain, "please grant me the favor (if your lord allows) to lodge in this house." "By Peter," said the porter, "be perfectly sure that you, Lord, are welcome as long as you like!" Then swift-paced the porter moved to approach him, and others came with him to welcome their guest. They dropped the great drawbridge, then drawing near proudly, they bowed, their knees bent upon the bare earth to one whom they welcomed as worthy of honor. They granted him passage; the portals swung wide; he called them to rise, and crossed the great bridge. Men steadied his saddle: he slipped off his horse and sturdy men came to lead it to stable. Knights and their squires were the next to come, delighted to lead the lord to the hall. Hardly had he lifted his helm when many hands were swift to receive it in courteous service -- and in the same way his sword was set by his shield. He nobly acknowledged each of those knights, proud men close-pressed to honor a prince. Still strapped in bright steel, he strode to the hall where a bonfire burned bright on the hearth. Then the lord himself descended to see him, moving to meet him with exquisite manners. "You are welcome," he said, "to what this house holds," "everything is yours to use as you please in this place." "God bless you," said Gawain then, "And Christ repay your grace." They met like joyful men in open-armed embrace. (36)

Gazing on one who greeted him so well,

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Gawain felt that fortress had a fine lord: a man in his prime, massively made; his beard all beaver-brown, glossy and broad; stern, stalwart in stance on his sturdy thighs, his face bold as fire, a fair-spoken man -- who certainly seemed well-suited, he judged, to rule there as master of excellent men. The lord led him in, and ordered at once that someone be sent to serve in his chamber. Then the household staff hurried to obey and brought him to a bedroom, brightly arranged with gold-trimmed curtains of the clearest silk and fine-crafted coverlets, beautiful quilts with bright fur above and embroidered edges. There were rings of red gold on rope-drawn drapes, tight-hung tapestries from Tarsus and Tolouse; and similar fabrics were set underfoot. As they talked with him gaily, they took off his garments, removing his byrnie and his bright armor. Then rich robes were brought as the servants rushed in a choice from the best to change for his own. As soon as he picked one and pulled it in place, a fine-fitting kilt with swirling folds, it seemed to them all that suddenly light shone round his shape in the shades of spring, beautiful, bright about all his limbs. Christ never had such a handsome knight, they thought: Wherever men appear, surely Gawain ought to reign without a peer in fields where fierce men fought. (37)

Before the chimney where charcoal glowed a chair lined with fine fabric was found for Sir Gawain, sumptuous with cushions on a quilted seat. And then a rich robe was thrown around him of brilliant, gaily embroidered silk filled out with fur: the finest of pelts, and every bit ermine, even the hood.

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Thus he sat, relaxed and in lavish splendor, till he felt far better in the fire's warmth. Then they took a table, laid it on trestles, and covered it with clean and clear white cloth, saltcellars, napkins, and a silver service. He washed as he wished and went to his meal. Then the table was set in suitable style with soups of all kinds, seasoned superbly in double-sized servings; plus assorted fish, some breaded and baked, some broiled on the coals, some simmered, some set in savory stews; each subtly spiced with sauces that pleased him. Exclaiming he kept on calling it a feast, but all of them answered with equal courtesy and said, "Take penance while you can; tomorrow you'll be fed!" He made a merry man -- the wine went to his head. (38)

Then queries and questions carefully framed on private matters were put to that prince. So he spoke of his court, in courteous words, as that which highborn Arthur held as his own, who ruled the Round Table as its regal king -- and their guest, he told them, was Gawain himself, come to them at Christmas as his course unfolded. On learning whom luck had brought him the lord laughed out loud for sheer heart's delight. Within that moat every man was eager to move, and pressed forward promptly to enter the presence of "that paragon of prowess and of perfect manners, whose virtues and person are constantly praised: of all men on earth most worthy of honor!" Each man of them, murmuring, remarked to his fellows, "Now we shall see courtesy cleverly displayed among faultless feats of fine conversation! We will learn untaught how to talk nobly when we face such a fine father of breeding! God has graced us indeed, with a grand blessing,

87 The Pilgrim’s Progress to grant us the guest that Gawain will make when we sit and sing glad songs of Christ's new birth. The meaning of his mannered ways will show what words are worth -- and teach us terms to play the game of lovers' mirth." (39)

When the dinner was done, and their darling rose, it was nearly dark, for night was approaching. The chapels were opened as the chaplains came with bells ringing richly, right as they should for vesper devotions on the verge of Christmas. The lord now led the way, his lady beside him; she paced along prettily and entered her pew. When Gawain came gliding in with a glad heart, the lord latched on to him and led him to his seat, glad-handing Gawain, greeting him by name, and said he was the most welcome guest in the world. After hearty hugs and heartfelt thanks, they sat soberly together till the service ended. As the lady had been longing to look on the knight, she emerged to meet him, her maidens about her. In form she was fairest: in figure and face, complexion, comportment surpassing all others, and to Gawain not even Guinevere could equal her grace. She steered through the chancel to strengthen his welcome. Another lady led her by the left hand who was obviously older: an elderly matron whom the household held in the highest honor. But in looks the two ladies were obviously unlike: one active and young, one yellow with age. On the first a flush rose, ruddy and fair; on the other, rough wrinkles on rugged cheeks . On the first one, clear pearls displayed on a kerchief shone from her breast and her bare throat whiter than snow on the winter hills. The other one's kerchief covered her neck, and bright veils billowed round her black chin, while silk framed her forehead, which was fretted round

88 The Pilgrim’s Progress with lacework linked in delicate loops. Nothing was bare about her but her black brows, over eyes and nose over naked lips, and those made a sorry sight, bleary and sour. She was, God knows! A lady of grace and pride -- but her body was short and thick; her buttocks big and wide. A tastier plum to pick was the beauty by her side. (40)

Meeting her gracious, light-hearted gaze he took the lord's leave and approached the ladies. He greeted the elder with a grand bow, and wrapping the lovelier in a light embrace, he planted a pretty kiss with extravagant praise. They offered their acquaintance, and he asked at once to be their faithful servant if it seemed fitting. They took him between them and led him off, talking, to a chimneyed chamber; and they charged the servants to speed out for spices, and not to be sparing, but to bring back each time the best of the wine. The lord kept leaping about in delight, bid them make merry as much as they could, then hauled off his hood and hung it on a spear, urging them to earn it as a signal honor for the merriest man among them that Christmas. "By my word! I shall work to win with the rest against all this company, to keep it myself!" Thus the lord made it lively with laughter and jokes to gladden Sir Gawain with the joy that games incite. Time passed; the twilight fled; the servants kindled light. Then Gawain sought his bed, and bade them all good night. (41)

In the morning when men remember the birth of our dear Lord to die for our destiny's sake,

89 The Pilgrim’s Progress all men on earth grow merry at heart. So it was that delicacies filled out their day: At breakfast and banquet the best of the food was spread out in splendor by spirited men. The old, ancient woman had honor of place, with the lord, I believe, politely beside her. Gawain and the gracious lady were both given seats in the middle, where the meal was measured out first, and afterward to everyone all through the hall, served in due sequence, as it seemed proper. They had food, they had fun, they were filled with joy: too much for tongue to tell of with ease, and a struggle, at least, to state it in full. But this I give you: that Gawain and the gracious lady were perfect companions in their place together, and such pleasantries passed in their private speech (which was fine and fair; also free from sin) that no princely sport could possibly surpass their game. Then trumpets, drums to measure tunes that pipes proclaim: as each man took his pleasure, and those two did the same. (42)

One fun-filled day followed another, with a third day thrust into the thick of it. Saint John's day was generous with jubilant song: the last day like it left to them there. The guests would be going in the grey morning, so they were up to all hours over their wine, kept calling for dances and caroling round, and left their leavetaking till late in the night that would soon send them off by separate ways. 'Good day,' began Gawain, but grabbing him his host pulled him aside privately by a pleasant fire, laid it on at length and lavishly thanked him for granting him such grace and gladness of heart as to honor his house on this high season and fill up his fortress with the finest manners. 'As long as I live, sir, my life will be better

90 The Pilgrim’s Progress to have had Gawain as my guest at God's own feast.' 'God help me,' said Gawain, 'may He grant you better: for any such honor is only your due. I am simply your servant, one who seeks to please you, oath-bound to honor all men, be they high or low.' And though the lord takes pains to urge him not to go, Sir Gawain still explains his answer must be no. (43)

"But Gawain," that good man graciously asked, "Has some dark deed driven you forth, that you rushed from the royal court? Must you now ride alone when holiday feasts are not wholly done?" "Sir," he responded, "you have spoken truly:, "I had to depart on a high and a hasty matter. For I myself am summoned to seek out a place, though I wonder where in the world to find it. I'd not fail to near it by New Year's morning for all the land in Britain -- by the love of God! I have come with questions that require answers -- so tell me the truth: has any tale reached you of the Green Chapel, or on what ground it stands, or about its guardian, a green-skinned knight? For I have set myself, by most solemn pledge, to meet this man, though it may go hard. But now the New Year is nearly complete, and if the Lord allows it, I'll look upon him more gladly -- by God's Son! -- than on any good thing. Therefore sir, as you see, I must set out now for I doubt that three days will do for this business and I'd far rather die than be doomed to fail." Then the lord answered, laughing, "You must linger now!" "You will get to your goal in good enough time, and can give up guessing on what ground it lies, and can lie abed as late as you wish, and finally set forth the first of the year, yet make it there with morning still mostly left that day --

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spend till New Years as you please, then rise and ride that way; We'll guide you there with ease -- it's not two miles away." (44)

Then gaiety filled Gawain, and he gladly laughed. "I must earnestly offer my uttermost thanks! With my goal at hand, I can grant your wish, dwell here a while, and do as you bid me." "Sit down," said his host, seizing his arm. "Come, let's delight in the ladies' presence!" Thus they made a pleasant party apart by themselves. The lord let out laughs as loud and as merry as a madman, maybe, whose mind was far gone. He called to his company, crying aloud, "You have sworn to serve me however seems best; will you act to honor this oath here and now?" "Certainly, sir," he said in reply. "While your walls ward me your will is supreme." He returned: "You are tired, and have traveled far. We all have been wakeful, nor are you well-rested, nor fed quite as fully, I fear, as should be. You must lie in late, and lounge at your ease past morning mass, and make it to breakfast whenever you wish. My wife will eat with you and keep you company till I come again. You stay, but I myself will ride hunting at break of day." Then Gawain bowed with pride and promised to obey. (45)

"Look," said the lord - "Let us now bargain: What I get in the wood I will give to you, and charge in exchange whatever chance may deal you. Friend, here's how to do it: we'll hold to our word regardless who gains or gives up the most." "By God!" Gawain answered, "I grant what you ask; just give me the game -- I will gladly play it!"

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"Then let's down this drink, and our deal is made!" said the lord of that land, and they laughed together. So these lords and ladies relaxed as they drank and played gallant games while it gave them pleasure. Then in French fashion, with many fine words, they made their excuses with murmured farewells, and pretty pecks planted on either cheek. Then bright burning torches were born by the servants who led them at last to lie down softly in bed. Before they reached the door, what promises they said! And how that country's lord made fun times fly ahead!

…………………………………………………… - the medieval poetry (Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales)

The General Prologue

Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who help ed them when they lay so ill and weal Befell that, in that season, on a day In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay

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Ready to start upon my pilgrimage To Canterbury, full of devout homage, There came at nightfall to that hostelry Some nine and twenty in a company Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all That toward Canterbury town would ride. The rooms and stables spacious were and wide, And well we there were eased, and of the best. And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest, So had I spoken with them, every one, That I was of their fellowship anon, And made agreement that we'd early rise To take the road, as you I will apprise. But none the less, whilst I have time and space, Before yet farther in this tale I pace, It seems to me accordant with reason To inform you of the state of every one Of all of these, as it appeared to me, And who they were, and what was their degree, And even how arrayed there at the inn; And with a knight thus will I first begin. A knight there was, and he a worthy man, Who, from the moment that he first began To ride about the world, loved chivalry, Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy. Full worthy was he in his liege-lord's war, And therein had he ridden (none more far) As well in Christendom as heathenesse, And honoured everywhere for worthiness. At Alexandria, he, when it was won; Full oft the table's roster he'd begun Above all nations' knights in Prussia. In Latvia raided he, and Russia, No christened man so oft of his degree. In far Granada at the siege was he Of Algeciras, and in Belmarie. At Ayas was he and at Satalye When they were won; and on the Middle Sea At many a noble meeting chanced to be. Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,

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And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe. This self-same worthy knight had been also At one time with the lord of Palatye Against another heathen in Turkey: And always won he sovereign fame for prize. Though so illustrious, he was very wise And bore himself as meekly as a maid. He never yet had any vileness said, In all his life, to whatsoever wight. He was a truly perfect, gentle knight. But now, to tell you all of his array, His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay. Of simple fustian wore he a jupon Sadly discoloured by his habergeon; For he had lately come from his voyage And now was going on this pilgrimage. With him there was his son, a youthful squire, A lover and a lusty bachelor, With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press. Some twenty years of age he was, I guess. In stature he was of an average length, Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength. He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy, And borne him well within that little space In hope to win thereby his lady's grace. Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead, All full of fresh-cut flowers white and red. Singing he was, or fluting, all the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his gown, with sleeves both long and wide. Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride. He could make songs and words thereto indite, Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write. So hot he loved that, while night told her tale, He slept no more than does a nightingale. Courteous he, and humble, willing and able, And carved before his father at the table. A yeoman had he, nor more servants, no, At that time, for he chose to travel so;

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And he was clad in coat and hood of green. A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen Under his belt he bore right carefully (Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly: His arrows had no draggled feathers low), And in his hand he bore a mighty bow. A cropped head had he and a sun-browned face. Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways. Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay, And at one side a sword and buckler, yea, And at the other side a dagger bright, Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light; On breast a Christopher of silver sheen. He bore a horn in baldric all of green; A forester he truly was, I guess. There was also a nun, a prioress, Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy; Her greatest oath was but "By Saint Eloy!" And she was known as Madam Eglantine. Full well she sang the services divine, Intoning through her nose, becomingly; And fair she spoke her French, and fluently, After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow, For French of Paris was not hers to know. At table she had been well taught withal, And never from her lips let morsels fall, Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate With so much care the food upon her plate That never driblet fell upon her breast. In courtesy she had delight and zest. Her upper lip was always wiped so clean That in her cup was no iota seen Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine. Becomingly she reached for meat to dine. And certainly delighting in good sport, She was right pleasant, amiable- in short. She was at pains to counterfeit the look Of courtliness, and stately manners took, And would be held worthy of reverence. But, to say something of her moral sense, She was so charitable and piteous

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That she would weep if she but saw a mouse Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled. She had some little dogs, too, that she fed On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread. But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead, Or if men smote it with a rod to smart: For pity ruled her, and her tender heart. Right decorous her pleated wimple was; Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass; Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red; But certainly she had a fair forehead; It was almost a full span broad, I own, For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown. Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware. Of coral small about her arm she'd bear A string of beads and gauded all with green; And therefrom hung a brooch of golden sheen Whereon there was first written a crowned "A," And under, Amor vincit omnia. Another little nun with her had she, Who was her chaplain; and of priests she'd three. A monk there was, one made for mastery, An outrider, who loved his venery; A manly man, to be an abbot able. Full many a blooded horse had he in stable: And when he rode men might his bridle hear A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear, Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell Where this brave monk was of the cell. The rule of Maurus or Saint Benedict, By reason it was old and somewhat strict, This said monk let such old things slowly pace And followed new-world manners in their place. He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen Which holds that hunters are not holy men; Nor that a monk, when he is cloisterless, Is like unto a fish that's waterless; That is to say, a monk out of his cloister. But this same text he held not worth an oyster; And I said his opinion was right good. What? Should he study as a madman would

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Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat, As Austin bids? How shall the world be served? Let Austin have his toil to him reserved. Therefore he was a rider day and night; Greyhounds he had, as swift as bird in flight. Since riding and the hunting of the hare Were all his love, for no cost would he spare. I saw his sleeves were purfled at the hand With fur of grey, the finest in the land; Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin, He had of good wrought gold a curious pin: A love-knot in the larger end there was. His head was bald and shone like any glass, And smooth as one anointed was his face. Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case. His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot; His boots were soft; his horse of great estate. Now certainly he was a fine prelate: He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost. A fat swan loved he best of any roast. His palfrey was as brown as is a berry. A friar there was, a wanton and a merry, A limiter, a very festive man. In all the Orders Four is none that can Equal his gossip and his fair language. He had arranged full many a marriage Of women young, and this at his own cost. Unto his order he was a noble post. Well liked by all and intimate was he With franklins everywhere in his country, And with the worthy women of the town: For at confessing he'd more power in gown (As he himself said) than it good curate, For of his order he was licentiate. He heard confession gently, it was said, Gently absolved too, leaving naught of dread. He was an easy man to give penance When knowing he should gain a good pittance; For to a begging friar, money given

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Is sign that any man has been well shriven. For if one gave (he dared to boast of this), He took the man's repentance not amiss. For many a man there is so hard of heart He cannot weep however pains may smart. Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer, Men should give silver to poor friars all bare. His tippet was stuck always full of knives And pins, to give to young and pleasing wives. And certainly he kept a merry note: Well could he sing and play upon the rote. At balladry he bore the prize away. His throat was white as lily of the May; Yet strong he was as ever champion. In towns he knew the taverns, every one, And every good host and each barmaid too- Better than begging lepers, these he knew. For unto no such solid man as he Accorded it, as far as he could see, To have sick lepers for acquaintances. There is no honest advantageousness In dealing with such poverty-stricken curs; It's with the rich and with big victuallers. And so, wherever profit might arise, Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes. There was no other man so virtuous. He was the finest beggar of his house; A certain district being farmed to him, None of his brethren dared approach its rim; For though a widow had no shoes to show, So pleasant was his In principio, He always got a farthing ere he went. He lived by pickings, it is evident. And he could romp as well as any whelp . On love days could he be of mickle help . For there he was not like a cloisterer, With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar, But he was like a lord or like a pope. Of double worsted was his semi-cope, That rounded like a bell, as you may guess. He lisped a little, out of wantonness,

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To make his English soft upon his tongue; And in his harping, after he had sung, His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright As do the stars within the frosty night. This worthy limiter was named Hubert. There was a merchant with forked beard, and girt In motley gown, and high on horse he sat, Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat; His boots were fastened rather elegantly. His spoke his notions out right pompously, Stressing the times when he had won, not lost. He would the sea were held at any cost Across from Middleburgh to Orwell town. At money-changing he could make a crown. This worthy man kept all his wits well set; There was no one could say he was in debt, So well he governed all his trade affairs With bargains and with borrowings and with shares. Indeed, he was a worthy man withal, But, sooth to say, his name I can't recall. A clerk from Oxford was with us also, Who'd turned to getting knowledge, long ago. As meagre was his horse as is a rake, Nor he himself too fat, I'll undertake, But he looked hollow and went soberly. Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he Had got him yet no churchly benefice, Nor was so worldly as to gain office. For he would rather have at his bed's head Some twenty books, all bound in black and red, Of Aristotle and his philosophy Than rich robes, fiddle, or gay psaltery. Yet, and for all he was philosopher, He had but little gold within his coffer; But all that he might borrow from a friend On books and learning he would swiftly spend, And then he'd pray right busily for the souls Of those who gave him wherewithal for schools. Of study took he utmost care and heed. Not one word spoke he more than was his need; And that was said in fullest reverence

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And short and quick and full of high good sense. Pregnant of moral virtue was his speech; And gladly would he learn and gladly teach. A sergeant of the law, wary and wise, Who'd often gone to Paul's walk to advise, There was also, compact of excellence. Discreet he was, and of great reverence; At least he seemed so, his words were so wise. Often he sat as justice in assize, By patent or commission from the crown; Because of learning and his high renown, He took large fees and many robes could own. So great a purchaser was never known. All was fee simple to him, in effect, Wherefore his claims could never be suspect. Nowhere a man so busy of his class, And yet he seemed much busier than he was. All cases and all judgments could he cite That from King William's time were apposite. And he could draw a contract so explicit Not any man could fault therefrom elicit; And every statute he'd verbatim quote. He rode but badly in a medley coat, Belted in a silken sash, with little bars, But of his dress no more particulars. There was a franklin in his company; White was his beard as is the white daisy. Of sanguine temperament by every sign, He loved right well his morning sop in wine. Delightful living was the goal he'd won, For he was Epicurus' very son, That held opinion that a full delight Was true felicity, perfect and right. A householder, and that a great, was he; Saint Julian he was in his own country. His bread and ale were always right well done; A man with better cellars there was none. Baked meat was never wanting in his house, Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous It seemed to snow therein both food and drink Of every dainty that a man could think.

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According to the season of the year He changed his diet and his means of cheer. Full many a fattened partridge did he mew, And many a bream and pike in fish-pond too. Woe to his cook, except the sauces were Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear. His table, waiting in his hall alway, Stood ready covered through the livelong day. At county sessions was he lord and sire, And often acted as a knight of shire. A dagger and a trinket-bag of silk Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk. He had been sheriff and been auditor; And nowhere was a worthier vavasor. A haberdasher and a carpenter, An arras-maker, dyer, and weaver Were with us, clothed in similar livery, All of one sober, great fraternity. Their gear was new and well adorned it was; Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass, But all with silver; chastely made and well Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell. Each man of them appeared a proper burges To sit in guildhall on a high dais. And each of them, for wisdom he could span, Was fitted to have been an alderman; For chattels they'd enough, and, too, of rent; To which their goodwives gave a free assent, Or else for certain they had been to blame. It's good to hear "Madam" before one's name, And go to church when all the world may see, Having one's mantle borne right royally. A cook they had with them, just for the nonce, To boil the chickens with the marrow-bones, And flavour tartly and with galingale. Well could he tell a draught of London ale. And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry, And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie. But very ill it was, it seemed to me, That on his shin a deadly sore had he; For sweet blanc-mange, he made it with the best.

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There was a sailor, living far out west; For aught I know, he was of Dartmouth town. He sadly rode a hackney, in a gown, Of thick rough cloth falling to the knee. A dagger hanging on a cord had he About his neck, and under arm, and down. The summer's heat had burned his visage brown; And certainly he was a good fellow. Full many a draught of wine he'd drawn, I trow, Of Bordeaux vintage, while the trader slept. Nice conscience was a thing he never kept. If that he fought and got the upper hand, By water he sent them home to every land. But as for craft, to reckon well his tides, His currents and the dangerous watersides, His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage, There was none such from Hull to far Carthage. Hardy. and wise in all things undertaken, By many a tempest had his beard been shaken. He knew well all the havens, as they were, From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre, And every creek in Brittany and Spain; His vessel had been christened Madeleine. With us there was a doctor of physic; In all this world was none like him to pick For talk of medicine and surgery; For he was grounded in astronomy. He often kept a patient from the pall By horoscopes and magic natural. Well could he tell the fortune ascendent Within the houses for his sick patient. He knew the cause of every malady, Were it of hot or cold, of moist or dry, And where engendered, and of what humour; He was a very good practitioner. The cause being known, down to the deepest root, Anon he gave to the sick man his boot. Ready he was, with his apothecaries, To send him drugs and all electuaries; By mutual aid much gold they'd always won- Their friendship was a thing not new begun.

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Well read was he in Esculapius, And Deiscorides, and in Rufus, Hippocrates, and Hali, and Galen, Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen, Averrhoes, Gilbert, and Constantine, Bernard and Gatisden, and John Damascene. In diet he was measured as could be, Including naught of superfluity, But nourishing and easy. It's no libel To say he read but little in the Bible. In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal, Lined with a taffeta and with sendal; And yet he was right chary of expense; He kept the gold he gained from pestilence. For gold in physic is a fine cordial, And therefore loved he gold exceeding all. There was a housewife come from Bath, or near, Who- sad to say- was deaf in either ear. At making cloth she had so great a bent She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent. In all the parish there was no goodwife Should offering make before her, on my life; And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she It put her out of all her charity. Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground; I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head. Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red, Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new. Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue. She'd been respectable throughout her life, With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife, Not counting other company in youth; But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth. Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem; And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem; At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne, In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne. She could tell much of wandering by the way: Gap-toothed was she, it is no lie to say. Upon an ambler easily she sat,

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Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat As broad as is a buckler or a targe; A rug was tucked around her buttocks large, And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs. In company well could she laugh her slurs. The remedies of love she knew, perchance, For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance. There was a good man of religion, too, A country parson, poor, I warrant you; But rich he was in holy thought and work. He was a learned man also, a clerk, Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach; Devoutly his parishioners would he teach. Benign he was and wondrous diligent, Patient in adverse times and well content, As he was ofttimes proven; always blithe, He was right loath to curse to get a tithe, But rather would he give, in case of doubt, Unto those poor parishioners about, Part of his income, even of his goods. Enough with little, coloured all his moods. Wide was his parish, houses far asunder, But never did he fail, for rain or thunder, In sickness, or in sin, or any state, To visit to the farthest, small and great, Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave. This fine example to his flock he gave, That first he wrought and afterwards he taught; Out of the gospel then that text he caught, And this figure he added thereunto- That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do? For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust, What wonder if a layman yield to lust? And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep, A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep. Well ought a priest example good to give, By his own cleanness, how his flock should live. He never let his benefice for hire, Leaving his flock to flounder in the mire, And ran to London, up to old Saint Paul's To get himself a chantry there for souls,

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Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold; But dwelt at home and kept so well the fold That never wolf could make his plans miscarry; He was a shepherd and not mercenary. And holy though he was, and virtuous, To sinners he was not impiteous, Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine, But in all teaching prudent and benign. To lead folk into Heaven but by stress Of good example was his busyness. But if some sinful one proved obstinate, Be who it might, of high or low estate, Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know. There is nowhere a better priest, I trow. He had no thirst for pomp or reverence, Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience, But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve He taught, but first he followed it himselve. With him there was a plowman, was his brother, That many a load of dung, and many another Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he, Living in peace and perfect charity. He loved God most, and that with his whole heart At all times, though he played or plied his art, And next, his neighbour, even as himself. He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf, For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight, All without pay, if it lay in his might. He paid his taxes, fully, fairly, well, Both by his own toil and by stuff he'd sell. In a tabard he rode upon a mare. There were also a reeve and miller there; A summoner, manciple and pardoner, And these, beside myself, made all there were. The miller was a stout churl, be it known, Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone; Which was well proved, for when he went on lam At wrestling, never failed he of the ram. He was a chunky fellow, broad of build; He'd heave a door from hinges if he willed, Or break it through, by running, with his head.

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His beard, as any sow or fox, was red, And broad it was as if it were a spade. Upon the coping of his nose he had A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs, Red as the bristles in an old sow's ears; His nostrils they were black and very wide. A sword and buckler bore he by his side. His mouth was like a furnace door for size. He was a jester and could poetize, But mostly all of sin and ribaldries. He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees; And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad. A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad. A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known, And with that same he brought us out of town. There was a manciple from an inn of court, To whom all buyers might quite well resort To learn the art of buying food and drink; For whether he paid cash or not, I think That he so knew the markets, when to buy, He never found himself left high and dry. Now is it not of God a full fair grace That such a vulgar man has wit to pace The wisdom of a crowd of learned men? Of masters had he more than three times ten, Who were in law expert and curious; Whereof there were a dozen in that house Fit to be stewards of both rent and land Of any lord in England who would stand Upon his own and live in manner good, In honour, debtless (save his head were wood), Or live as frugally as he might desire; These men were able to have help ed a shire In any case that ever might befall; And yet this manciple outguessed them all. The reeve he was a slender, choleric man Who shaved his beard as close as razor can. His hair was cut round even with his ears; His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer's. Long were his legs, and they were very lean, And like a staff, with no calf to be seen.

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Well could he manage granary and bin; No auditor could ever on him win. He could foretell, by drought and by the rain, The yielding of his seed and of his grain. His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy, His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry, Were wholly in this steward's managing; And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning Since his young lord of age was twenty years; Yet no man ever found him in arrears. There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat But he knew well his cunning and deceit; They were afraid of him as of the death. His cottage was a good one, on a heath; By green trees shaded with this dwelling-place. Much better than his lord could he purchase. Right rich he was in his own private right, Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by day or night, By giving him, or lending, of his goods, And so got thanked- but yet got coats and hoods. In youth he'd learned a good trade, and had been A carpenter, as fine as could be seen. This steward sat a horse that well could trot, And was all dapple-grey, and was named Scot. A long surcoat of blue did he parade, And at his side he bore a rusty blade. Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell, From near a town that men call Badeswell. Bundled he was like friar from chin to croup, And ever he rode hindmost of our troop. A summoner was with us in that place, Who had a fiery-red, cherubic face, For eczema he had; his eyes were narrow As hot he was, and lecherous, as a sparrow; With black and scabby brows and scanty beard; He had a face that little children feared. There was no mercury, sulphur, or litharge, No borax, ceruse, tartar, could discharge, Nor ointment that could cleanse enough, or bite, To free him of his boils and pimples white, Nor of the bosses resting on his cheeks.

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Well loved he garlic, onions, aye and leeks, And drinking of strong wine as red as blood. Then would he talk and shout as madman would. And when a deal of wine he'd poured within, Then would. he utter no word save Latin. Some phrases had he learned, say two or three, Which he had garnered out of some decree; No wonder, for he'd heard it all the day; And all you know right well that even a jay Can call out "Wat" as well as can the pope. But when, for aught else, into him you'd grope, 'Twas found he'd spent his whole philosophy; Just "Questio quid juris" would he cry. He was a noble rascal, and a kind; A better comrade 'twould be hard to find. Why, he would suffer, for a quart of wine, Some good fellow to have his concubine A twelve-month, and excuse him to the full (Between ourselves, though, he could pluck a gull). And if he chanced upon a good fellow, He would instruct him never to have awe, In such a case, of the archdeacon's curse, Except a man's soul lie within his purse; For in his purse the man should punished be. "The purse is the archdeacon's Hell," said he. But well I know he lied in what he said; A curse ought every guilty man to dread (For curse can kill, as absolution save), And 'ware significavit to the grave. In his own power had he, and at ease, The boys and girls of all the diocese, And knew their secrets, and by counsel led. A garland had he set upon his head, Large as a tavern's wine-bush on a stake; A buckler had he made of bread they bake. With him there rode a gentle pardoner Of Rouncival, his friend and his compeer; Straight from the court of Rome had journeyed he. Loudly he sang "Come hither, love, to me," The summoner joining with a burden round; Was never horn of half so great a sound.

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This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax, But lank it hung as does a strike of flax; In wisps hung down such locks as he'd on head, And with them he his shoulders overspread; But thin they dropped, and stringy, one by one. But as to hood, for sport of it, he'd none, Though it was packed in wallet all the while. It seemed to him he went in latest style, Dishevelled, save for cap, his head all bare. As shiny eyes he had as has a hare. He had a fine veronica sewed to cap. His wallet lay before him in his lap, Stuffed full of pardons brought from Rome all hot. A voice he had that bleated like a goat. No beard had he, nor ever should he have, For smooth his face as he'd just had a shave; I think he was a gelding or a mare. But in his craft, from Berwick unto Ware, Was no such pardoner in any place. For in his bag he had a pillowcase The which, he said, was Our True Lady's veil: He said he had a piece of the very sail That good Saint Peter had, what time he went Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent. He had a latten cross set full of stones, And in a bottle had he some pig's bones. But with these relics, when he came upon Some simple parson, then this paragon In that one day more money stood to gain Than the poor dupe in two months could attain. And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes, He made the parson and the rest his apes. But yet, to tell the whole truth at the last, He was, in church, a fine ecclesiast. Well could he read a lesson or a story, But best of all he sang an offertory; For well he knew that when that song was sung, Then might he preach, and all with polished tongue. To win some silver, as he right well could; Therefore he sang so merrily and so loud. PROLOGUE

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Now have I told you briefly, in a clause, The state, the array, the number, and the cause Of the assembling of this company In Southwark, at this noble hostelry Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell. But now the time is come wherein to tell How all we bore ourselves that very night When at the hostelry we did alight. And afterward the story I engage To tell you of our common pilgrimage. But first, I pray you, of your courtesy, You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity Though I speak plainly of this matter here, Retailing you their words and means of cheer; Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie. For this thing do you know as well as I: When one repeats a tale told by a man, He must report, as nearly as he can, Every least word, if he remember it, However rude it be, or how unfit; Or else he may be telling what's untrue, Embellishing and fictionizing too. He may not spare, although it were his brother; He must as well say one word as another. Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ, And, you know well, there's nothing low in it. And Plato says, to those able to read: "The word should be the cousin to the deed." Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me If I have not set folk, in their degree Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand. My wits are not the best, you'll understand. Great cheer our host gave to us, every one, And to the supper set us all anon; And served us then with victuals of the best. Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest. A seemly man our good host was, withal, Fit to have been a marshal in some hall; He was a large man, with protruding eyes, As fine a burgher as in Cheapside lies; Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,

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And as to manhood, lacking there in naught. Also, he was a very merry man, And after meat, at playing he began, Speaking of mirth among some other things, When all of us had paid our reckonings; And saying thus: "Now masters, verily You are all welcome here, and heartily: For by my truth, and telling you no lie, I have not seen, this year, a company Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now. Fain would I make you happy, knew I how. And of a game have I this moment thought To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught. "You go to Canterbury; may God speed And the blest martyr soon requite your meed. And well I know, as you go on your way, You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play; For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none, Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone; And therefore will I furnish you a sport, As I just said, to give you some comfort. And if you like it, all, by one assent, And will be ruled by me, of my judgment, And will so do as I'll proceed to say, Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way, Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead, If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head. Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak." Our full assenting was not far to seek; We thought there was no reason to think twice, And granted him his way without advice, And bade him tell his verdict just and wise, "Masters," quoth he, "here now is my advice; But take it not, I pray you, in disdain; This is the point, to put it short and plain, That each of you, beguiling the long day, Shall tell two stories as you wend your way To Canterbury town; and each of you On coming home, shall tell another two, All of adventures he has known befall. And he who plays his part the best of all,

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That is to say, who tells upon the road Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode, Shall have a supper at the others' cost Here in this room and sitting by this post, When we come back again from Canterbury. And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry, I will myself, and gladly, with you ride At my own cost, and I will be your guide. But whosoever shall my rule gainsay Shall pay for all that's bought along the way. And if you are agreed that it be so, Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no, And I will act accordingly. No more." This thing was granted, and our oaths we swore, With right glad hearts, and prayed of him, also, That he would take the office, nor forgo The place of governor of all of us, Judging our tales; and by his wisdom thus Arrange that supper at a certain price, We to be ruled, each one, by his advice In things both great and small; by one assent, We stood committed to his government. And thereupon, the wine was fetched anon; We drank, and then to rest went every one, And that without a longer tarrying. Next morning, when the day began to spring, Up rose our host, and acting as our cock, He gathered us together in a flock, And forth we rode, a jog-trot being the pace, Until we reached Saint Thomas' watering-place. And there our host pulled horse up to a walk, And said: "Now, masters, listen while I talk. You know what you agreed at set of sun. If even-song and morning-song are one, Let's here decide who first shall tell a tale. And as I hope to drink more wine and ale, Whoso proves rebel to my government Shall pay for all that by the way is spent. Come now, draw cuts, before we farther win, And he that draws the shortest shall begin. Sir knight," said he, "my master and my lord,

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You shall draw first as you have pledged your word. Come near," quoth he, "my lady prioress: And you, sir clerk, put by your bashfulness, Nor ponder more; out hands, flow, every man!" At once to draw a cut each one began, And, to make short the matter, as it was, Whether by chance or whatsoever cause, The truth is, that the cut fell to the knight, At which right happy then was every wight. Thus that his story first of all he'd tell, According to the compact, it befell, As you have heard. Why argue to and fro? And when this good man saw that it was so, Being a wise man and obedient To plighted word, given by free assent, He slid: "Since I must then begin the game, Why, welcome be the cut, and in God's name! Now let us ride, and hearken what I say." And at that word we rode forth on our way; And he began to speak, with right good cheer, His tale anon, as it is written here.

HERE ENDS THE PROLOGUE OF THIS BOOK AND HERE BEGINS THE FIRST TALE, WHICH IS THE KNIGHT'S TALE

The Pardoner`s Tale

In Flanders, once, there was a company Of young companions given to folly, Riot and gambling, brothels and taverns; And, to the music of harps, lutes, gitterns, They danced and played at dice both day and night. And ate also and drank beyond their might, Whereby they made the devil's sacrifice Within that devil's temple, wicked wise, By superfluity both vile and vain. So damnable their oaths and so profane That it was terrible to hear them swear; Our Blessed Saviour's Body did they tear; They thought the Jews had rent Him not enough;

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And each of them at others' sins would laugh. Then entered dancing-girls of ill repute, Graceful and slim, and girls who peddled fruit, Harpers and bawds and women selling cake, Who do their office for the Devil's sake, To kindle and blow the fire of lechery, Which is so closely joined with gluttony; I call on holy writ, now, to witness That lust is in all wine and drunkenness. Lo, how the drunken Lot unnaturally Lay with his daughters two, unwittingly; So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought. Herod, as in his story's clearly taught, When full of wine and merry at a feast, Sitting at table idly gave behest To slay John Baptist, who was all guiltless. Seneca says a good word too, doubtless; He says there is no difference he can find Between a man that's quite out of his mind And one that's drunken, save perhaps in this That when a wretch in madness fallen is, The state lasts longer than does drunkenness. O gluttony; full of all wickedness, O first cause of confusion to us all, Beginning of damnation and our fall, Till Christ redeemed us with His blood again! Behold how dearly, to be brief and plain, Was purchased this accursed villainy; Corrupt was all this world with gluttony! Adam our father, and his wife also, From Paradise to labour and to woe Were driven for that vice, no doubt; indeed The while that Adam fasted, as I read, He was in Paradise; but then when he Ate of the fruit forbidden of the tree, Anon he was cast out to woe and pain. O gluttony, of you we may complain! Oh, knew a man how many maladies Follow on excess and on gluttonies, Surely he would be then more moderate In diet, and at table more sedate.

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Alas! The throat so short, the tender mouth, Causing that east and west and north and south, In earth, in air, in water men shall swink To get a glutton dainty meat and drink! Of this same matter Paul does wisely treat: Meat for the belly and belly for the meat: And both shall God destroy, as Paul does say. Alas! A foul thing is it, by my fay, To speak this word, and fouler is the deed, When man so guzzles of the white and red That of his own throat makes he his privy, Because of this cursed superfluity. The apostle, weeping, says most piteously: For many walk, of whom I've told you, aye, Weeping I tell you once again they're dross, For they are foes of Christ and of the Cross, Whose end is death, whose belly is their god. O gut! O belly! O you stinking cod, Filled full of dung, with all corruption found! At either end of you foul is the sound. With how great cost and labour do they find Your food! These cooks, they pound and strain and grind; Substance to accident they turn with fire, All to fulfill your gluttonous desire! Out of the hard and riven bones knock they The marrow, for they throw nothing away That may go through the gullet soft and sweet; With spicery, with leaf, bark, root, replete Shall be the sauces made for your delight, To furnish you a sharper appetite. But truly, he that such delights entice Is dead while yet he wallows in this vice. A lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness Is full of striving and of wretchedness. O drunken man, disfigured is your face, Sour is your breath, foul are you to embrace, And through your drunken nose there comes a sound As if you snored out Samson, Samson round; And yet God knows that Samson drank no wine. You fall down just as if you were stuck swine; Your tongue is loose, your honest care obscure;

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For drunkenness is very sepulture Of any mind a man may chance to own. In whom strong drink has domination shown He can no counsel keep for any dread. Now keep you from the white and from the red, And specially from the white wine grown at Lepe That is for sale in Fish Street or in Cheap. This wine of Spain, it mixes craftily With other wines that chance to be near by, From which there rise such fumes, as well may be, That when a man has drunk two draughts, or three, And thinks himself to be at home in Cheap, He finds that he's in Spain, and right at Lepe,- Not at Rochelle nor yet at Bordeaux town, And then will he snore out Samson, Samson. But hearken, masters, one word more I pray: The greatest deeds of all, I'm bold to say, Of victories in the old testament, Through the True God, Who is omnipotent, Were gained by abstinence and after prayer: Look in the Bible, you may learn this there. Lo, Attila, the mighty conqueror, Died in his sleep, in shame and dishonour, And bleeding at the nose for drunkenness; A great captain should live in soberness. Above all this, advise yourself right well What was commanded unto Lemuel- Not Samuel, but Lemuel, say I- The Bible's words you cannot well deny: Drinking by magistrates is called a vice. No more of this, for it may well suffice. And now that I have told of gluttony, I'll take up gambling, showing you thereby The curse of chance, and all its evils treat; From it proceeds false swearing and deceit, Blaspheming, murder, and- what's more- the waste Of time and money; add to which, debased And shamed and lost to honour quite is he, Who once a common gambler's known to be. And ever the higher one is of estate, The more he's held disgraced and desolate.

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And if a prince plays similar hazardry In all his government and policy, He loses in the estimate of men His good repute, and finds it not again. Chilon, who was a wise ambassador, Was sent to Corinth, all in great honour, From Lacedaemon, to make alliance. And when he came, he noticed there, by chance, All of the greatest people of the land Playing at hazard there on every hand. Wherefore, and all as soon as it might be, He stole off home again to his country, And said: I will not thus debase my name; Nor will I take upon me so great shame You to ally with common hazarders. Send, if you will, other ambassadors; For, my truth, I say I'd rather die Than you with gamblers like to them ally. For you that are so glorious in honours Shall never ally yourselves with hazarders By my consent, or treaty I have made. This wise philosopher, 'twas thus he said. Let us look, then, at King Demetrius. The king of Parthia, as the book tells us, Sent him a pair of golden dice, in scorn, Because the name of gambler he had borne; Wherefore he marked his reputation down As valueless despite his wide renown. Great lords may find sufficient other play Seemly enough to while the time away. Now will I speak of oaths both false and great A word or two, whereof the old books treat. Great swearing is a thing abominable, And vain oaths yet more reprehensible. The High God did forbid swearing at all, As witness Matthew; but in especial Of swearing says the holy Jeremiah, Thou shalt not swear in vain, to be a liar, But swear in judgment and in righteousness; But idle swearing is a wickedness. Behold, in the first table of the Law,

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That should be honoured as High God's, sans flaw, This second one of His commandments plain: Thou shalt not take the Lord God's name in vain. Nay, sooner He forbids us such swearing Than homicide or many a wicked thing; I say that, as to order, thus it stands; 'Tis known by him who His will understands That the great second law of God is that. Moreover, I will tell you full and flat, That retribution will not quit his house Who in his swearing is too outrageous. By God's own precious heart, and by His nails, And by the blood of Christ that's now at Hales, Seven is my chance, and yours is five and trey! By God's good arms, if you do falsely play, This dagger through your heart I'll stick for you! Such is the whelping of the bitched bones two: Perjury, anger, cheating, homicide. Now for the love of Christ, Who for us died, Forgo this swearing oaths, both great and small; But, sirs, now will I tell to you my tale. Now these three roisterers, whereof I tell, Long before prime was rung by any bell, Were sitting in a tavern for to drink; And as they sat they heard a small bell clink Before a corpse being carried to his grave; Whereat one of them called unto his knave: Go run, said he, and ask them civilly What corpse it is that's just now passing by, And see that you report the man's name well. Sir, said the boy, it needs not that they tell. I learned it, ere you came here, full two hours; He was, by gad, an old comrade of yours; And he was slain, all suddenly, last night, When drunk, as he sat on his bench upright; An unseen thief, called Death, came stalking by, Who hereabouts makes all the people die, And with his spear he clove his heart in two And went his way and made no more ado. He's slain a thousand with this pestilence; And, master, ere you come in his presence,

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It seems to me to be right necessary To be forewarned of such an adversary: Be ready to meet him for evermore. My mother taught me this, I say no more. By holy Mary, said the innkeeper, The boy speaks truth, for Death has slain, this year, A mile or more hence, in a large village, Both man and woman, child and hind and page. I think his habitation must be there; To be advised of him great wisdom 'twere, Before he did a man some dishonour. Yea, by God's arms! exclaimed this roisterer, Is it such peril, then, this Death to meet? I'll seek him in the road and in the street, As I now vow to God's own noble bones! Hear, comrades, we're of one mind, as each owns; Let each of us hold up his hand to other And each of us become the other's brother, And we three will go slay this traitor Death; He shall be slain who's stopped so many a breath, By God's great dignity, ere it be night. Together did these three their pledges plight To live and die, each of them for the other, As if he were his very own blood brother. And up they started, drunken, in this rage, And forth they went, and towards that village Whereof the innkeeper had told before. And so, with many a grisly oath, they swore And Jesus' blessed body once more rent- Death shall be dead if we find where he went. When they had gone not fully half a mile, Just as they would have trodden over a stile, An old man, and a poor, with them did meet. This ancient man full meekly them did greet, And said thus: Now, lords, God keep you and see!' The one that was most insolent of these three Replied to him: What? Churl of evil grace, Why are you all wrapped up, except your face? Why do you live so long in so great age? This ancient man looked upon his visage And thus replied: Because I cannot find

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A man, nay, though I walked from here to Ind, Either in town or country who'll engage To give his youth in barter for my age; And therefore must I keep my old age still, As long a time as it shall be God's will. Not even Death, alas! my life will take; Thus restless I my wretched way must make, And on the ground, which is my mother's gate, I knock with my staff early, aye, and late, And cry: 'O my dear mother, let me in! Lo, how I'm wasted, flesh and blood and skin! Alas! When shall my bones come to their rest? Mother, with you fain would I change my chest, That in my chamber so long time has been, Aye! For a haircloth rag to wrap me in!' But yet to me she will not show that grace, And thus all pale and withered is my face. But, sirs, in you it is no courtesy To speak to an old man despitefully, Unless in word he trespass or in deed. In holy writ you may, yourselves, well read 'Before an old man, hoar upon the head, You should arise.' Which I advise you read, Nor to an old man any injury do More than you would that men should do to you In age, if you so long time shall abide; And God be with you, whether you walk or ride. I must pass on now where I have to go. Nay, ancient churl, by God it sha'n't be so, Cried out this other hazarder, anon; You sha'n't depart so easily, by Saint John! You spoke just now of that same traitor Death, Who in this country stops our good friends' breath. Hear my true word, since you are his own spy, Tell where he is or you shall rue it, aye By God and by the holy Sacrament! Indeed you must be, with this Death, intent To slay all us young people, you false thief. Now, sirs, said he, if you're so keen, in brief, To find out Death, turn up this crooked way, For in that grove I left him, by my fay,

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Under a tree, and there he will abide; Nor for your boasts will he a moment hide. See you that oak? Right there you shall him find. God save you, Who redeemed all humankind, And mend your ways!- thus said this ancient man. And every one of these three roisterers ran Till he came to that tree; and there they found, Of florins of fine gold, new-minted, round, Well-nigh eight bushels full, or so they thought. No longer, then, after this Death they sought, But each of them so glad was of that sight, Because the florins were so fair and bright, That down they all sat by this precious hoard. The worst of them was first to speak a word. Brothers, said he, take heed to what I say; My wits are keen, although I mock and play. This treasure here Fortune to us has given That mirth and jollity our lives may liven, And easily as it's come, so will we spend. Eh! By God's precious dignity! Who'd pretend, Today, that we should have so fair a grace? But might this gold be carried from this place Home to my house, or if you will, to yours- For well we know that all this gold is ours- Then were we all in high felicity. But certainly by day this may not be; For men would say that we were robbers strong, And we'd, for our own treasure, hang ere long. This treasure must be carried home by night All prudently and slyly, out of sight. So I propose that cuts among us all Be drawn, and let's see where the cut will fall; And he that gets the short cut, blithe of heart Shall run to town at once, and to the mart, And fetch us bread and wine here, privately. And two of us shall guard, right cunningly, This treasure well; and if he does not tarry, When it is night we'll all the treasure carry Where, by agreement, we may think it best. That one of them the cuts brought in his fist And bade them draw to see where it might fall;

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And it fell on the youngest of them all; And so, forth toward the town he went anon. And just as soon as he had turned and gone, That one of them spoke thus unto the other: You know well that you are my own sworn brother, So to your profit I will speak anon. You know well how our comrade is just gone; And here is gold, and that in great plenty, That's to be parted here among us three. Nevertheless, if I can shape it so That it be parted only by us two, Shall I not do a turn that is friendly? The other said: Well, now, how can that be? He knows well that the gold is with us two. What shall we say to him? What shall we do? Shall it be secret? asked the first rogue, then, And I will tell you in eight words, or ten, What we must do, and how bring it about. Agreed, replied the other, Never doubt, That, on my word, I nothing will betray. Now, said the first, we're two, and I dare say The two of us are stronger than is one. Watch when he sits, and soon as that is done Arise and make as if with him to play; And I will thrust him through the two sides, yea, The while you romp with him as in a game, And with your dagger see you do the same; And then shall all this gold divided be, My right dear friend, just between you and me; Then may we both our every wish fulfill And play at dice all at our own sweet will. And thus agreed were these two rogues, that day, To slay the third, as you have heard me say. This youngest rogue who'd gone into the town, Often in fancy rolled he up and down The beauty of those florins new and bright. O Lord, thought he, if so be that I might Have all this treasure to myself alone, There is no man who lives beneath the throne Of God that should be then so merry as I. And at the last the Fiend, our enemy,

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Put in his thought that he should poison buy With which he might kill both his fellows; aye, The Devil found him in such wicked state, He had full leave his grief to consummate; For it was utterly the man's intent To kill them both and never to repent. And on he strode, no longer would he tarry, Into the town, to an apothecary, And prayed of him that he'd prepare and sell Some poison for his rats, and some as well For a polecat that in his yard had lain, The which, he said, his capons there had slain, And fain he was to rid him, if he might, Of vermin that thus damaged him by night. The apothecary said: And you shall have A thing of which, so God my spirit save, In all this world there is no live creature That's eaten or has drunk of this mixture As much as equals but a grain of wheat, That shall not sudden death thereafter meet; Yea, die he shall, and in a shorter while Than you require to walk but one short mile; This poison is so violent and strong. This wicked man the poison took along With him boxed up, and then he straightway ran Into the street adjoining, to a man, And of him borrowed generous bottles three; And into two his poison then poured he; The third one he kept clean for his own drink. For all that night he was resolved to swink In carrying the florins from that place. And when this roisterer, with evil grace, Had filled with wine his mighty bottles three, Then to his comrades forth again went he. What is the need to tell about it more? For just as they had planned his death before, Just so they murdered him, and that anon. And when the thing was done, then spoke the one: Now let us sit and drink and so be merry, And afterward we will his body bury. And as he spoke, one bottle of the three

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He took wherein the poison chanced to be And drank and gave his comrade drink also, For which, and that anon, lay dead these two. I feel quite sure that Doctor Avicena Within the sections of his Canon never Set down more certain signs of poisoning Than showed these wretches two at their ending. Thus ended these two homicides in woe; Died thus the treacherous poisoner also. O cursed sin, full of abominableness! O treacherous homicide! O wickedness! O gluttony, lechery, and hazardry! O blasphemer of Christ with villainy, And with great oaths, habitual for pride! Alas! Mankind, how may this thing betide That to thy dear Creator, Who thee wrought, And with His precious blood salvation bought, Thou art so false and so unkind, alas! Now, good men, God forgive you each trespass, And keep you from the sin of avarice. My holy pardon cures and will suffice, So that it brings me gold, or silver brings, Or else, I care not- brooches, spoons or rings. Bow down your heads before this holy bull! Come up, you wives, and offer of your wool! Your names I'll enter on my roll, anon, And into Heaven's bliss you'll go, each one. For I'll absolve you, by my special power, You that make offering, as clean this hour As you were born. And lo, sirs, thus I preach. And Jesus Christ, who is our souls' great leech, So grant you each his pardon to receive; For that is best; I will not you deceive. But, sirs, one word forgot I in my tale; I've relics in my pouch that cannot fail, As good as England ever saw, I hope, The which I got by kindness of the pope. If gifts your change of heart and mind reveal, You'll get my absolution while you kneel. Come forth, and kneel down here before, anon, And humbly you'll receive my full pardon;

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Or else receive a pardon as you wend, All new and fresh as every mile shall end, So that you offer me each time, anew, More gold and silver, all good coins and true. It is an honour to each one that's here That you may have a competent pardoner To give you absolution as you ride, For all adventures that may still betide. Perchance from horse may fall down one or two, Breaking his neck, and it might well be you. See what insurance, then, it is for all That I within your fellowship did fall, Who may absolve you, both the great and less, When soul from body passes, as I guess. I think our host might just as well begin, For he is most-enveloped in all sin. Come forth, sir host, and offer first anon, And you shall kiss the relics, every one, Aye, for a groat! Unbuckle now your purse. Nay, nay, said he, then may I have Christ's curse! It sha'n't be, said he, as I've hope for riches, Why, you would have me kissing your old breeches, And swear they were the relics of a saint, Though with your excrement 'twere dabbed like paint. By cross Saint Helen found in Holy Land, I would I had your ballocks in my hand Instead of relics in a reliquary; Let's cut them off, and them I'll help you carry; They shall be shrined within a hog's fat turd. This pardoner, he answered not a word; So wrathy was he no word would he say. Now, said our host, I will no longer play With you, nor any other angry man. But at this point the worthy knight began, When that he saw how all the folk did laugh: No more of this, for it's gone far enough; Sir pardoner, be glad and merry here; And you, sir host, who are to me so dear, I pray you that you kiss the pardoner. And, pardoner, I pray you to draw near, And as we did before, let's laugh and play.

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And then they kissed and rode forth on their way.

Prologue to the Pardoner's Tale:

The Host thinks that the cause of Virginia's death in the previous tale was her beauty. To counter the sadness of the tale, the Host suggests that the Pardoner tell a lighter tale. The Pardoner delays, for he wants to finish his meal, but says that he shall tell a moral tale. He says that he will tell a tale with this moral: the love of money is the root of all evil. He claims that during his sermons he shows useless trifles that he passes off as saints' relics. He proudly tells about how he defrauds people who believed they have sinned. He states explicitly that his goal is not to save people from sin, but to gain money from them. The Pardoner says that he will not imitate the apostles in their poverty, but will have food, comfort, and a wench in every town.

Analysis

Among the various pilgrims featured in the Canterbury Tales, the Pardoner is one of the most fully realized characters. The only character to whom Chaucer gives greater detail is the Wife of Bath. The Pardoner is a fraudulent huckster who shows no qualms about passing off false items as the relics of saints, but he also demonstrates a great sense of self-loathing. The Pardoner shifts from moments of direct honesty to shameless deceit, openly admitting the tricks of his trade to the travelers but nevertheless attempting to use these various methods on these travelers who are aware of his schemes. The Pardoner is in many senses a warped character, unable to hold to any consistent code of moral behavior. Even in his physicality he is deformed. The General Prologue, suggesting that the Pardoner resembles a 'gelding or a mare,' hints that the Pardoner may be a congenital eunuch or, taken less literally, that he is a homosexual. In his deformity the Pardoner becomes a shell of a person. Although he is one of the most developed characters, he is the character perhaps most defined by his profession. The Pardoner has substituted a system of values with a rote performance, which conforms to his profession, which substitutes a meaningless monetary transaction for penance for sin. The Pardoner therefore suggests a traditional Vice character who behaves strictly out of the most impure motives, but where he departs from vice characters, who shamelessly commit misdeeds for their own pleasure, is that he lacks the necessary amoral quality. The Pardoner is not a moral man, but he nevertheless has a moral system to which he most certainly does not adhere.

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The Pardoner's Tale:

There once lived in Flanders a group of three rioters who did nothing but engage in irresponsible and sinful behavior. They were blasphemous drunkards who, while in a tavern one night, witnessed men carrying a corpse to its grave. A boy told the rioters that the dead man was one of their friends, slain by an unseen thief called Death. They remark that Death has slain thousands, and vow to slay Death themselves. The three drunken men go off to find Death, but only come across an ancient man shrouded in robes. He claims that Death will not take him, and says that they can find Death underneath a nearby oak tree. When they found the tree they only found bushels of gold. They decide to take the treasure and divide it evenly, but realize that if they immediate went into town with it they would be presumed robbers. They therefore draw lots; the one with the shortest straw shall go into town and fetch food and drink for them. They shall stay in the forest with the gold until they can leave in the middle of the night. The youngest drew the shortest lot and was sent into town. The two that remain decide to murder the third once he returns, for they would then be able to divide the gold by two instead of three. However, while the third rioter was in town, he bought poison from an apothecary which he poured into the wine bottle. When he returned, the two rioters stabbed the third, murdering him. They then drank the poisoned wine and died themselves. The Pardoner interrupts the end of his tale with a diatribe against the sin of avarice, then launches into a sermon in which he attempts to sell relics to the other travelers. The Host argues with him, telling him that the only relic he would want from the Pardoner is his testicles enclosed in a hog's turd. The knight mediates the conflict.

Analysis:

The Pardoner's Tale is a direct extension of the personality of the narrator, an overtly moralistic tale that serves primarily to elicit a specific response. It is a particularly shameless tale, a condemnation of avarice that stems from the avarice of its narrator; by condemning the sin, the Pardoner hopes to motivate the travelers to pay the Pardoner to absolve their sins. The character of the Pardoner is omnipresent throughout the tale, which is told in an intimidating oratorical style that intends to create a sense of horror at the consequences for sinful action. Throughout the tale the narrator drifts in and out from the story, as the Pardoner occasionally leaves the plot of the tale to launch into sermons against sin. Finally, at the conclusion of the tale, he reveals the rationale for this authorial intervention, preaching against avarice for the sole intention of selling phony relics to the travelers. The tale is thus less of a fully formed

128 The Pilgrim’s Progress narrative than a performance given by the Pardoner in which he never submerges his presence in the story. The importance of the narrator is reflected in the relative unimportance of the characters in the story. The three rioters are anonymous hoodlums to whom the narrator gives no distinctive characteristics. The one distinction that the Pardoner makes among the three is that the rioter who is sent for food and drink is younger than the other two. Their characteristics are uniformly negative, but relatively broad they are avaricious, but also drunkards and murderers, which gives the Pardoner opportunity to condemn a vast array of sins. The old man that points the rioters in the direction of death is the single developed character in the story, a grotesque figure who waits to die out of extreme weariness for life. When he tells the rioters that he wishes to die, he claims that he walks on the ground, his 'mother's gate,' and asks to return to the earth (in the form of a decayed corpse). This conforms to the idea of rebirth, as the old man asks to return to the earth (his mother's womb) presumably to be born once again. However, for the old man this is only his second choice. He would prefer to exchange bodies with a young man, but can find no man willing to trade. He suffers the misery of a man who does sees no hope for redemption. He does not consider the possibility of heaven and Christian redemption, but rather adheres to ideas of earthly reincarnation. Quite significantly, this is the only expression of any spirituality contained in the Pardoner's Tale. The Pardoner has little concern with actual religious matters and makes no real reference to Christianity. His concern is money, and the Christian religion is only the means to achieve this end. The Tale itself is a relatively simplistic moral fable that hinges on the distinctions between literal and figurative language. The initial personification of death that the young child uses as a metaphor and euphemism leads to the actual physical manifestation of Death as a tangible object: the piles of gold that the three rioters find. The plot of the tale derives from the rioters' literal interpretation of euphemism since death has taken their friend, they must find death. This personification of death finally becomes metaphor once again when the piles of gold represent the death that they find.

…………………………………………………………. 3. THE RENAISSANCE (1500-1625)

- the love lyrics (Wyatt: The long love; Surrey: Alas, so all things)

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Robert Huntington Fletcher

WYATT AND SURREY AND THE NEW POETRY

In the literature of fine art also the new beginning was made during the reign of Henry VIII. This was through the introduction by Sir Thomas Wyatt of the Italian fashion of lyric poetry. Wyatt, a man of gentle birth, entered Cambridge at the age of twelve and received his degree of M. A. seven years later. His mature life was that of a courtier to whom the king's favor brought high appointments, with such vicissitudes of fortune, including occasional imprisonments, as formed at that time a common part of the courtier's lot. Wyatt, however, was not a merely worldly person, but a Protestant seemingly of high and somewhat severe moral character. He died in 1542 at the age of thirty-nine of a fever caught as he was hastening, at the king's command, to meet and welcome the Spanish ambassador.

On one of his missions to the Continent, Wyatt, like Chaucer, had visited Italy. Impressed with the beauty of Italian verse and the contrasting rudeness of that of contemporary England, he determined to remodel the latter in the style of the former. Here a brief historical retrospect is necessary. The Italian poetry of the sixteenth century had itself been originally an imitation, namely of the poetry of Provence in Southern France. There, in the twelfth century, under a delightful climate and in a region of enchanting beauty, had arisen a luxurious civilization whose poets, the troubadours, many of them men of noble birth, had carried to the furthest extreme the woman-worship of medieval chivalry and had enshrined it in lyric poetry of superb and varied sweetness and beauty. In this highly conventionalized poetry the lover is forever sighing for his lady, a correspondingly obdurate being whose favor is to be won only by years of the most unqualified and unreasoning devotion. From Provence, Italy had taken up the style, and among the other forms for its expression, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, had devised the poem of a single fourteen-line stanza which we call the sonnet. The whole movement had found its great master in Petrarch, who, in hundreds of poems, mostly sonnets, of perfect beauty, had sung the praises and cruelty of his nearly imaginary Laura.

It was this highly artificial but very beautiful poetic fashion which Wyatt deliberately set about to introduce into England. The nature and success of his innovation can be summarized in a few definite statements.

1. Imitating Petrarch, Wyatt nearly limits himself as regards substance to the treatment of the artificial love-theme, lamenting the unkindness of ladies who very probably never existed and whose favor in any case he probably regarded very lightly; yet even so, he often strikes a manly English note of independence, declaring that if the lady continues obstinate he will not die for her love.

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2. Historically much the most important feature of Wyatt's experiment was the introduction of the sonnet, a very substantial service indeed; for not only did this form, like the love-theme, become by far the most popular one among English lyric poets of the next two generations, setting a fashion which was carried to an astonishing excess; but it is the only artificial form of foreign origin which has ever been really adopted and naturalized in English, and it still remains the best instrument for the terse expression of a single poetic thought. Wyatt, it should be observed, generally departs from the Petrarchan rime-scheme, on the whole unfortunately, by substituting a third quatrain for the first four lines of the sestet. That is, while Petrarch's rime-arrangement is either a b b a a b b a c d c d c d or a b b a a b b a c d e c d e Wyatt's is usually a b b a a b b a c d d c e e. 3. In his attempted reformation of English metrical irregularity Wyatt, in his sonnets, shows only the uncertain hand of a beginner. He generally secures an equal number of syllables in each line, but he often merely counts them off on his fingers, wrenching the accents all awry, and often violently forcing the rimes as well. In his songs, however, which are much more numerous than the sonnets, he attains delightful fluency and melody. His 'My Lute, Awake,' and 'Forget Not Yet' are still counted among the notable English lyrics. 4. A particular and characteristic part of the conventional Italian lyric apparatus which Wyatt transplanted was the 'conceit.' A conceit may be defined as an exaggerated figure of speech or play on words in which intellectual cleverness figures at least as largely as real emotion and which is often dragged out to extremely complicated lengths of literal application. An example is Wyatt's declaration (after Petrarch) that his love, living in his heart, advances to his face and there encamps, displaying his banner (which merely means that the lover blushes with his emotion). In introducing the conceit Wyatt fathered the most conspicuous of the superficial general features which were to dominate English poetry for a century to come. 5. Still another, minor, innovation of Wyatt was the introduction into English verse of the Horatian 'satire' (moral poem, reflecting on current follies) in the form of three metrical letters to friends. In these the meter is the terza rima of Dante.

Wyatt's work was continued by his poetical disciple and successor, Henry Howard, who, as son of the Duke of Norfolk, held the courtesy title of Earl of Surrey. A brilliant though wilful representative of Tudor chivalry, and distinguished in war, Surrey seems to have occupied at Court almost the same commanding position as Sir Philip Sidney in the following generation. His career was cut short in tragically ironical fashion at the age of thirty by the plots of his enemies and the dying bloodthirstiness of King Henry, which together led to his execution on a trumped-up charge of treason. It was only one of countless brutal court crimes, but it seems the more hateful because if the king had died a single day earlier Surrey could have been saved.

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Surrey's services to poetry were two:

1. He improved on the versification of Wyatt's sonnets, securing fluency and smoothness. 2. In a translation of two books of Vergil's 'Aneid' he introduced, from the Italian, pentameter blank verse, which was destined thenceforth to be the meter of English poetic drama and of much of the greatest English non-dramatic poetry. Further, though his poems are less numerous than those of Wyatt, his range of subjects is somewhat broader, including some appreciative treatment of external Nature. He seems, however, somewhat less sincere than his teacher. In his sonnets he abandoned the form followed by Wyatt and adopted (still from the Italian) the one which was subsequently used by Shakespeare, consisting of three independent quatrains followed, as with Wyatt, by a couplet which sums up the thought with epigrammatic force, thus: a b a b c d c d e f e f g g.

Wyatt and Surrey set a fashion at Court; for some years it seems to have been an almost necessary accomplishment for every young noble to turn off love poems after Italian and French models; for France too had now taken up the fashion. These poems were generally and naturally regarded as the property of the Court and of the gentry, and circulated at first only in manuscript among the author's friends; but the general public became curious about them, and in 1557 one of the publishers of the day, Richard Tottel, securing a number of those of Wyatt, Surrey, and a few other noble or gentle authors, published them in a little volume, which is known as

'Tottel's Miscellany.' Coming as it does in the year before the accession of Queen Elizabeth, at the end of the comparatively barren reigns of Edward and Mary, this book is taken by common consent as marking the beginning of the literature of the Elizabethan period. It was the premature predecessor, also, of a number of such anthologies which were published during the latter half of Elizabeth's reign.

Thomas Wyatt

THE LOVER FOR SHAMEFASTNESS HIDETH HIS DESIRE WITHIN HIS FAITHFUL HEART.1

THE long love that in my thought I harbour, And in mine heart doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence, And therein campeth displaying his banner. She that me learneth to love and to suffer,

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And wills that my trust, and lust's negligence Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness takes displeasure. Wherewith love to the heart's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth, and not appeareth. What may I do, when my master feareth, But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life, ending faithfully.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey ALAS, SO ALL THINGS NOW DO HOLD THEIR PEACE

Alas, so all things now do hold their peace, Heaven and earth distrubed in no-thing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease, The nightes chair the stars about do bring. Calm is the sea: the waves work less and less; So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing In joy and woe as in a doubtful ease; For my sweet thoughts sometyime do pleasure bring, But by and by the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To love and lack the thing should rid my pain.

Drayton FAREWELL TO LOVE Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

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And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

- the sonnet (Sidney: Loving in truth, With how sad steps, O Moon, Come Sleep! O Sleep I on my horse, and Loue on me;)

Sir Philip Sidney, ASTROPHEL AND STELLA

Sonnet I Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,— I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe ; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay ; Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows, And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write.

Sonnet XXXI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

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Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?

Sonnet XXXIX Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw; O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

XLIX I on my horse, and Loue on me, doth trie Our horsemanships, while by strange worke I proue A horsman to my horse, a horse to Loue, And now mans wrongs in me, poor beast! descrie. The raines wherewith my rider doth me tie Are humbled thoughts, which bit of reuerence moue, Curb'd-in with feare, but with gilt bosse aboue Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye: The wand is will; thou, Fancie, saddle art, Girt fast by Memorie; and while I spurre My horse, he spurres with sharpe desire my hart. He sits me fast, howeuer I do sturre, And now hath made me to his hand so right, That in the manage my selfe take delight.

(Spenser, Sweet is the Rose, One day I wrote her name, Men call you fayre, Epithalamion: And ye high heavens (XXIII))

Edmund Spenser

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SONNET XXVI. Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the junipere, but sharpe his bough; sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough. Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough, sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; and sweet is Moly, but his root is ill. So every sweet with soure is tempred still, that maketh it be coveted the more: for easie things that may be got at will, most sorts of men doe set but little store. Why then should I account of little paine, that endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine.

SONNET LXXV. ONe day I wrote her name upon the strand, but came the waves and washed it a way: agayne I wrote it with a second hand, but came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay, a mortall thing so to immortalize. for I my self shall lyke to this decay, and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize. Not so, (quod I) let baser things devize, to dy in dust, but you shall live by fame: my verse your vertues rare shall eternize, and in the heavens wryte your glorious name. Where whenas death shall all the world subdew, our love shall live, and later life renew.

SONNET LXXIX. MEn call you fayre, and you doe credit it, For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see: but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit, and vertuous mind is much more praysd of me. For all the rest, how ever fayre it be, shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew: but onely that is permanent and free from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.

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That is true beautie: that doth argue you to be divine and borne of heavenly seed: deriv'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true and perfect beauty did at first proceed. He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made, all other fayre lyke flowres untymely fade.

EPITHALAMION And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods: In dreadful darknesse lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same remayne, More then we men can fayne, Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, And happy influence upon us raine, That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possesse, With lasting happinesse, Up to your haughty pallaces may mount, And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit May heauenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed Saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our tymely ioyes to sing, The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring.

(Shakespeare: Shall I compare thee, That time of year, Let me not, Two loves I have)) William Shakespeare XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:

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But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XX

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all ‘hues’ in his controlling, Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee,— and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate,; For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

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LXXIII

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov’d, I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d

CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name; But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame: For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,

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Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profan’d, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Sland’ring creation with a false esteem: Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXIX

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action: and till action, lust Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme; A bliss in proof,— and prov’d, a very woe; Before, a joy propos’d; behind a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red, than her lips red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go,— 140 The Pilgrim’s Progress

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’ And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex’d thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store; So thou, being rich in ‘Will,’ add to thy ‘Will’ One will of mine, to make thy large will more. Let no unkind ‘No’ fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one ‘Will.’

CXLIV

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The 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 foul pride. And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell: Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLVII

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My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, At random from the truth vainly express’d; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CLIV The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d; And so the general of hot desire Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove, Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love

- the drama (Shakespeare, Hamlet)

William Shakespeare

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Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Summary

Act I. Shakespeare's longest play and the play responsible for the immortal lines "To be or not to be: that is the question:" and the advise "to thine own self be true," begins in Denmark with the news that King Hamlet of Denmark has recently died. Denmark is now in a state of high alert and preparing for possible war with Young Fortinbras of Norway. A ghost resembling the late King Hamlet is spotted on a platform before Elsinore Castle in Denmark. King Claudius, who now rules Denmark, has taken King Hamlet's wife, Queen Gertrude as his new wife and Queen of Denmark. King Claudius fearing Young Fortinbras of Norway may invade, has sent ambassadors to Norway to urge the King of Norway to restrain Young Fortinbras. Young Hamlet distrusts King Claudius. The King and Queen do not understand why Hamlet still mourns his father's death over two months ago. In his first soliloquy, Hamlet explains that he does not like his mother marrying the next King of Denmark so quickly within a month of his father's death... Laertes, the son of Lord Chamberlain Polonius, gives his sister Ophelia some brotherly advice. He warns Ophelia not to fall in love with Young Hamlet; she will only be hurt. Polonius tells his daughter Ophelia not to return Hamlet's affections for her since he fears Hamlet is only using her... Hamlet meets the Ghost of his father, King Hamlet and follows it to learn more... Hamlet learns from King Hamlet's Ghost that he was poisoned by King Claudius, the current ruler of Denmark. The Ghost tells Hamlet to avenge his death but not to punish Queen Gertrude for remarrying; it is not Hamlet's place and her conscience and heaven will judge her... Hamlet swears Horatio and Marcellus to silence over Hamlet meeting the Ghost.

Act II.

Polonius tells Reynaldo to spy on his son Laertes in Paris. Polonius learns from his daughter Ophelia that a badly dressed Hamlet met her, studied her face and promptly left. Polonius believes that Hamlet's odd behavior is because Ophelia has rejected him. Polonius decides to tell King Claudius the reason for Hamlet's recently odd behavior.

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King Claudius instructs courtiers Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to find out what is causing Hamlet's strange "transformation," or change of character. Queen Gertrude reveals that only King Hamlet's death and her recent remarriage could be upsetting Hamlet. We learn more of Young Fortinbras' movements and Polonius has his own theory about Hamlet's transformation; it is caused by Hamlet's love for his daughter Ophelia. Hamlet makes his famous speech about the greatness of man. Hamlet plans to use a play to test if King Claudius really did kill his father as King Hamlet's Ghost told him...

Act III.

The King's spies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern report to King Claudius on Hamlet's behavior. Hamlet is eager for King Claudius and Queen Gertrude to watch a play tonight which Hamlet has added lines to. King Claudius and Polonius listen in on Hamlet's and Ophelia's private conversation. Hamlet suspects Ophelia is spying on him and is increasingly hostile to her before leaving. King Claudius decides to send Hamlet to England, fearing danger in Hamlet since he no longer believes Hamlet is merely lovesick. The King agrees to Polonius' plan to eavesdrop on Hamlet's conversation with his mother after the play to hopefully learn more from Hamlet. The play Hamlet had added lines to is performed. The mime preceding the play which mimics the Ghost's description of King Hamlet's death goes unnoticed. The main play called "The Murder of Gonzago" is performed, causing King Claudius to react in a way which convinces Hamlet that his uncle did indeed poison his father King Hamlet as the Ghost previously had told him... Hamlet pretends not to know that the play has offended King Claudius. Hamlet agrees to speak with his mother in private... King Claudius admits his growing fear of Hamlet and decides to send him overseas to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in order to protect himself. Alone, King Claudius reveals in soliloquy his own knowledge of the crime he has committed (poisoning King Hamlet) and realizes that he cannot escape divine justice... Queen Gertrude attempts to scold her son but Hamlet instead scolds his mother for her actions. Queen Gertrude cries out in fear, and Polonius echoes it and is stabbed through the arras (subdivision of a room created by a hanging tapestry) where he was listening in. Hamlet continues scolding his mother but the Ghost reappears, telling Hamlet to be gentle with the Queen. For her part, Queen Gertrude agrees to stop living with King Claudius, beginning her redemption....

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Act IV.

King Claudius speaks with his wife, Queen Gertrude. He learns of Polonius' murder which shocks him; it could easily have been him. Queen Gertrude lies for her son, saying that Hamlet is as mad as a tempestuous sea. King Claudius, now scared of Hamlet, decides to have Hamlet sent away to England immediately... He also sends courtiers and spies Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to speak with Hamlet to find out where Hamlet has hidden Polonius' body so they can take it to the chapel. Hamlet refuses to tell Rosencrantz and Guildenstern where Polonius' dead body is hidden. He calls Rosencrantz and Guildenstern lapdogs revealing his true awareness that they are not his friends. Hamlet agrees to see King Claudius. Hamlet continues to refuse to tell Rosencrantz and Guildenstern where Polonius' body is. Hamlet is brought before the King. The two exchange words, clearly circling each other, each aware that the other is a threat. Hamlet tells King Claudius where Polonius body is. King Claudius ominously tells Hamlet to leave for England supposedly for Hamlet's own safety. With Hamlet gone, King Claudius reveals his plans for Hamlet to be killed in England, freeing King Claudius from further worry from this threat... Young Fortinbras marches his army across Denmark to fight the Polish. Hamlet laments that he does not have in him the strength of Young Fortinbras, who will lead an army into pointless fighting, if only to maintain honor. Hamlet asks himself how he cannot fight for honor when his father has been killed and his mother made a whore in his eyes by becoming King Claudius' wife. The death of Polonius leaves its mark on Ophelia who becomes mad from the grief of losing her father. Laertes storms King Claudius' castle, demanding to see his father and wanting justice when he learns that his father, Polonius has been killed. King Claudius remains calm, telling Laertes that he too mourned his father's loss... Horatio is greeted by sailors who have news from Hamlet. Horatio follows the sailors to learn more... King Claudius explains to Laertes that Hamlet killed his father, Polonius. Deciding they have a common enemy, they plot Hamlet's death at a fencing match to be arranged between Laertes and Hamlet. Laertes learns of his sister Ophelia's death by drowning...

Act V.

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Hamlet and Horatio speak with a cheerful Clown or gravedigger. Hamlet famously realizes that man's accomplishments are transitory (fleeting) and holding the skull of Yorick, a childhood jester he remembered, creates a famous scene about man's insignificance and inability to control his fate following death. At Ophelia's burial, the Priest reveals a widely held belief that Ophelia committed suicide, angering Laertes. Hamlet fights Laertes over Ophelia's grave, angered by Laertes exaggerated emphasis of his sorrow and because he believes he loved Ophelia much more than her brother. Hamlet explains to Horatio how he avoided the death planned for him in England and had courtiers' Rosencrantz and Guildenstern put to death instead. Hamlet reveals his desire to kill King Claudius. Summoned by Osric to fence against Laertes, Hamlet arrives at a hall in the castle and fights Laertes. Queen Gertrude drinks a poisoned cup meant for Hamlet, dying but not before telling all that she has been poisoned. Hamlet wins the first two rounds against Laertes but is stabbed and poisoned fatally in the third round. Exchanging swords whilst fighting, Hamlet wounds and poisons Laertes who explains that his sword is poison tipped. Now dying, Hamlet stabs King Claudius with this same sword, killing him. Hamlet, dying, tells Horatio to tell his story and not to commit suicide. Hamlet recommends Young Fortinbras as the next King of Denmark. Young Fortinbras arrives, cleaning up the massacre. Horatio promises to tell all the story we have just witnessed, ending the play

A PLATFORM BEFORE THE CASTLE OF ELSINEUR. HAMLET, HORATIO, MARCELLUS, AND THE GHOST. ACT I. SCENE IV.

Dramatis Personae

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CLAUDIUS king of Denmark. HAMLET son to the late, and nephew to the present king. POLONIUS lord chamberlain. HORATIO friend to Hamlet. LAERTES son to Polonius. LUCIANUS nephew to the king. VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, OSRIC } courtiers. A Gentleman, A Priest. MARCELLUS, BERNARDO } officers. FRANCISCO a soldier. REYNALDO servant to Polonius. Players. Two Clowns, grave-diggers. FORTINBRAS prince of Norway. A Captain. English Ambassadors. GERTRUDE queen of Denmark, and mother to Hamlet. OPHELIA daughter to Polonius. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and other Attendants. Ghost of Hamlet's Father.

[Scene: Denmark.]

Act 1 Scene 1 [Elsinore. A platform before the castle.] [FRANCISCO at his post. Enter to him BERNARDO] BERNARDO Who's there? FRANCISCO Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself. BERNARDO Long live the king! FRANCISCO Bernardo? BERNARDO He. FRANCISCO

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You come most carefully upon your hour. BERNARDO 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco. FRANCISCO For this relief much thanks: 'tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. BERNARDO Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO Not a mouse stirring. BERNARDO Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. FRANCISCO I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who's there? [Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS] HORATIO Friends to this ground. MARCELLUS And liegemen to the Dane. FRANCISCO Give you good night. MARCELLUS O, farewell, honest soldier: Who hath relieved you? FRANCISCO Bernardo has my place. Give you good night. [Exit] MARCELLUS Holla! Bernardo! BERNARDO Say, What, is Horatio there? HORATIO A piece of him. BERNARDO Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?

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BERNARDO I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night; That if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it. HORATIO Tush, tush, 'twill not appear. BERNARDO Sit down awhile; And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story What we have two nights seen. HORATIO Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. BERNARDO Last night of all, When yond same star that's westward from the pole Had made his course to illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one, -- [Enter Ghost] MARCELLUS Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again! BERNARDO In the same figure, like the king that's dead. MARCELLUS Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. BERNARDO Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio. HORATIO Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder. BERNARDO It would be spoke to. MARCELLUS Question it, Horatio.

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HORATIO What art thou that usurp'st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak! MARCELLUS It is offended. BERNARDO See, it stalks away! HORATIO Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak! [Exit Ghost] MARCELLUS 'Tis gone, and will not answer. BERNARDO How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on't? HORATIO Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. MARCELLUS Is it not like the king? HORATIO As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he the ambitious Norway combated; So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 'Tis strange. MARCELLUS Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. HORATIO In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state. MARCELLUS Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch

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So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week; What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is't that can inform me? HORATIO That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, Whose image even but now appear'd to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride, Dared to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet -- For so this side of our known world esteem'd him -- Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a seal'd compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seized of, to the conqueror: Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our king; which had return'd To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as, by the same covenant, And carriage of the article design'd, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in't; which is no other -- As it doth well appear unto our state -- But to recover of us, by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost: and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch and the chief head Of this post-haste and romage in the land. BERNARDO I think it be no other but e'en so: Well may it sort that this portentous figure

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Comes armed through our watch; so like the king That was and is the question of these wars. HORATIO A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen. -- But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again! [Re-enter Ghost] I'll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak to me: [Cock crows] If thou art privy to thy country's fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcellus. MARCELLUS Shall I strike at it with my partisan? HORATIO Do, if it will not stand. BERNARDO 'Tis here! HORATIO 'Tis here! MARCELLUS

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'Tis gone! [Exit Ghost] We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence; For it is, as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery. BERNARDO It was about to speak, when the cock crew. HORATIO And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and, at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine: and of the truth herein This present object made probation. MARCELLUS It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. HORATIO So have I heard and do in part believe it. But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill: Break we our watch up; and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? MARCELLUS Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently. [Exeunt]

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Scene 2 [A room of state in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES, VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, Lords, and Attendants]

KING CLAUDIUS Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, The imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy, -- With an auspicious and a dropping eye, With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, -- Taken to wife: nor have we herein barr'd Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. For all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother's death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with the dream of his advantage, He hath not fail'd to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, -- Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew's purpose, -- to suppress His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists and full proportions, are all made Out of his subject: and we here dispatch

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You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway; Giving to you no further personal power To business with the king, more than the scope Of these delated articles allow. Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty. CORNELIUS, VOLTIMAND In that and all things will we show our duty. KING CLAUDIUS We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell. [Exeunt VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS] And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? You told us of some suit; what is't, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And loose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? LAERTES My dread lord, Your leave and favour to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, To show my duty in your coronation, Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. KING CLAUDIUS Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius? LORD POLONIUS He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition, and at last Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go. KING CLAUDIUS Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son, -- HAMLET [Aside]

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A little more than kin, and less than kind. KING CLAUDIUS How is it that the clouds still hang on you? HAMLET Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun. QUEEN GERTRUDE Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. HAMLET Ay, madam, it is common. QUEEN GERTRUDE If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee? HAMLET Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.' 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe. KING CLAUDIUS 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious sorrow: but to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief; It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool'd:

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For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd: whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died to-day, 'This must be so.' We pray you, throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father: for let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our throne; And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son, Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you, bend you to remain Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. QUEEN GERTRUDE Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet: I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg. HAMLET I shall in all my best obey you, madam. KING CLAUDIUS Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply: Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the king's rouse the heavens all bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. [Exeunt all but HAMLET] HAMLET O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,

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Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: and yet, within a month -- Let me not think on't -- Frailty, thy name is woman! -- A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears: -- why she, even she -- O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer -- married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month: Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not nor it cannot come to good: But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue. [Enter HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO] HORATIO Hail to your lordship! HAMLET I am glad to see you well: Horatio, -- or I do forget myself. HORATIO The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. HAMLET Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus? MARCELLUS My good lord -- HAMLET

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I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? HORATIO A truant disposition, good my lord. HAMLET I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself: I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. HORATIO My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. HAMLET I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding. HORATIO Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon. HAMLET Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father! -- methinks I see my father. HORATIO Where, my lord? HAMLET In my mind's eye, Horatio. HORATIO I saw him once; he was a goodly king. HAMLET He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. HORATIO My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. HAMLET Saw? who? HORATIO My lord, the king your father. HAMLET The king my father!

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HORATIO Season your admiration for awhile With an attent ear, till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you. HAMLET For God's love, let me hear. HORATIO Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus encounter'd. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distilled Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch; Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like. HAMLET But where was this? MARCELLUS My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd. HAMLET Did you not speak to it? HORATIO My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up its head and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak; But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish'd from our sight. HAMLET 'Tis very strange.

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HORATIO As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it. HAMLET Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night? MARCELLUS, BERNARDO We do, my lord. HAMLET Arm'd, say you? MARCELLUS, BERNARDO Arm'd, my lord. HAMLET From top to toe? MARCELLUS, BERNARDO My lord, from head to foot. HAMLET Then saw you not his face? HORATIO O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up. HAMLET What, look'd he frowningly? HORATIO A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. HAMLET Pale or red? HORATIO Nay, very pale. HAMLET And fix'd his eyes upon you? HORATIO Most constantly. HAMLET I would I had been there. HORATIO It would have much amazed you. HAMLET Very like, very like. Stay'd it long? HORATIO

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While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. MARCELLUS, BERNARDO Longer, longer. HORATIO Not when I saw't. HAMLET His beard was grizzled -- no? HORATIO It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver'd. HAMLET I will watch to-night; Perchance 'twill walk again. HORATIO I warrant it will. HAMLET If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will requite your loves. So, fare you well: Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you. All Our duty to your honour. HAMLET Your loves, as mine to you: farewell. [Exeunt all but HAMLET] My father's spirit in arms! all is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. [Exit] Scene 3 [A room in Polonius' house.] [Enter LAERTES and OPHELIA]

LAERTES

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My necessaries are embark'd: farewell: And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you. OPHELIA Do you doubt that? LAERTES For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood, A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more. OPHELIA No more but so? LAERTES Think it no more; For nature, crescent, does not grow alone In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will: but you must fear, His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscribed Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain, If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster'd importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire.

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The chariest maid is prodigal enough, If she unmask her beauty to the moon: Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring, Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then; best safety lies in fear: Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. OPHELIA I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede. LAERTES O, fear me not. I stay too long: but here my father comes. [Enter POLONIUS] A double blessing is a double grace, Occasion smiles upon a second leave. LORD POLONIUS Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay'd for. There; my blessing with thee! And these few precepts in thy memory See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;

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For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee! LAERTES Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. LORD POLONIUS The time invites you; go; your servants tend. LAERTES Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well What I have said to you. OPHELIA 'Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. LAERTES Farewell. [Exit] LORD POLONIUS What is't, Ophelia, be hath said to you? OPHELIA So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. LORD POLONIUS Marry, well bethought: 'Tis told me, he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous: If it be so, as so 'tis put on me, And that in way of caution, I must tell you, You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? give me up the truth. OPHELIA He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me. LORD POLONIUS

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Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them? OPHELIA I do not know, my lord, what I should think. LORD POLONIUS Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby; That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or -- not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus -- you'll tender me a fool. OPHELIA My lord, he hath importuned me with love In honourable fashion. LORD POLONIUS Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to. OPHELIA And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven. LORD POLONIUS Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, Have you so slander any moment leisure, As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to't, I charge you: come your ways.

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OPHELIA I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt]

Scene 4 [The platform.] [Enter HAMLET, HORATIO, and MARCELLUS] HAMLET The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. HORATIO It is a nipping and an eager air. HAMLET What hour now? HORATIO I think it lacks of twelve. HAMLET No, it is struck. HORATIO Indeed? I heard it not: then it draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within] What does this mean, my lord? HAMLET The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels; And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. HORATIO Is it a custom? HAMLET Ay, marry, is't: But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour'd in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduced and tax'd of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform'd at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute.

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So, oft it chances in particular men, That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As, in their birth -- wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin -- By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens The form of plausive manners, that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, -- Their virtues else -- be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo -- Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault: the dram of eale Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal. HORATIO Look, my lord, it comes! [Enter Ghost] HAMLET Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou comest in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee: I'll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd, Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws, To cast thee up again. What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do? [Ghost beckons HAMLET] HORATIO

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It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone. MARCELLUS Look, with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground: But do not go with it. HORATIO No, by no means. HAMLET It will not speak; then I will follow it. HORATIO Do not, my lord. HAMLET Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life in a pin's fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again: I'll follow it. HORATIO What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o'er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And draw you into madness? think of it: The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath. HAMLET It waves me still. Go on; I'll follow thee. MARCELLUS You shall not go, my lord. HAMLET Hold off your hands. HORATIO Be ruled; you shall not go. HAMLET

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My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen. By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me! I say, away! Go on; I'll follow thee. [Exeunt Ghost and HAMLET] HORATIO He waxes desperate with imagination. MARCELLUS Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him. HORATIO Have after. To what issue will this come? MARCELLUS Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. HORATIO Heaven will direct it. MARCELLUS Nay, let's follow him. [Exeunt]

Scene 5 [Another part of the platform.] [Enter GHOST and HAMLET]

HAMLET Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further. Ghost Mark me. HAMLET I will. Ghost My hour is almost come, When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. HAMLET Alas, poor ghost! Ghost Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. HAMLET

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Speak; I am bound to hear. Ghost So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. HAMLET What? Ghost I am thy father's spirit, Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine: But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love -- HAMLET O God! Ghost Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. HAMLET Murder! Ghost Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural. HAMLET Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge. Ghost I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear: 'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark

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Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father's life Now wears his crown. HAMLET O my prophetic soul! My uncle! Ghost Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts, -- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce! -- won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen: O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there! From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine! But virtue, as it never will be moved, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd, Will sate itself in a celestial bed, And prey on garbage. But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And with a sudden vigour doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark'd about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd:

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Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd, No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head: O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. [Exit] HAMLET O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables, -- meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark: [Writing] So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me.' I have sworn 't. MARCELLUS, HORATIO

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[Within] My lord, my lord, -- MARCELLUS [Within] Lord Hamlet, -- HORATIO [Within] Heaven secure him! HAMLET So be it! HORATIO [Within] Hillo, ho, ho, my lord! HAMLET Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come. [Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS] MARCELLUS How is't, my noble lord? HORATIO What news, my lord? HAMLET O, wonderful! HORATIO Good my lord, tell it. HAMLET No; you'll reveal it. HORATIO Not I, my lord, by heaven. MARCELLUS Nor I, my lord. HAMLET How say you, then; would heart of man once think it? But you'll be secret? HORATIO, MARCELLUS Ay, by heaven, my lord. HAMLET There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an arrant knave. HORATIO There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.

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HAMLET Why, right; you are i' the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall point you; For every man has business and desire, Such as it is; and for mine own poor part, Look you, I'll go pray.

HORATIO These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

HAMLET I'm sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes, 'faith heartily. HORATIO There's no offence, my lord. HAMLET Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you: For your desire to know what is between us, O'ermaster 't as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars and soldiers, Give me one poor request. HORATIO What is't, my lord? we will. HAMLET Never make known what you have seen to-night. HORATIO, MARCELLUS My lord, we will not. HAMLET Nay, but swear't. HORATIO In faith, My lord, not I. MARCELLUS Nor I, my lord, in faith. HAMLET Upon my sword.

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MARCELLUS We have sworn, my lord, already. HAMLET Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. Ghost [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Ah, ha, boy! say'st thou so? art thou there, truepenny? Come on -- you hear this fellow in the cellarage -- Consent to swear. HORATIO Propose the oath, my lord. HAMLET Never to speak of this that you have seen, Swear by my sword. Ghost [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Hic et ubique? then we'll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword: Never to speak of this that you have heard, Swear by my sword. Ghost [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends. HORATIO O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! HAMLET And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come; Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet

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To put an antic disposition on, That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber'd thus, or this headshake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,' Or 'If we list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,' Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me: this not to do, So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear. Ghost [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! [They swear] So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you: And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do, to express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together; And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint: O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let's go together. [Exeunt] Act 2 Scene 1 [A room in POLONIUS' house.] [Enter POLONIUS and REYNALDO] LORD POLONIUS Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo. REYNALDO I will, my lord. LORD POLONIUS You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquire Of his behavior. REYNALDO My lord, I did intend it. LORD POLONIUS

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Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it: Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him; As thus, 'I know his father and his friends, And in part him: ' do you mark this, Reynaldo? REYNALDO Ay, very well, my lord. LORD POLONIUS 'And in part him; but' you may say 'not well: But, if't be he I mean, he's very wild; Addicted so and so:' and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. REYNALDO As gaming, my lord. LORD POLONIUS Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling, Drabbing: you may go so far. REYNALDO My lord, that would dishonour him. LORD POLONIUS 'Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That's not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty, The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault. REYNALDO But, my good lord, -- LORD POLONIUS Wherefore should you do this?

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REYNALDO Ay, my lord, I would know that. LORD POLONIUS Marry, sir, here's my drift; And I believe, it is a fetch of wit: You laying these slight sullies on my son, As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' the working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured He closes with you in this consequence; 'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman,' According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country. REYNALDO Very good, my lord. LORD POLONIUS And then, sir, does he this -- he does -- what was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something: where did I leave? REYNALDO At 'closes in the consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and 'gentleman.' LORD POLONIUS At 'closes in the consequence,' ay, marry; He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman; I saw him yesterday, or t' other day, Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you say, There was a' gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse; There falling out at tennis:' or perchance, 'I saw him enter such a house of sale,' Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth: And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out: So by my former lecture and advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? REYNALDO

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My lord, I have. LORD POLONIUS God be wi' you; fare you well. REYNALDO Good my lord! LORD POLONIUS Observe his inclination in yourself. REYNALDO I shall, my lord. LORD POLONIUS And let him ply his music. REYNALDO Well, my lord. LORD POLONIUS Farewell! [Exit REYNALDO] [Enter OPHELIA] How now, Ophelia! what's the matter? OPHELIA O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted! LORD POLONIUS With what, i' the name of God? OPHELIA My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced; No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd, Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ancle; Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, -- he comes before me. LORD POLONIUS Mad for thy love? OPHELIA My lord, I do not know; But truly, I do fear it. LORD POLONIUS What said he? OPHELIA He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm;

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And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so; At last, a little shaking of mine arm And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He raised a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being: that done, he lets me go: And, with his head over his shoulder turn'd, He seem'd to find his way without his eyes; For out o' doors he went without their helps, And, to the last, bended their light on me. LORD POLONIUS Come, go with me: I will go seek the king. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself And leads the will to desperate undertakings As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late? OPHELIA No, my good lord, but, as you did command, I did repel his fetters and denied His access to me. LORD POLONIUS That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him: I fear'd he did but trifle, And meant to wreck thee; but, beshrew my jealousy! By heaven, it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king: This must be known; which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love. [Exeunt] Scene 2 [A room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and Attendants]

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KING CLAUDIUS Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet's transformation; so call it, Sith nor the exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father's death, that thus hath put him So much from the understanding of himself, I cannot dream of: I entreat you both, That, being of so young days brought up with him, And sith so neighbour'd to his youth and havior, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time: so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus, That, open'd, lies within our remedy. QUEEN GERTRUDE Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you; And sure I am two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile, For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king's remembrance. ROSENCRANTZ Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. GUILDENSTERN But we both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent To lay our service freely at your feet, To be commanded. KING CLAUDIUS Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

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QUEEN GERTRUDE Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz: And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. GUILDENSTERN Heavens make our presence and our practises Pleasant and helpful to him! QUEEN GERTRUDE Ay, amen! [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and some Attendants] [Enter POLONIUS] LORD POLONIUS The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return'd. KING CLAUDIUS Thou still hast been the father of good news. LORD POLONIUS Have I, my lord? I assure my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king: And I do think, or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath used to do, that I have found The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy. KING CLAUDIUS O, speak of that; that do I long to hear. LORD POLONIUS Give first admittance to the ambassadors; My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. KING CLAUDIUS Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit POLONIUS] He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son's distemper. QUEEN GERTRUDE I doubt it is no other but the main; His father's death, and our o'erhasty marriage. KING CLAUDIUS Well, we shall sift him. [Re-enter POLONIUS, with VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS]

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Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway? VOLTIMAND Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack; But, better look'd into, he truly found It was against your highness: whereat grieved, That so his sickness, age and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys; Receives rebuke from Norway, and in fine Makes vow before his uncle never more To give the assay of arms against your majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Giving a paper] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down. KING CLAUDIUS It likes us well; And at our more consider'd time well read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour: Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together: Most welcome home! [Exeunt VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS] LORD POLONIUS This business is well ended. My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,

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I will be brief: your noble son is mad: Mad call I it; for, to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go. QUEEN GERTRUDE More matter, with less art. LORD POLONIUS Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis true: a foolish figure; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause: Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend. I have a daughter -- have while she is mine -- Who, in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise. [Reads] 'To the celestial and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,' -- That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus: [Reads] 'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.' QUEEN GERTRUDE Came this from Hamlet to her? LORD POLONIUS Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [Reads] 'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. 'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to reckon my groans: but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. 'Thine evermore most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET.' This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me,

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And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means and place, All given to mine ear. KING CLAUDIUS But how hath she Received his love? LORD POLONIUS What do you think of me? KING CLAUDIUS As of a man faithful and honourable. LORD POLONIUS I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing -- As I perceived it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me -- what might you, Or my dear majesty your queen here, think, If I had play'd the desk or table-book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look'd upon this love with idle sight; What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: 'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star; This must not be:' and then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice; And he, repulsed -- a short tale to make -- Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we mourn for. KING CLAUDIUS Do you think 'tis this? QUEEN GERTRUDE It may be, very likely. LORD POLONIUS Hath there been such a time -- I'd fain know that -- That I have positively said 'Tis so,' When it proved otherwise? KING CLAUDIUS

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Not that I know. LORD POLONIUS [Pointing to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this be otherwise: If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre. KING CLAUDIUS How may we try it further? LORD POLONIUS You know, sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby. QUEEN GERTRUDE So he does indeed. LORD POLONIUS At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him: Be you and I behind an arras then; Mark the encounter: if he love her not And be not from his reason fall'n thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters. KING CLAUDIUS We will try it. QUEEN GERTRUDE But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. LORD POLONIUS Away, I do beseech you, both away: I'll board him presently. [Exeunt KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, and Attendants] [Enter HAMLET, reading] O, give me leave: How does my good Lord Hamlet? HAMLET Well, God-a-mercy. LORD POLONIUS Do you know me, my lord? HAMLET Excellent well; you are a fishmonger. LORD POLONIUS Not I, my lord. HAMLET

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Then I would you were so honest a man. LORD POLONIUS Honest, my lord! HAMLET Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. LORD POLONIUS That's very true, my lord. HAMLET For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion, -- Have you a daughter? LORD POLONIUS I have, my lord. HAMLET Let her not walk i' the sun: conception is a blessing: but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to 't. LORD POLONIUS [Aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I'll speak to him again. What do you read, my lord? HAMLET Words, words, words. LORD POLONIUS What is the matter, my lord? HAMLET Between who? LORD POLONIUS I mean, the matter that you read, my lord. HAMLET Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for

188 The Pilgrim’s Progress yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward. LORD POLONIUS [Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't. Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave. LORD POLONIUS Indeed, that is out o' the air. [Aside] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. -- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. HAMLET You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life. LORD POLONIUS Fare you well, my lord. HAMLET These tedious old fools! [Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] LORD POLONIUS You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is. ROSENCRANTZ [To POLONIUS] God save you, sir! [Exit POLONIUS] GUILDENSTERN My honoured lord! ROSENCRANTZ My most dear lord! HAMLET My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? ROSENCRANTZ As the indifferent children of the earth.

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GUILDENSTERN Happy, in that we are not over-happy; On fortune's cap we are not the very button. HAMLET Nor the soles of her shoe? ROSENCRANTZ Neither, my lord. HAMLET Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? GUILDENSTERN 'Faith, her privates we. HAMLET In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What's the news? ROSENCRANTZ None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest. HAMLET Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison hither? GUILDENSTERN Prison, my lord! HAMLET Denmark's a prison. ROSENCRANTZ Then is the world one. HAMLET A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o' the worst. ROSENCRANTZ We think not so, my lord. HAMLET Why, then, 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. ROSENCRANTZ Why then, your ambition makes it one; 'tis too narrow for your mind. HAMLET

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O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. GUILDENSTERN Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. HAMLET A dream itself is but a shadow. ROSENCRANTZ Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow. HAMLET Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN We'll wait upon you. HAMLET No such matter: I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? ROSENCRANTZ To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. HAMLET Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak. GUILDENSTERN What should we say, my lord? HAMLET Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you. ROSENCRANTZ To what end, my lord? HAMLET

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That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for, or no? ROSENCRANTZ [Aside to GUILDENSTERN] What say you? HAMLET [Aside] Nay, then, I have an eye of you. -- If you love me, hold not off. GUILDENSTERN My lord, we were sent for. HAMLET I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late -- but wherefore I know not -- lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. ROSENCRANTZ My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. HAMLET Why did you laugh then, when I said 'man delights not me'? ROSENCRANTZ

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To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they coming, to offer you service. HAMLET He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humourous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o' the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for't. What players are they? ROSENCRANTZ Even those you were wont to take delight in, the tragedians of the city. HAMLET How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. ROSENCRANTZ I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation. HAMLET Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? are they so followed? ROSENCRANTZ No, indeed, are they not. HAMLET How comes it? do they grow rusty? ROSENCRANTZ Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for't: these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages -- so they call them -- that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither. HAMLET What, are they children? who maintains 'em? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say

193 The Pilgrim’s Progress afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players -- as it is most like, if their means are no better -- their writers do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession? ROSENCRANTZ 'Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy: there was, for a while, no money bid for argument, unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. HAMLET Is't possible? GUILDENSTERN O, there has been much throwing about of brains. HAMLET Do the boys carry it away? ROSENCRANTZ Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too. HAMLET It is not very strange; for mine uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. [Flourish of trumpets within] GUILDENSTERN There are the players. HAMLET Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then: the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which, I tell you, must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. GUILDENSTERN In what, my dear lord? HAMLET I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

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[Enter POLONIUS] LORD POLONIUS Well be with you, gentlemen! HAMLET Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts. ROSENCRANTZ Happily he's the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child. HAMLET I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it. You say right, sir: o' Monday morning; 'twas so indeed. LORD POLONIUS My lord, I have news to tell you. HAMLET My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome, -- LORD POLONIUS The actors are come hither, my lord. HAMLET Buz, buz! LORD POLONIUS Upon mine honour, -- HAMLET Then came each actor on his ass, -- LORD POLONIUS The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical- comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men. HAMLET O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! LORD POLONIUS What a treasure had he, my lord? HAMLET

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Why, 'One fair daughter and no more, The which he loved passing well.' LORD POLONIUS [Aside] Still on my daughter. HAMLET Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah? LORD POLONIUS If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well. HAMLET Nay, that follows not. LORD POLONIUS What follows, then, my lord? HAMLET Why, 'As by lot, God wot,' and then, you know, 'It came to pass, as most like it was,' -- the first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look, where my abridgement comes. [Enter four or five Players] You are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! thy face is valenced since I saw thee last: comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By'r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like apiece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en to't like French falconers, fly at any thing we see: we'll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech. First Player What speech, my lord? HAMLET I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; 'twas

196 The Pilgrim’s Progress caviare to the general: but it was -- as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine -- an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I chiefly loved: 'twas Aeneas' tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam's slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin at this line: let me see, let me see -- 'The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,' -- it is not so: -- it begins with Pyrrhus: -- 'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd With heraldry more dismal; head to foot Now is he total gules; horridly trick'd With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Baked and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and damned light To their lord's murder: roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.' So, proceed you. LORD POLONIUS 'Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. First Player 'Anon he finds him Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command: unequal match'd, Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,

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Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear: for, lo! his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' the air to stick: So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But, as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region, so, after Pyrrhus' pause, Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work; And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall On Mars's armour forged for proof eterne With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods, In general synod 'take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends!' LORD POLONIUS This is too long. HAMLET It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee, say on: he's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps: say on: come to Hecuba. First Player 'But who, O, who had seen the mobled queen -- ' HAMLET 'The mobled queen?' LORD POLONIUS That's good; 'mobled queen' is good. First Player 'Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;

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Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd, 'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounced: But if the gods themselves did see her then When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made, Unless things mortal move them not at all, Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, And passion in the gods.' LORD POLONIUS Look, whether he has not turned his colour and has tears in's eyes. Pray you, no more. HAMLET 'Tis well: I'll have thee speak out the rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. LORD POLONIUS My lord, I will use them according to their desert. HAMLET God's bodykins, man, much better: use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. LORD POLONIUS Come, sirs. HAMLET Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play to-morrow. [Exit POLONIUS with all the Players but the First] Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the Murder of Gonzago? First Player Ay, my lord. HAMLET We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in't, could you not?

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First Player Ay, my lord. HAMLET Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player] My good friends, I'll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore. ROSENCRANTZ Good my lord! HAMLET Ay, so, God be wi' ye; [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? Ha!

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'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: the play 's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. [Exit] Act 3

Scene 1 [A room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN]

KING CLAUDIUS

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And can you, by no drift of circumstance, Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? ROSENCRANTZ He does confess he feels himself distracted; But from what cause he will by no means speak. GUILDENSTERN Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof, When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state. QUEEN GERTRUDE Did he receive you well? ROSENCRANTZ Most like a gentleman. GUILDENSTERN But with much forcing of his disposition. ROSENCRANTZ Niggard of question; but, of our demands, Most free in his reply. QUEEN GERTRUDE Did you assay him? To any pastime? ROSENCRANTZ Madam, it so fell out, that certain players We o'er-raught on the way: of these we told him; And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it: they are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. LORD POLONIUS 'Tis most true: And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties To hear and see the matter. KING CLAUDIUS With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclined. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights. ROSENCRANTZ

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We shall, my lord. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] KING CLAUDIUS Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as 'twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia: Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing, unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behaved, If 't be the affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for. QUEEN GERTRUDE I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet's wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours. OPHELIA Madam, I wish it may. [Exit QUEEN GERTRUDE] LORD POLONIUS Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves. [To OPHELIA] Read on this book; That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this, -- 'Tis too much proved -- that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er The devil himself. KING CLAUDIUS [Aside] O, 'tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burthen!

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LORD POLONIUS I hear him coming: let's withdraw, my lord. [Exeunt KING CLAUDIUS and POLONIUS] [Enter HAMLET] HAMLET To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd. OPHELIA

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Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day? HAMLET I humbly thank you; well, well, well. OPHELIA My lord, I have remembrances of yours, That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them. HAMLET No, not I; I never gave you aught. OPHELIA My honour'd lord, you know right well you did; And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord. HAMLET Ha, ha! are you honest? OPHELIA My lord? HAMLET Are you fair? OPHELIA What means your lordship? HAMLET That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. OPHELIA Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty? HAMLET Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. OPHELIA Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. HAMLET

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You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not. OPHELIA I was the more deceived. HAMLET Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's your father? OPHELIA At home, my lord. HAMLET Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house. Farewell. OPHELIA O, help him, you sweet heavens! HAMLET If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell. OPHELIA O heavenly powers, restore him! HAMLET I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages:

206 The Pilgrim’s Progress those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. [Exit] OPHELIA O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see! [Re-enter KING CLAUDIUS and POLONIUS] KING CLAUDIUS Love! his affections do not that way tend; Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little, Was not like madness. There's something in his soul, O'er which his melancholy sits on brood; And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger: which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England, For the demand of our neglected tribute Haply the seas and countries different With variable objects shall expel This something-settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on't? LORD POLONIUS It shall do well: but yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia! You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said; We heard it all. My lord, do as you please; But, if you hold it fit, after the play Let his queen mother all alone entreat him

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To show his grief: let her be round with him; And I'll be placed, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him, or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think. KING CLAUDIUS It shall be so: Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go. [Exeunt] Scene 2 [A hall in the castle.] [Enter HAMLET and Players]

HAMLET Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. First Player I warrant your honour. HAMLET Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone,

208 The Pilgrim’s Progress or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. First Player I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir. HAMLET O, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that's villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready. [Exeunt Players] [Enter POLONIUS, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN] How now, my lord! I will the king hear this piece of work? LORD POLONIUS And the queen too, and that presently. HAMLET Bid the players make haste. [Exit POLONIUS] Will you two help to hasten them? ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN We will, my lord. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] HAMLET What ho! Horatio! [Enter HORATIO] HORATIO Here, sweet lord, at your service. HAMLET

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Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal. HORATIO O, my dear lord, -- HAMLET Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks: and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. -- Something too much of this. -- There is a play to-night before the king; One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee of my father's death: I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen, And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming. HORATIO Well, my lord: If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And 'scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

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HAMLET They are coming to the play; I must be idle: Get you a place. [Danish march. A flourish. Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and others] KING CLAUDIUS How fares our cousin Hamlet? HAMLET Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so. KING CLAUDIUS I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine. HAMLET No, nor mine now. [To POLONIUS] My lord, you played once i' the university, you say? LORD POLONIUS That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor. HAMLET What did you enact? LORD POLONIUS I did enact Julius Caesar: I was killed i' the Capitol; Brutus killed me. HAMLET It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready? ROSENCRANTZ Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience. QUEEN GERTRUDE Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me. HAMLET No, good mother, here's metal more attractive. LORD POLONIUS [To KING CLAUDIUS] O, ho! do you mark that? HAMLET Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Lying down at OPHELIA's feet] OPHELIA

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No, my lord. HAMLET I mean, my head upon your lap? OPHELIA Ay, my lord. HAMLET Do you think I meant country matters? OPHELIA I think nothing, my lord. HAMLET That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. OPHELIA What is, my lord? HAMLET Nothing. OPHELIA You are merry, my lord. HAMLET Who, I? OPHELIA Ay, my lord. HAMLET O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within these two hours. OPHELIA Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord. HAMLET So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year: but, by'r lady, he must build churches, then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is 'For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.' [Hautboys play. The dumb-show enters] [Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him, and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him.

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Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, and pours poison in the King's ears, and exit. The Queen returns; finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner, with some two or three Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts: she seems loath and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love] [Exeunt] OPHELIA What means this, my lord? HAMLET Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief. OPHELIA Belike this show imports the argument of the play. [Enter Prologue] HAMLET We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell all. OPHELIA Will he tell us what this show meant? HAMLET Ay, or any show that you'll show him: be not you ashamed to show, he'll not shame to tell you what it means. OPHELIA You are naught, you are naught: I'll mark the play. Prologue For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. [Exit] HAMLET Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? OPHELIA 'Tis brief, my lord. HAMLET As woman's love. [Enter two Players, King and Queen] Player King Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrow'd sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been,

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Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands. Player Queen So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o'er ere love be done! But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state, That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women's fear and love holds quantity; In neither aught, or in extremity. Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is sized, my fear is so: Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. Player King 'Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour'd, beloved; and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou -- Player Queen O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast: In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill'd the first. HAMLET [Aside] Wormwood, wormwood. Player Queen The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love: A second time I kill my husband dead, When second husband kisses me in bed. Player King I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity; Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be.

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Most necessary 'tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy: Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change; For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies; The poor advanced makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend; For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own: So think thou wilt no second husband wed; But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. Player Queen Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! Sport and repose lock from me day and night! To desperation turn my trust and hope! An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope! Each opposite that blanks the face of joy Meet what I would have well and it destroy! Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife! HAMLET If she should break it now! Player King 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile; My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps] Player Queen

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Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain! [Exit] HAMLET Madam, how like you this play? QUEEN GERTRUDE The lady protests too much, methinks. HAMLET O, but she'll keep her word. KING CLAUDIUS Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in 't? HAMLET No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i' the world. KING CLAUDIUS What do you call the play? HAMLET The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work: but what o' that? your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung. [Enter LUCIANUS] This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. OPHELIA You are as good as a chorus, my lord. HAMLET I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. OPHELIA You are keen, my lord, you are keen. HAMLET It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. OPHELIA Still better, and worse. HAMLET So you must take your husbands. Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come: 'the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.'

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LUCIANUS Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property, On wholesome life usurp immediately. [Pours the poison into the sleeper's ears] HAMLET He poisons him i' the garden for's estate. His name's Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian: you shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. OPHELIA The king rises. HAMLET What, frighted with false fire! QUEEN GERTRUDE How fares my lord? LORD POLONIUS Give o'er the play. KING CLAUDIUS Give me some light: away! All Lights, lights, lights! [Exeunt all but HAMLET and HORATIO] HAMLET Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers -- if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me -- with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? HORATIO Half a share. HAMLET A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was

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Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very -- pajock. HORATIO You might have rhymed. HAMLET O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? HORATIO Very well, my lord. HAMLET Upon the talk of the poisoning? HORATIO I did very well note him. HAMLET Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the recorders! For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy. Come, some music! [Re-enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] GUILDENSTERN Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. HAMLET Sir, a whole history. GUILDENSTERN The king, sir, -- HAMLET Ay, sir, what of him? GUILDENSTERN Is in his retirement marvellous distempered. HAMLET With drink, sir? GUILDENSTERN No, my lord, rather with choler. HAMLET Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler. GUILDENSTERN Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame and start not so wildly from my affair.

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HAMLET I am tame, sir: pronounce. GUILDENSTERN The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. HAMLET You are welcome. GUILDENSTERN Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother's commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business. HAMLET Sir, I cannot. GUILDENSTERN What, my lord? HAMLET Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseased: but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, you say, -- ROSENCRANTZ Then thus she says; your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration. HAMLET O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration? Impart. ROSENCRANTZ She desires to speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed. HAMLET We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us? ROSENCRANTZ My lord, you once did love me. HAMLET So I do still, by these pickers and stealers. ROSENCRANTZ

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Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. HAMLET Sir, I lack advancement. ROSENCRANTZ How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark? HAMLET Ay, but sir, 'While the grass grows,' -- the proverb is something musty. [Re-enter Players with recorders] O, the recorders! let me see one. To withdraw with you: -- why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil? GUILDENSTERN O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly. HAMLET I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? GUILDENSTERN My lord, I cannot. HAMLET I pray you. GUILDENSTERN Believe me, I cannot. HAMLET I do beseech you. GUILDENSTERN I know no touch of it, my lord. HAMLET 'Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your lingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops. GUILDENSTERN But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill. HAMLET

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Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me. [Enter POLONIUS] God bless you, sir! LORD POLONIUS My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently. HAMLET Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? LORD POLONIUS By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. HAMLET Methinks it is like a weasel. LORD POLONIUS It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET Or like a whale? LORD POLONIUS Very like a whale. HAMLET Then I will come to my mother by and by. They fool me to the top of my bent. I will come by and by. LORD POLONIUS I will say so. HAMLET By and by is easily said. [Exit POLONIUS] Leave me, friends. [Exeunt all but HAMLET] Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day

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Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural: I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites; How in my words soever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent! [Exit] Scene 3 [A room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN]

KING CLAUDIUS I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you: The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies. GUILDENSTERN We will ourselves provide: Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your majesty. ROSENCRANTZ The single and peculiar life is bound, With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw What's near it with it: it is a massy wheel, Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortised and adjoin'd; which, when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

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KING CLAUDIUS Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. ROSENCRANTZ We will haste us. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] [Enter POLONIUS] LORD POLONIUS My lord, he's going to his mother's closet: Behind the arras I'll convey myself, To hear the process; and warrant she'll tax him home: And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: I'll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. KING CLAUDIUS Thanks, dear my lord. [Exit POLONIUS] O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'? That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.

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May one be pardon'd and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe! All may be well. [Retires and kneels] [Enter HAMLET] HAMLET Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd: A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, 'Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season'd for his passage? No! Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; At gaming, swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't; Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,

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And that his soul may be as damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit] KING CLAUDIUS [Rising] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Exit] Scene 4 [The Queen's closet.] [Enter QUEEN MARGARET and POLONIUS]

LORD POLONIUS He will come straight. Look you lay home to him: Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your grace hath screen'd and stood between Much heat and him. I'll sconce me even here. Pray you, be round with him. HAMLET [Within] Mother, mother, mother! QUEEN GERTRUDE I'll warrant you, Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming. [POLONIUS hides behind the arras] [Enter HAMLET] HAMLET Now, mother, what's the matter? QUEEN GERTRUDE Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. HAMLET Mother, you have my father much offended. QUEEN GERTRUDE Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. HAMLET Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. QUEEN GERTRUDE Why, how now, Hamlet! HAMLET What's the matter now?

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QUEEN GERTRUDE Have you forgot me? HAMLET No, by the rood, not so: You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife; And -- would it were not so! -- you are my mother. QUEEN GERTRUDE Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.

HAMLET Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge; You go not till I set you up a glass here you may see the inmost part of you.

QUEEN GERTRUDE What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho! LORD POLONIUS [Behind] What, ho! help, help, help! HAMLET [Drawing] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras] LORD POLONIUS [Behind] O, I am slain! [Falls and dies] QUEEN GERTRUDE O me, what hast thou done? HAMLET Nay, I know not: Is it the king? QUEEN GERTRUDE O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! HAMLET A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother. QUEEN GERTRUDE As kill a king! HAMLET

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Ay, lady, 'twas my word. [Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUS] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune; Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger. Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not brass'd it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense. QUEEN GERTRUDE What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? HAMLET Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow: Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. QUEEN GERTRUDE Ay me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? HAMLET Look here, upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man: This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:

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Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear, Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err, Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd But it reserved some quantity of choice, To serve in such a difference. What devil was't That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn And reason panders will. QUEEN GERTRUDE O Hamlet, speak no more: Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. HAMLET Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty, -- QUEEN GERTRUDE O, speak to me no more; These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet! HAMLET

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A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket! QUEEN GERTRUDE No more! HAMLET A king of shreds and patches, -- [Enter Ghost] Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? QUEEN GERTRUDE Alas, he's mad! HAMLET Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O, say! Ghost Do not forget: this visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits: O, step between her and her fighting soul: Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works: Speak to her, Hamlet. HAMLET How is it with you, lady? QUEEN GERTRUDE Alas, how is't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? HAMLET On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,

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Would make them capable. Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects: then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. QUEEN GERTRUDE To whom do you speak this? HAMLET Do you see nothing there? QUEEN GERTRUDE Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. HAMLET Nor did you nothing hear? QUEEN GERTRUDE No, nothing but ourselves. HAMLET Why, look you there! look, how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he lived! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal! [Exit Ghost] QUEEN GERTRUDE This the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. HAMLET Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: it is not madness That I have utter'd: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that mattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass, but my madness speaks: It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

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QUEEN GERTRUDE O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. HAMLET O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed; Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery, That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence: the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either . . . . the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night: And when you are desirous to be bless'd, I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord, [Pointing to POLONIUS] I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so, To punish me with this and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So, again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. QUEEN GERTRUDE What shall I do? HAMLET Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed; Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know; For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,

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Such dear concernings hide? who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house's top. Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep, And break your own neck down. QUEEN GERTRUDE Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. HAMLET I must to England; you know that? QUEEN GERTRUDE Alack, I had forgot: 'tis so concluded on. HAMLET There's letters seal'd: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd, They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way, And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petard: and 't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines, And blow them at the moon: O, 'tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing: I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed this counsellor Is now most still, most secret and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother. [Exeunt severally; HAMLET dragging in POLONIUS] Act 4 Scene 1 [A room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN] KING CLAUDIUS

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There's matter in these sighs, these profound heaves: You must translate: 'tis fit we understand them. Where is your son? QUEEN GERTRUDE Bestow this place on us a little while. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night! KING CLAUDIUS What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? QUEEN GERTRUDE Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend Which is the mightier: in his lawless fit, Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries, 'A rat, a rat!' And, in this brainish apprehension, kills The unseen good old man. KING CLAUDIUS O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there: His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer'd? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain'd and out of haunt, This mad young man: but so much was our love, We would not understand what was most fit; But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of Life. Where is he gone? QUEEN GERTRUDE To draw apart the body he hath kill'd: O'er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done. KING CLAUDIUS O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch, But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed We must, with all our majesty and skill, Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern! [Re-enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN]

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Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother's closet hath he dragg'd him: Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends; And let them know, both what we mean to do, And what's untimely done ...... Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison'd shot, may miss our name, And hit the woundless air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay. [Exeunt] Scene 2 [Another room in the castle.] [Enter HAMLET] HAMLET Safely stowed. ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN [Within] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! HAMLET What noise? who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. [Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] ROSENCRANTZ What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? HAMLET Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin. ROSENCRANTZ Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence And bear it to the chapel. HAMLET Do not believe it. ROSENCRANTZ Believe what? HAMLET

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That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! what replication should be made by the son of a king? ROSENCRANTZ Take you me for a sponge, my lord? HAMLET Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. ROSENCRANTZ I understand you not, my lord. HAMLET I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. ROSENCRANTZ My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king. HAMLET The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing -- GUILDENSTERN A thing, my lord! HAMLET Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. [Exeunt] Scene 3 [Another room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, attended]

KING CLAUDIUS I have sent to seek him, and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He's loved of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; And where tis so, the offender's scourge is weigh'd, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,

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This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are relieved, Or not at all. [Enter ROSENCRANTZ] How now! what hath befall'n? ROSENCRANTZ Where the dead body is bestow'd, my lord, We cannot get from him. KING CLAUDIUS But where is he? ROSENCRANTZ Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure. KING CLAUDIUS Bring him before us. ROSENCRANTZ Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord. [Enter HAMLET and GUILDENSTERN] KING CLAUDIUS Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius? HAMLET At supper. KING CLAUDIUS At supper! where? HAMLET Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that's the end. KING CLAUDIUS Alas, alas! HAMLET A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and cat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. KING CLAUDIUS What dost you mean by this? HAMLET

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Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. KING CLAUDIUS Where is Polonius? HAMLET In heaven; send hither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i' the other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. KING CLAUDIUS Go seek him there. [To some Attendants] HAMLET He will stay till ye come. [Exeunt Attendants] KING CLAUDIUS Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety, -- Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done, -- must send thee hence With fiery quickness: therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, The associates tend, and every thing is bent For England. HAMLET For England! KING CLAUDIUS Ay, Hamlet. HAMLET Good. KING CLAUDIUS So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. HAMLET I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother. KING CLAUDIUS Thy loving father, Hamlet. HAMLET My mother: father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England! [Exit]

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KING CLAUDIUS Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard; Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night: Away! for every thing is seal'd and done That else leans on the affair: pray you, make haste. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN] And, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught -- As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us -- thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process; which imports at full, By letters congruing to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me: till I know 'tis done, Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun. [Exit] Scene 4 [A plain in Denmark.] [Enter FORTINBRAS, a Captain, and Soldiers, marching] PRINCE FORTINBRAS Go, captain, from me greet the Danish king; Tell him that, by his licence, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promised march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so. Captain I will do't, my lord. PRINCE FORTINBRAS Go softly on. [Exeunt FORTINBRAS and Soldiers] [Enter HAMLET, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and others] HAMLET Good sir, whose powers are these? Captain They are of Norway, sir. HAMLET How purposed, sir, I pray you?

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Captain Against some part of Poland. HAMLET Who commands them, sir? Captain The nephews to old Norway, Fortinbras. HAMLET Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? Captain Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. HAMLET Why, then the Polack never will defend it. Captain Yes, it is already garrison'd. HAMLET Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw: This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. Captain God be wi' you, sir. [Exit] ROSENCRANTZ Wilt please you go, my lord? HAMLET I'll be with you straight go a little before. [Exeunt all except HAMLET] How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure, he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason

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To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;' Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me: Witness this army of such mass and charge Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! [Exit] Scene 5 [Elsinore. A room in the castle.] [Enter QUEEN GERTRUDE, HORATIO, and a Gentleman]

QUEEN GERTRUDE I will not speak with her. Gentleman She is importunate, indeed distract: Her mood will needs be pitied.

QUEEN GERTRUDE What would she have?

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Gentleman She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. HORATIO 'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. QUEEN GERTRUDE Let her come in. [Exit HORATIO] To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. [Re-enter HORATIO, with OPHELIA] OPHELIA Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? QUEEN GERTRUDE How now, Ophelia! OPHELIA [Sings] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon. QUEEN GERTRUDE Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? OPHELIA Say you? nay, pray you, mark. [Sings] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone;

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At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. QUEEN GERTRUDE Nay, but, Ophelia, -- OPHELIA Pray you, mark. [Sings] White his shroud as the mountain snow, -- [Enter KING CLAUDIUS] QUEEN GERTRUDE Alas, look here, my lord. OPHELIA [Sings] Larded with sweet flowers Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. KING CLAUDIUS How do you, pretty lady? OPHELIA Well, God 'ild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! KING CLAUDIUS Conceit upon her father. OPHELIA Pray you, let's have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [Sings] To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes, And dupp'd the chamber-door; Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. KING CLAUDIUS Pretty Ophelia! OPHELIA Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't: [Sings]

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By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do't, if they come to't; By cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promised me to wed. So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed. KING CLAUDIUS How long hath she been thus? OPHELIA I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night. [Exit] KING CLAUDIUS Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit HORATIO] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies But in battalions. First, her father slain: Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly, In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts: Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father's death; Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,

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Like to a murdering-piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within] QUEEN GERTRUDE Alack, what noise is this? KING CLAUDIUS Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. [Enter another Gentleman] What is the matter? Gentleman Save yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry 'Choose we: Laertes shall be king:' Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds: 'Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!' QUEEN GERTRUDE How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! KING CLAUDIUS The doors are broke. [Noise within] [Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following] LAERTES Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all without. Danes No, let's come in. LAERTES I pray you, give me leave. Danes We will, we will. [They retire without the door] LAERTES I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father! QUEEN GERTRUDE

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Calmly, good Laertes. LAERTES That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard, Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother. KING CLAUDIUS What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: There's such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man. LAERTES Where is my father? KING CLAUDIUS Dead. QUEEN GERTRUDE But not by him. KING CLAUDIUS Let him demand his fill. LAERTES How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be revenged Most thoroughly for my father. KING CLAUDIUS Who shall stay you? LAERTES My will, not all the world: And for my means, I'll husband them so well, They shall go far with little. KING CLAUDIUS Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge,

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That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? LAERTES None but his enemies. KING CLAUDIUS Will you know them then? LAERTES To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms; And like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood. KING CLAUDIUS Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father's death, And am most sensible in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment pierce As day does to your eye. Danes [Within] Let her come in. LAERTES How now! what noise is that? [Re-enter OPHELIA] O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens! is't possible, a young maid's wits Should be as moral as an old man's life? Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. OPHELIA [Sings] They bore him barefaced on the bier; Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; And in his grave rain'd many a tear: -- Fare you well, my dove! LAERTES

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Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. OPHELIA [Sings] You must sing a-down a-down, An you call him a-down-a. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. LAERTES This nothing's more than matter. OPHELIA There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts. LAERTES A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted. OPHELIA There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end, -- [Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. LAERTES Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. OPHELIA [Sings] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead: Go to thy death-bed: He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll: He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha' mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wi' ye. [Exit]

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LAERTES Do you see this, O God? KING CLAUDIUS Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will. And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me: If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we can ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. LAERTES Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure funeral -- No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation -- Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, That I must call't in question. KING CLAUDIUS So you shall; And where the offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you, go with me. [Exeunt] Scene 6 [Another room in the castle.] [Enter HORATIO and a Servant] HORATIO What are they that would speak with me? Servant Sailors, sir: they say they have letters for you. HORATIO Let them come in. [Exit Servant] I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. [Enter Sailors] First Sailor God bless you, sir.

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HORATIO Let him bless thee too. First Sailor He shall, sir, an't please him. There's a letter for you, sir; it comes from the ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. HORATIO [Reads] 'Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the king: they have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them: on the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy: but they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king have the letters I have sent; and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. 'He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.' Come, I will make you way for these your letters; And do't the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. [Exeunt] Scene 7 [Another room in the castle.] [Enter KING CLAUDIUS and LAERTES]

KING CLAUDIUS Now must your conscience my acquaintance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,

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That he which hath your noble father slain Pursued my life. LAERTES It well appears: but tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr'd up. KING CLAUDIUS O, for two special reasons; Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew'd, But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself -- My virtue or my plague, be it either which -- She's so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him; Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber'd for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim'd them. LAERTES And so have I a noble father lost; A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections: but my revenge will come. KING CLAUDIUS Break not your sleeps for that: you must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more: I loved your father, and we love ourself; And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine -- [Enter a Messenger] How now! what news? Messenger

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Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: This to your majesty; this to the queen. KING CLAUDIUS From Hamlet! who brought them? Messenger Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not: They were given me by Claudio; he received them Of him that brought them. KING CLAUDIUS Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us. [Exit Messenger] [Reads] 'High and mighty, You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return. 'HAMLET.' What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing? LAERTES Know you the hand? KING CLAUDIUS 'Tis Hamlets character. 'Naked! And in a postscript here, he says 'alone.' Can you advise me? LAERTES I'm lost in it, my lord. But let him come; It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 'Thus didest thou.' KING CLAUDIUS If it be so, Laertes -- As how should it be so? how otherwise? -- Will you be ruled by me? LAERTES Ay, my lord; So you will not o'errule me to a peace. KING CLAUDIUS To thine own peace. If he be now return'd, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him

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To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall: And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practise And call it accident. LAERTES My lord, I will be ruled; The rather, if you could devise it so That I might be the organ. KING CLAUDIUS It falls right. You have been talk'd of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet's hearing, for a quality Wherein, they say, you shine: your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege. LAERTES What part is that, my lord? KING CLAUDIUS A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since, Here was a gentleman of Normandy: -- I've seen myself, and served against, the French, And they can well on horseback: but this gallant Had witchcraft in't; he grew unto his seat; And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As he had been incorpsed and demi-natured With the brave beast: so far he topp'd my thought, That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did. LAERTES A Norman was't? KING CLAUDIUS A Norman. LAERTES Upon my life, Lamond. KING CLAUDIUS

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The very same. LAERTES I know him well: he is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation. KING CLAUDIUS He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out, 'twould be a sight indeed, If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation, He swore, had had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you opposed them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o'er, to play with him. Now, out of this, -- LAERTES What out of this, my lord? KING CLAUDIUS Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart? LAERTES Why ask you this? KING CLAUDIUS Not that I think you did not love your father; But that I know love is begun by time; And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too much: that we would do We should do when we would; for this 'would' changes And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o' the ulcer: -- Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake,

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To show yourself your father's son in deed More than in words? LAERTES To cut his throat i' the church. KING CLAUDIUS No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return'd shall know you are come home: We'll put on those shall praise your excellence And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads: he, being remiss, Most generous and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that, with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practise Requite him for your father. LAERTES I will do't: And, for that purpose, I'll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratch'd withal: I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death. KING CLAUDIUS Let's further think of this; Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape: if this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance, 'Twere better not assay'd: therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold, If this should blast in proof. Soft! let me see: We'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings: I ha't. When in your motion you are hot and dry -- As make your bouts more violent to that end -- And that he calls for drink, I'll have prepared him

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A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck, Our purpose may hold there. [Enter QUEEN GERTRUDE] How now, sweet queen! QUEEN GERTRUDE One woe doth tread upon another's heel, So fast they follow; your sister's drown'd, Laertes. LAERTES Drown'd! O, where? QUEEN GERTRUDE There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. LAERTES Alas, then, she is drown'd? QUEEN GERTRUDE Drown'd, drown'd. LAERTES Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord: I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.

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[Exit] KING CLAUDIUS Let's follow, Gertrude: How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let's follow. [Exeunt] Act 5 Scene 1 [A churchyard.] [Enter two Clowns, with spades, &c]

First Clown Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation? Second Clown I tell thee she is: and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial. First Clown How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence? Second Clown Why, 'tis found so. First Clown It must be 'se offendendo;' it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches: it is, to act, to do, to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly. Second Clown Nay, but hear you, goodman delver, -- First Clown Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the man; good; if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes, -- mark you that; but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life. Second Clown But is this law?

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First Clown Ay, marry, is't; crowner's quest law. Second Clown Will you ha' the truth on't? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial. First Clown Why, there thou say'st: and the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentleman but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam's profession. Second Clown Was he a gentleman? First Clown He was the first that ever bore arms. Second Clown Why, he had none. First Clown What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says 'Adam digged:' could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself -- Second Clown Go to. First Clown What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter? Second Clown The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants. First Clown I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that do in: now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come. Second Clown

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'Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?' First Clown Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. Second Clown Marry, now I can tell. First Clown To't. Second Clown Mass, I cannot tell. [Enter HAMLET and HORATIO, at a distance] First Clown Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and, when you are asked this question next, say 'a grave-maker: 'the houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan: fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit Second Clown] [He digs and sings] In youth, when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet, To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove, O, methought, there was nothing meet. HAMLET Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making? HORATIO Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. HAMLET 'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. First Clown [Sings] But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such. [Throws up a skull] HAMLET

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That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not? HORATIO It might, my lord. HAMLET Or of a courtier; which could say 'Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not? HORATIO Ay, my lord. HAMLET Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think on't. A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. [Throws up another skull] HAMLET There's another: why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The

259 The Pilgrim’s Progress very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha? HORATIO Not a jot more, my lord. HAMLET Is not parchment made of sheepskins? HORATIO Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. HAMLET They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah? First Clown Mine, sir. [Sings] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. HAMLET I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't. First Clown You lie out on't, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in't, and yet it is mine. HAMLET 'Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest. First Clown 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away gain, from me to you. HAMLET What man dost thou dig it for? First Clown For no man, sir. HAMLET What woman, then? First Clown For none, neither. HAMLET Who is to be buried in't? First Clown One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead. HAMLET

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How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken a note of it; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he gaffs his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker? First Clown Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. HAMLET How long is that since? First Clown Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that is mad, and sent into England. HAMLET Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? First Clown Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no great matter there. HAMLET Why? First Clown 'Twill, a not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he. HAMLET How came he mad?

First Clown Very strangely, they say. HAMLET How strangely? First Clown Faith, e'en with losing his wits. HAMLET Upon what ground? First Clown Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. HAMLET

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How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot? First Clown I' faith, if he be not rotten before he die -- as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in -- he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year. HAMLET Why he more than another? First Clown Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a skull now; this skull has lain in the earth three and twenty years. HAMLET Whose was it? First Clown A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you think it was? HAMLET Nay, I know not. First Clown A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! a' poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester. HAMLET This? First Clown E'en that. HAMLET Let me see. [Takes the skull] Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let

262 The Pilgrim’s Progress her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. HORATIO What's that, my lord? HAMLET Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth? HORATIO E'en so. HAMLET And smelt so? pah! [Puts down the skull] HORATIO E'en so, my lord. HAMLET To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole? HORATIO 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so. HAMLET No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw! But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king. [Enter Priest, &c. in procession; the Corpse of OPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following; KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, their trains, &c] The queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo its own life: 'twas of some estate. Couch we awhile, and mark.

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[Retiring with HORATIO] LAERTES What ceremony else? HAMLET That is Laertes, A very noble youth: mark. LAERTES What ceremony else? First Priest Her obsequies have been as far enlarged As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful; And, but that great command o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodged Till the last trumpet: for charitable prayers, Shards, flints and pebbles should be thrown on her; Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants, Her maiden strewments and the bringing home Of bell and burial. LAERTES Must there no more be done? First Priest No more be done: We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls. LAERTES Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE Sweets to the sweet: farewell! [Scattering flowers] I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave. LAERTES

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O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: [Leaps into the grave] Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. HAMLET [Advancing] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave] LAERTES The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him] HAMLET Thou pray'st not well. I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat; For, though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have I something in me dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear: hold off thy hand. KING CLAUDIUS Pluck them asunder. QUEEN GERTRUDE Hamlet, Hamlet! All Gentlemen, -- HORATIO Good my lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave] HAMLET Why I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. QUEEN GERTRUDE O my son, what theme?

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HAMLET I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? KING CLAUDIUS O, he is mad, Laertes. QUEEN GERTRUDE For love of God, forbear him. HAMLET 'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do: Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I: And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou. QUEEN GERTRUDE This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His silence will sit drooping. HAMLET Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I loved you ever: but it is no matter; Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew and dog will have his day. [Exit] KING CLAUDIUS I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him. [Exit HORATIO] [To LAERTES] Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech; We'll put the matter to the present push. Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living monument:

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An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then, in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt] Scene 2 [A hall in the castle.] [Enter HAMLET and HORATIO]

HAMLET So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other; You do remember all the circumstance? HORATIO Remember it, my lord? HAMLET Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, That would not let me sleep: methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly, And praised be rashness for it, let us know, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will, -- HORATIO That is most certain. HAMLET Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark Groped I to find out them; had my desire. Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, -- O royal knavery! -- an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons Importing Denmark's health and England's too, With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off. HORATIO Is't possible? HAMLET

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Here's the commission: read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed? HORATIO I beseech you. HAMLET Being thus be-netted round with villanies, -- Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play -- I sat me down, Devised a new commission, wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair and labour'd much How to forget that learning, but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service: wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote? HORATIO Ay, good my lord. HAMLET An earnest conjuration from the king, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should stiff her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma 'tween their amities, And many such-like 'As'es of great charge, That, on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow'd. HORATIO How was this seal'd? HAMLET Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father's signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal; Folded the writ up in form of the other, Subscribed it, gave't the impression, placed it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent Thou know'st already. HORATIO So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't. HAMLET

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Why, man, they did make love to this employment; They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow: 'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. HORATIO Why, what a king is this! HAMLET Does it not, think'st thee, stand me now upon -- He that hath kill'd my king and whored my mother, Popp'd in between the election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage -- is't not perfect conscience, To quit him with this arm? and is't not to be damn'd, To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? HORATIO It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. HAMLET It will be short: the interim is mine; And a man's life's no more than to say 'One.' But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For, by the image of my cause, I see The portraiture of his: I'll court his favours. But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion. HORATIO Peace! who comes here? [Enter OSRIC] OSRIC Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. HAMLET I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly? HORATIO No, my good lord. HAMLET Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile: let a

269 The Pilgrim’s Progress beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. OSRIC Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty. HAMLET I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head. OSRIC I thank your lordship, it is very hot. HAMLET No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly. OSRIC It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. HAMLET But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. OSRIC Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, -- as 'twere, -- I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head: sir, this is the matter, -- HAMLET I beseech you, remember -- [HAMLET moves him to put on his hat] OSRIC Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. HAMLET Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of

270 The Pilgrim’s Progress great article; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more. OSRIC Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. HAMLET The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath? OSRIC Sir? HORATIO Is't not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do't, sir, really. HAMLET What imports the nomination of this gentleman? OSRIC Of Laertes? HORATIO His purse is empty already; all's golden words are spent. HAMLET Of him, sir. OSRIC I know you are not ignorant -- HAMLET I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir? OSRIC You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is -- HAMLET I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but, to know a man well, were to know himself. OSRIC I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he's unfellowed. HAMLET What's his weapon? OSRIC Rapier and dagger. HAMLET

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That's two of his weapons: but, well. OSRIC The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses: against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. HAMLET What call you the carriages? HORATIO I knew you must be edified by the margent ere you had done. OSRIC The carriages, sir, are the hangers. HAMLET The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides: I would it might be hangers till then. But, on: six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages; that's the French bet against the Danish. Why is this 'imponed,' as you call it? OSRIC The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for nine; and it would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. HAMLET How if I answer 'no'? OSRIC I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial. HAMLET Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please his majesty, 'tis the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. OSRIC Shall I re-deliver you e'en so? HAMLET

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To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will. OSRIC I commend my duty to your lordship. HAMLET Yours, yours. [Exit OSRIC] He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for's turn. HORATIO This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. HAMLET He did comply with his dug, before he sucked it. Thus has he -- and many more of the same bevy that I know the dressy age dotes on -- only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out. [Enter a Lord] Lord My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall: he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time. HAMLET I am constant to my purpose; they follow the king's pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now. Lord The king and queen and all are coming down. HAMLET In happy time. Lord The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play. HAMLET She well instructs me. [Exit Lord] HORATIO You will lose this wager, my lord. HAMLET

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I do not think so: since he went into France, I have been in continual practise: I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart: but it is no matter. HORATIO Nay, good my lord, -- HAMLET It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a woman. HORATIO If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit. HAMLET Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes? [Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, LAERTES, Lords, OSRIC, and Attendants with foils, &c] KING CLAUDIUS Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me. [KING CLAUDIUS puts LAERTES' hand into HAMLET's] HAMLET Give me your pardon, sir: I've done you wrong; But pardon't, as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd With sore distraction. What I have done, That might your nature, honour and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet: If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness: if't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy. Sir, in this audience,

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Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, And hurt my brother. LAERTES I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most To my revenge: but in my terms of honour I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement, Till by some elder masters, of known honour, I have a voice and precedent of peace, To keep my name ungored. But till that time, I do receive your offer'd love like love, And will not wrong it. HAMLET I embrace it freely; And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on. LAERTES Come, one for me. HAMLET I'll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. LAERTES You mock me, sir. HAMLET No, by this hand. KING CLAUDIUS Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager? HAMLET Very well, my lord Your grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side. KING CLAUDIUS I do not fear it; I have seen you both: But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds. LAERTES This is too heavy, let me see another. HAMLET This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

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[They prepare to play] OSRIC Ay, my good lord. KING CLAUDIUS Set me the stoops of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire: The king shall drink to Hamlet's better breath; And in the cup an union shall he throw, Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, 'Now the king dunks to Hamlet.' Come, begin: And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. HAMLET Come on, sir. LAERTES Come, my lord. [They play] HAMLET One. LAERTES No. HAMLET Judgment. OSRIC A hit, a very palpable hit. LAERTES Well; again. KING CLAUDIUS Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here's to thy health. [Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within] Give him the cup. HAMLET I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile. Come. [They play] Another hit; what say you?

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LAERTES A touch, a touch, I do confess. KING CLAUDIUS Our son shall win. QUEEN GERTRUDE He's fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows; The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. HAMLET Good madam! KING CLAUDIUS Gertrude, do not drink. QUEEN GERTRUDE I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me. KING CLAUDIUS [Aside] It is the poison'd cup: it is too late. HAMLET I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by. QUEEN GERTRUDE Come, let me wipe thy face. LAERTES My lord, I'll hit him now. KING CLAUDIUS I do not think't. LAERTES [Aside] And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience. HAMLET Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally; I pray you, pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me. LAERTES Say you so? come on. [They play] OSRIC Nothing, neither way. LAERTES Have at you now! [LAERTES wounds HAMLET; then in scuffling, they change rapiers, and HAMLET wounds LAERTES]

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KING CLAUDIUS Part them; they are incensed. HAMLET Nay, come, again. [QUEEN GERTRUDE falls] OSRIC Look to the queen there, ho! HORATIO They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? OSRIC How is't, Laertes? LAERTES Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric; I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery. HAMLET How does the queen? KING CLAUDIUS She swounds to see them bleed. QUEEN GERTRUDE No, no, the drink, the drink, -- O my dear Hamlet, -- The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [Dies] HAMLET O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd: Treachery! Seek it out. LAERTES It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good; In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom'd: the foul practise Hath turn'd itself on me lo, here I lie, Never to rise again: thy mother's poison'd: I can no more: the king, the king's to blame. HAMLET The point! -- envenom'd too! Then, venom, to thy work. [Stabs KING CLAUDIUS] All Treason! treason! KING CLAUDIUS

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O, yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt. HAMLET Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother. [KING CLAUDIUS dies] LAERTES He is justly served; It is a poison temper'd by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me. [Dies] HAMLET Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time -- as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest -- O, I could tell you -- But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou livest; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. HORATIO Never believe it: I am more an antique Roman than a Dane: Here's yet some liquor left. HAMLET As thou'rt a man, Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within] What warlike noise is this? OSRIC

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Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. HAMLET O, I die, Horatio; The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England; But I do prophesy the election lights On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited. The rest is silence. [Dies] HORATIO Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Why does the drum come hither? [March within] [Enter FORTINBRAS, the English Ambassadors, and others] PRINCE FORTINBRAS Where is this sight? HORATIO What is it ye would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. PRINCE FORTINBRAS This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck? First Ambassador The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late: The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead: Where should we have our thanks? HORATIO Not from his mouth, Had it the ability of life to thank you: He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England,

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Are here arrived give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view; And let me speak to the yet unknowing world How these things came about: so shall you hear Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall'n on the inventors' reads: all this can I Truly deliver. PRINCE FORTINBRAS Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune: I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. HORATIO Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more; But let this same be presently perform'd, Even while men's minds are wild; lest more mischance On plots and errors, happen. PRINCE FORTINBRAS Let four captains Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage; For he was likely, had he been put on, To have proved most royally: and, for his passage, The soldiers' music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies: such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. [A dead march. Exeunt, bearing off the dead bodies; after which a peal of ordnance is shot off]

Christopher Marlow, Dr Faustus

Summary

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Doctor Faustus, a talented German scholar at Wittenburg, rails against the limits of human knowledge. He has learned everything he can learn, or so he thinks, from the conventional academic disciplines. All of these things have left him unsatisfied, so now he turns to magic. A Good Angle and an Evil Angel arrive, representing Faustus' choice between Christian conscience and the path to damnation. The former advises him to leave off this pursuit of magic, and the latter tempts him. From two fellow scholars, Valdes and Cornelius, Faustus learns the fundamentals of the black arts. He thrills at the power he will have, and the great feats he'll perform. He summons the devil Mephostophilis. They flesh out the terms of their agreement, with Mephostophilis representing Lucifer. Faustus will sell his soul, in exchange for twenty-four years of power, with Mephostophilis as servant to his every whim. In a comic relief scene, we learn that Faustus' servant Wagner has gleaned some magic learning. He uses it to convince Robin the Clown to be his servant. Before the time comes to sign the contract, Faustus has misgivings, but he puts them aside. Mephostophilis returns, and Faustus signs away his soul, writing with his own blood. The words "Homo fuge" ("Fly, man) appear on his arm, and Faustus is seized by fear. Mephostophilis distracts him with a dance of devils. Faustus requests a wife, a demand Mephostophilis denies, but he does give Faustus books full of knowledge. Some time has passed. Faustus curses Mephostophilis for depriving him of heaven, although he has seen many wonders. He manages to torment Mephostophilis, he can't stomach mention of God, and the devil flees. The Good Angel and Evil Angel arrive again. The Good Angel tells him to repent, and the Evil Angel tells him to stick to his wicked ways. Lucifer, Belzebub, and Mephostophilis return, to intimidate Faustus. He is cowed by them, and agrees to speak and think no more of God. They delight him with a pageant of the Seven Deadly Sins, and then Lucifer promises to show Faustus hell. Meanwhile, Robin the Clown has gotten one of Faustus' magic books. Faustus has explored the heavens and the earth from a chariot drawn by dragons, and is now flying to Rome, where the feast honoring St. Peter is about to be celebrated. Mephostophilis and Faustus wait for the Pope, depicted as an arrogant, decidedly unholy man. They play a series of tricks, by using magic to disguise themselves and make themselves invisible, before leaving. The Chorus returns to tell us that Faustus returns home, where his vast knowledge of astronomy and his abilities earn him wide renown. Meanwhile,

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Robin the Clown has also learned magic, and uses it to impress his friend Rafe and summon Mephostophilis, who doesn't seem too happy to be called. At the court of Charles V, Faustus performs illusions that delight the Emperor. He also humiliates a knight named Benvolio. When Benvolio and his friends try to avenge the humiliation, Faustus has his devils hurt them and cruelly transform them, so that horns grow on their heads. Faustus swindles a Horse-courser, and when the Horse-courser returns, Faustus plays a frightening trick on him. Faustus then goes off to serve the Duke of Vanholt. Robin the Clown, his friend Dick, the Horse-courser, and a Carter all meet. They all have been swindled or hurt by Faustus' magic. They go off to the court of the Duke to settle scores with Faustus. Faustus entertains the Duke and Duchess with petty illusions, before Robin the Clown and his band of ruffians arrives. Faustus toys with them, besting them with magic, to the delight of the Duke and Duchess. Faustus' twenty-four years are running out. Wagner tells the audience that he thinks Faustus prepares for death. He has made his will, leaving all to Wagner. But even as death approaches, Faustus spends his days feasting and drinking with the other students. For the delight of his fellow scholars, Faustus summons a spirit to take the shape of Helen of Troy. Later, an Old Man enters, warning Faustus to repent. Faustus opts for pleasure instead, and asks Mephostophilis to bring Helen of Troy to him, to be his love and comfort during these last days. Mephostophilis readily agrees. Later, Faustus tells his scholar friends that he is damned, and that his power came at the price of his soul. Concerned, the Scholars exit, leaving Faustus to meet his fate. As the hour approaches, Mephostophilis taunts Faustus. Faustus blames Mephostophilis for his damnation, and the devil proudly takes credit for it. The Good and Evil Angel arrive, and the Good Angel abandons Faustus. The gates of Hell open. The Evil Angel taunts Faustus, naming the horrible tortures seen there. The Clock strikes eleven. Faustus gives a final, frenzied monologue, regretting his choices. At midnight the devils enter. As Faustus begs God and the devil for mercy, the devils drag him away. Later, the Scholar friends find Faustus' body, torn to pieces. Epilogue. The Chorus emphasizes that Faustus is gone, his once-great potential wasted. The Chorus warns the audience to remember his fall, and the lessons it offers.

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THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE FROM THE QUARTO OF 1616.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

THE POPE. THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY. RAYMOND, king of Hungary. DUKE OF SAXONY. BRUNO. DUKE OF VANHOLT. MARTINO, FREDERICK, gentlemen. BENVOLIO, FAUSTUS. VALDES, friends to FAUSTUS. CORNELIUS, WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS. Clown. ROBIN. DICK. Vintner. Horse-courser. Carter. An Old Man. Scholars, Cardinals, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, Bishops, Monks, Friars, Soldiers, and Attendants. DUCHESS OF VANHOLT. 284 The Pilgrim’s Progress

Hostess. LUCIFER. BELZEBUB. MEPHISTOPHILIS. Good Angel. Evil Angel. The Seven Deadly Sins. Devils. Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour, of DARIUS, and of HELEN. Chorus.

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene, Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens; Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly verse: Only this, gentles,--we must now perform The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: And now to patient judgments we appeal, And speak for Faustus in his infancy. Now is he born of parents base of stock, In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: At riper years, to Wittenberg he went, Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So much he profits in divinity, That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute In th' heavenly matters of theology; Till swoln with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; For, falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now with learning's golden gifts, He surfeits upon cursed necromancy; Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: And this the man that in his study sits.

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[Exit.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: Having commenc'd, be a divine in show, Yet level at the end of every art, And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me! Bene disserere est finis logices. Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? Affords this art no greater miracle? Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end: A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come: Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold, And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure: Summum bonum medicinoe sanitas, The end of physic is our body's health. Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end? Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, And thousand desperate maladies been cur'd? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Couldst thou make men to live eternally, Or, being dead, raise them to life again, Then this profession were to be esteem'd. Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian? [Reads.] Si una eademque res legatur duobus, alter rem, alter valorem rei, &c. A petty case of paltry legacies! [Reads.] Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c. Such is the subject of the institute, And universal body of the law: This study fits a mercenary drudge, Who aims at nothing but external trash; Too servile and illiberal for me. When all is done, divinity is best:

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Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well. [Reads.] Stipendium peccati mors est. Ha! Stipendium, &c. The reward of sin is death: that's hard. [Reads.] Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas; If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so consequently die: Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera, What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of magicians, And necromantic books are heavenly; Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters; Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. O, what a world of profit and delight, Of power, of honour, and omnipotence, Is promis'd to the studious artizan! All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command: emperors and kings Are but obeyed in their several provinces; But his dominion that exceeds in this, Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man; A sound magician is a demigod: Here tire, my brains, to gain a deity.

Enter WAGNER.

Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends, The German Valdes and Cornelius; Request them earnestly to visit me. WAGNER. I will, sir. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

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GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside, And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head! Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy. EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd: Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, Lord and commander of these elements. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this! Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities, Perform what desperate enterprise I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates; I'll have them read me strange philosophy, And tell the secrets of all foreign kings; I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg; I'll have them fill the public schools with silk, Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad; I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring, And chase the Prince of Parma from our land, And reign sole king of all the provinces; Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war, Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp-bridge, I'll make my servile spirits to invent.

Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS.

Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, And make me blest with your sage conference. Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, Know that your words have won me at the last To practice magic and concealed arts. Philosophy is odious and obscure; Both law and physic are for petty wits: 'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me. Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt;

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And I, that have with subtle syllogisms Gravell'd the pastors of the German church, And made the flowering pride of Wittenberg Swarm to my problems, as th' infernal spirits On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell, Will be as cunning as Agrippa was, Whose shadow made all Europe honour him. VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience, Shall make all nations to canonize us. As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords, So shall the spirits of every element Be always serviceable to us three; Like lions shall they guard us when we please; Like Almain rutters with their horsemen's staves, Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides; Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids, Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the queen of love: From Venice shall they drag huge argosies, And from America the golden fleece That yearly stuffs old Philip's treasury; If learned Faustus will be resolute. FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this As thou to live: therefore object it not. CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform Will make thee vow to study nothing else. He that is grounded in astrology, Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals, Hath all the principles magic doth require: Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd, And more frequented for this mystery Than heretofore the Delphian oracle. The spirits tell me they can dry the sea, And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks, Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid Within the massy entrails of the earth: Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want? FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul! Come, shew me some demonstrations magical, That I may conjure in some bushy grove, And have these joys in full possession.

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VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus' works, The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament; And whatsoever else is requisite We will inform thee ere our conference cease. CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art; And then, all other ceremonies learn'd, Faustus may try his cunning by himself. VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments, And then wilt thou be perfecter than I. FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat, We'll canvass every quiddity thereof; For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do: This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore. [Exeunt.]

Enter two SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont to make our schools ring with sic probo. SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we presently know; here comes his boy.

Enter WAGNER.

FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master? WAGNER. God in heaven knows. SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know, then? WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not. FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us where he is. WAGNER. That follows not by force of argument, which you, being licentiates, should stand upon: therefore acknowledge your error, and be attentive. SECOND SCHOLAR. Then you will not tell us? WAGNER. You are deceived, for I will tell you: yet, if you were not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is he not corpus naturale? and is not that mobile? then wherefore should you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt but to see you both hanged

290 The Pilgrim’s Progress the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-- Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren! [Exit.] FIRST SCHOLAR. O Faustus! Then I fear that which I have long suspected, That thou art fall'n into that damned art For which they two are infamous through the world. SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, not allied to me, The danger of his soul would make me mourn. But, come, let us go and inform the Rector: It may be his grave counsel may reclaim him. FIRST SCHOLAR. I fear me nothing will reclaim him now. SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us see what we can do. [Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS.

FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the night, Longing to view Orion's drizzling look, Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky, And dims the welkin with her pitchy breath, Faustus, begin thine incantations, And try if devils will obey thy hest, Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them. Within this circle is Jehovah's name, Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd, Th' abbreviated names of holy saints, Figures of every adjunct to the heavens, And characters of signs and erring stars, By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise: Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute, And try the utmost magic can perform. [Thunder.] Sint mihi dii Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris:

291 The Pilgrim’s Progress per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

I charge thee to return, and change thy shape; Thou art too ugly to attend on me: Go, and return an old Franciscan friar; That holy shape becomes a devil best.

[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

I see there's virtue in my heavenly words. Who would not be proficient in this art? How pliant is this Mephistophilis, Full of obedience and humility! Such is the force of magic and my spells.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar.

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do? FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live, To do whatever Faustus shall command, Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere, Or the ocean to overwhelm the world. MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer, And may not follow thee without his leave: No more than he commands must we perform. FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me? MEPHIST. No, I came hither of mine own accord. FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches raise thee? speak! MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens; For, when we hear one rack the name of God, Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ, We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul; Nor will we come, unless he use such means Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd. Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring Is stoutly to abjure all godliness, And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.

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FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath Already done; and holds this principle, There is no chief but only Belzebub; To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself. This word "damnation" terrifies not me, For I confound hell in Elysium: My ghost be with the old philosophers! But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord? MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits. FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once? MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils? MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence; For which God threw him from the face of heaven. FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer? MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer, And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd? MEPHIST. In hell. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell? MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells, In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss? O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike a terror to my fainting soul! FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate For being deprived of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess. Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer: Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity, Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four and twenty years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness; Having thee ever to attend on me, To give me whatsoever I shall ask,

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To tell me whatsoever I demand, To slay mine enemies, and to aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will. Go, and return to mighty Lucifer, And meet me in my study at midnight, And then resolve me of thy master's mind. MEPHIST. I will, Faustus. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis. By him I'll be great emperor of the world, And make a bridge thorough the moving air, To pass the ocean with a band of men; I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore, And make that country continent to Spain, And both contributary to my crown: The Emperor shall not live but by my leave, Nor any potentate of Germany. Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd, I'll live in speculation of this art, Till Mephistophilis return again. [Exit.]

Enter WAGNER and CLOWN.

WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy. CLOWN. Boy! O, disgrace to my person! zounds, boy in your face! You have seen many boys with beards, I am sure. WAGNER. Sirrah, hast thou no comings in? CLOWN. Yes, and goings out too, you may see, sir. WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jests in his nakedness! I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry, that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood-raw. CLOWN. Not so neither: I had need to have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you. WAGNER. Sirrah, wilt thou be my man, and wait on me, and I will make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus? CLOWN. What, in verse? WAGNER. No, slave; in beaten silk and staves-acre. CLOWN. Staves-acre! that's good to kill vermin: then, belike,

294 The Pilgrim’s Progress if I serve you, I shall be lousy. WAGNER. Why, so thou shalt be, whether thou dost it or no; for, sirrah, if thou dost not presently bind thyself to me for seven years, I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars, and make them tear thee in pieces. CLOWN. Nay, sir, you may save yourself a labour, for they are as familiar with me as if they paid for their meat and drink, I can tell you. WAGNER. Well, sirrah, leave your jesting, and take these guilders. [Gives money.] CLOWN. Yes, marry, sir; and I thank you too. WAGNER. So, now thou art to be at an hour's warning, whensoever and wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee. CLOWN. Here, take your guilders again; I'll none of 'em. WAGNER. Not I; thou art pressed: prepare thyself, or I will presently raise up two devils to carry thee away.--Banio! Belcher! CLOWN. Belcher! an Belcher come here, I'll belch him: I am not afraid of a devil.

Enter two DEVILS.

WAGNER. How now, sir! will you serve me now? CLOWN. Ay, good Wagner; take away the devil[s], then. WAGNER. Spirits, away! [Exeunt DEVILS.] Now, sirrah, follow me. CLOWN. I will, sir: but hark you, master; will you teach me this conjuring occupation? WAGNER. Ay, sirrah, I'll teach thee to turn thyself to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing. CLOWN. A dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat! O, brave, Wagner! WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and see that you walk attentively, and let your right eye be always diametrally fixed upon my left heel, that thou mayst quasi vestigiis nostris insistere. CLOWN. Well, sir, I warrant you. [Exeunt.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

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FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus, Must thou needs be damn'd, canst thou not be sav'd. What boots it, then, to think on God or heaven? Away with such vain fancies, and despair; Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub: Now, go not backward, Faustus; be resolute: Why waver'st thou? O, something soundeth in mine ear, "Abjure this magic, turn to God again!" Why, he loves thee not; The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite, Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub: To him I'll build an altar and a church, And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art. FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance--what of these? GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven! EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, That make men foolish that do use them most. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things. EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth. [Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. Wealth! Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine. When Mephistophilis shall stand by me, What power can hurt me? Faustus, thou art safe: Cast no more doubts.--Mephistophilis, come, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis, Veni, veni, Mephistophile!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord?

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MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives, So he will buy my service with his soul. FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee. MEPHIST. But now thou must bequeath it solemnly, And write a deed of gift with thine own blood; For that security craves Lucifer. If thou deny it, I must back to hell. FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom. FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus? MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. FAUSTUS. Why, have you any pain that torture others? MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men. But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul? And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee, And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask. FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I'll give it thee. MEPHIST. Then, Faustus, stab thine arm courageously, And bind thy soul, that at some certain day Great Lucifer may claim it as his own; And then be thou as great as Lucifer. FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, Faustus hath cut his arm, and with his proper blood Assures his soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night! View here this blood that trickles from mine arm, And let it be propitious for my wish. MEPHIST. But, Faustus, Write it in manner of a deed of gift. FAUSTUS. [Writing] Ay, so I do. But, Mephistophilis, My blood congeals, and I can write no more. MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend? Is it unwilling I should write this bill? Why streams it not, that I may write afresh? FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: O, there it stay'd! Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul thine own? Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL.

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Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with the chafer of fire.

MEPHIST. See, Faustus, here is fire; set it on. FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again; Now will I make an end immediately. [Writes.] MEPHIST. What will not I do to obtain his soul? [Aside.] FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended, And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer. But what is this inscription on mine arm? Homo, fuge: whither should I fly? If unto God, he'll throw me down to hell. My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-- O, yes, I see it plain; even here is writ, Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly. MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind. [Aside, and then exit.]

Enter DEVILS, giving crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS. They dance, and then depart.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. What means this show? speak, Mephistophilis. MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind, And let thee see what magic can perform. FAUSTUS. But may I raise such spirits when I please? MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these. FAUSTUS. Then, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll, A deed of gift of body and of soul: But yet conditionally that thou perform All covenants and articles between us both! MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer To effect all promises between us both! FAUSTUS. Then hear me read it, Mephistophilis. [Reads.] ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS

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SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND BE BY HIM COMMANDED. THIRDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE DESIRES. FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT SHAPE AND FORM SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN FAUSTUS, OF WITTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT, FOUR-AND- TWENTY YEARS BEING EXPIRED, AND THESE ARTICLES ABOVE- WRITTEN BEING INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, BODY AND SOUL, FLESH AND BLOOD, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER. BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS.

MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed? FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it! MEPHIST. So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt. FAUSTUS. First I will question with thee about hell. Tell me, where is the place that men call hell? MEPHIST. Under the heavens. FAUSTUS. Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts? MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self-place; but where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be: And, to be short, when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven. FAUSTUS. I think hell's a fable. MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind.

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FAUSTUS. Why, dost thou think that Faustus shall be damn'd? MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too; and what of that? Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? No, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. MEPHIST. But I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I tell thee I am damn'd and now in hell. FAUSTUS. Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd: What! sleeping, eating, walking, and disputing! But, leaving this, let me have a wife, The fairest maid in Germany; For I am wanton and lascivious, And cannot live without a wife. MEPHIST. Well, Faustus, thou shalt have a wife. [MEPHISTOPHILIS fetches in a WOMAN-DEVIL.] FAUSTUS. What sight is this? MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, wilt thou have a wife? FAUSTUS. Here's a hot whore, indeed: no, I'll no wife. MEPHIST. Marriage is but a ceremonial toy, And, if thou lov'st me, think no more of it. I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans, And bring them every morning to thy bed: She whom thine eye shall like, thy heart shall have, Were she as chaste as was Penelope, As wise as Saba, or as beautiful As was bright Lucifer before his fall. Here, take this book, peruse it well: The iterating of these lines brings gold; The framing of this circle on the ground Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and lightning; Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself, And men in harness shall appear to thee, Ready to execute what thou command'st. FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis, for this sweet book: This will I keep as chary as my life. [Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

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FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, then I repent, And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis, Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys. MEPHIST. 'Twas thine own seeking, Faustus; thank thyself. But, think'st thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair As thou, or any man that breathes on earth. FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that? MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man; then he's more excellent. FAUSTUS. If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me: I will renounce this magic and repent.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee. EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee. FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit? Be I a devil, yet God may pity me; Yea, God will pity me, if I repent. EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. My heart is harden'd, I cannot repent; Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven: Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom'd steel Are laid before me to despatch myself; And long ere this I should have done the deed, Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death? And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis? Why should I die, then, or basely despair? I am resolv'd; Faustus shall not repent.-- Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again, And reason of divine astrology. Speak, are there many spheres above the moon? Are all celestial bodies but one globe, As is the substance of this centric earth? MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the heavens, Even from the moon unto th' empyreal orb,

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Mutually folded in each other's spheres, And jointly move upon one axletree, Whose termine is term'd the world's wide pole; Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter Feign'd, but are erring stars. FAUSTUS. But have they all one motion, both situ et tempore? MEPHIST. All move from east to west in four-and-twenty hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motions upon the poles of the zodiac. FAUSTUS. These slender questions Wagner can decide: Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill? Who knows not the double motion of the planets? That the first is finish'd in a natural day; The second thus; Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve; Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon in twenty-eight days. These are freshmen's questions. But tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia? MEPHIST. Ay. FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there? MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal heaven. FAUSTUS. But is there not coelum igneum et crystallinum? MEPHIST. No, Faustus, they be but fables. FAUSTUS. Resolve me, then, in this one question; why are not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some years we have more, in some less? MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius. FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Now tell me who made the world? MEPHIST. I will not. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me. MEPHIST. Move me not, Faustus. FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing? MEPHIST. Ay, that is not against our kingdom; this is. Thou art damned; think thou of hell. FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world. MEPHIST. Remember this. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell! 'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul. Is't not too late?

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Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

EVIL ANGEL. Too late. GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus will repent. EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces. GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour Help to save distressed Faustus' soul!

Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just: There's none but I have interest in the same. FAUSTUS. O, what art thou that look'st so terribly? LUCIFER. I am Lucifer, And this is my companion-prince in hell. FAUSTUS. O Faustus, they are come to fetch thy soul! BELZEBUB. We are come to tell thee thou dost injure us. LUCIFER. Thou call'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise. BELZEBUB. Thou shouldst not think on God. LUCIFER. Think of the devil. BELZEBUB. And his dam too. FAUSTUS. Nor will Faustus henceforth: pardon him for this, And Faustus vows never to look to heaven. LUCIFER. So shalt thou shew thyself an obedient servant, And we will highly gratify thee for it. BELZEBUB. Faustus, we are come from hell in person to shew thee some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt behold the Seven Deadly Sins appear to thee in their own proper shapes and likeness. FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasant unto me, As Paradise was to Adam the first day Of his creation. LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise or creation; but mark the show.-- Go, Mephistophilis, and fetch them in.

MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in the SEVEN DEADLY SINS. BELZEBUB. Now, Faustus, question them of their names and dispositions.

FAUSTUS. That shall I soon.--What art thou, the first?

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PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; next, like a necklace, I hang about her neck; then, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; and then, turning myself to a wrought smock, do what I list. But, fie, what a smell is here! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered with cloth of arras. FAUSTUS. Thou art a proud knave, indeed.--What art thou, the second? COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in a leather bag: and, might I now obtain my wish, this house, you, and all, should turn to gold, that I might lock you safe into my chest: O my sweet gold! FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the third? ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books burned. I am lean with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine over all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou shouldst see how fat I'd be. But must thou sit, and I stand? come down, with a vengeance! FAUSTUS. Out, envious wretch!--But what art thou, the fourth? WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever since have run up and down the world with this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal. I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my father. FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the fifth? GLUTTONY. I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a small pension, and that buys me thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,--a small trifle to suffice nature. I come of a royal pedigree: my father was a Gammon of Bacon, my mother was a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers were these, Peter Pickled-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; but my godmother, O, she was an ancient gentlewoman; her name was Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny; wilt thou bid me to supper? FAUSTUS. Not I. GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee! FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!--What art thou, the sixth? SLOTH. Heigho! I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank.

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Heigho! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom. FAUSTUS. And what are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last? LECHERY. Who, I, sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first letter of my name begins with L. LUCIFER. Away to hell, away! On, piper! [Exeunt the SINS.] FAUSTUS. O, how this sight doth delight my soul! LUCIFER. Tut, Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight. FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again safe, How happy were I then! LUCIFER. Faustus, thou shalt; at midnight I will send for thee. Meanwhile peruse this book and view it throughly, And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt. FAUSTUS. Thanks, mighty Lucifer! This will I keep as chary as my life. LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, farewell. FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer. [Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.] Come, Mephistophilis. [Exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN, with a book.

ROBIN. What, Dick! look to the horses there, till I come again. I have gotten one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books; and now we'll have such knavery as't passes.

Enter DICK.

DICK. What, Robin! you must come away and walk the horses. ROBIN. I walk the horses! I scorn't, faith: I have other matters in hand: let the horses walk themselves, an they will.-- [Reads.] A per se, a; t, h, e, the; o per se, o; Demy orgon gorgon.-- Keep further from me, O thou illiterate and unlearned hostler! DICK. 'Snails, what hast thou got there? a book! why, thou canst not tell ne'er a word on't. ROBIN. That thou shalt see presently: keep out of the circle, I say, lest I send you into the ostry with a vengeance. DICK. That's like, faith! you had best leave your foolery; for,

305 The Pilgrim’s Progress an my master come, he'll conjure you, faith. ROBIN. My master conjure me! I'll tell thee what; an my master come here, I'll clap as fair a pair of horns on's head as e'er thou sawest in thy life. DICK. Thou need'st not do that, for my mistress hath done it. ROBIN. Ay, there be of us here that have waded as deep into matters as other men, if they were disposed to talk. DICK. A plague take you! I thought you did not sneak up and down after her for nothing. But, I prithee, tell me in good sadness, Robin, is that a conjuring-book? ROBIN. Do but speak what thou'lt have me to do, and I'll do't: if thou'lt dance naked, put off thy clothes, and I'll conjure thee about presently; or, if thou'lt go but to the tavern with me, I'll give thee white wine, red wine, claret-wine, sack, muscadine, malmsey, and whippincrust, hold, belly, hold; and we'll not pay one penny for it. DICK. , brave! Prithee, let's to it presently, for I am as dry as a dog. ROBIN. Come, then, let's away. [Exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Learned Faustus, To find the secrets of astronomy Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, Did mount him up to scale Olympus' top; Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright, Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks, He views the clouds, the planets, and the stars, The tropic zones, and quarters of the sky, From the bright circle of the horned moon Even to the height of Primum Mobile; And, whirling round with this circumference, Within the concave compass of the pole, From east to west his dragons swiftly glide, And in eight days did bring him home again. Not long he stay'd within his quiet house, To rest his bones after his weary toil; But new exploits do hale him out again:

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And, mounted then upon a dragon's back, That with his wings did part the subtle air, He now is gone to prove cosmography, That measures coasts and kingdoms of the earth; And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his court, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, The which this day is highly solemniz'd. [Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier, Environ'd round with airy mountain-tops, With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes, Not to be won by any conquering prince; From Paris next, coasting the realm of France, We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine, Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines; Then up to Naples, rich Campania, Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye, The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick, Quarter the town in four equivalents: There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb; The way he cut, an English mile in length, Thorough a rock of stone, in one night's space; From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest, In one of which a sumptuous temple stands, That threats the stars with her aspiring top, Whose frame is pav'd with sundry-colour'd stones, And roof'd aloft with curious work in gold. Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time: But tell me now, what resting-place is this? Hast thou, as erst I did command, Conducted me within the walls of Rome? MEPHIST. I have, my Faustus; and, for proof thereof, This is the goodly palace of the Pope; And, 'cause we are no common guests, I choose his privy-chamber for our use. FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us welcome.

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MEPHIST. All's one, for we'll be bold with his venison. But now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive What Rome contains for to delight thine eyes, Know that this city stands upon seven hills That underprop the groundwork of the same: Just through the midst runs flowing Tiber's stream, With winding banks that cut it in two parts; Over the which two stately bridges lean, That make safe passage to each part of Rome: Upon the bridge call'd Ponte Angelo Erected is a castle passing strong, Where thou shalt see such store of ordnance, As that the double cannons, forg'd of brass, Do match the number of the days contain'd Within the compass of one complete year; Beside the gates, and high pyramides, That Julius Caesar brought from Africa. FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule, Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear That I do long to see the monuments And situation of bright-splendent Rome: Come, therefore, let's away. MEPHIST. Nay, stay, my Faustus: I know you'd see the Pope, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, The which, in state and high solemnity, This day, is held through Rome and Italy, In honour of the Pope's triumphant victory. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, thou pleasest me. Whilst I am here on earth, let me be cloy'd With all things that delight the heart of man: My four-and-twenty years of liberty I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance, That Faustus' name, whilst this bright frame doth stand, May be admir'd thorough the furthest land. MEPHIST. 'Tis well said, Faustus. Come, then, stand by me, And thou shalt see them come immediately. FAUSTUS. Nay, stay, my gentle Mephistophilis, And grant me my request, and then I go. Thou know'st, within the compass of eight days We view'd the face of heaven, of earth, and hell;

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So high our dragons soar'd into the air, That, looking down, the earth appear'd to me No bigger than my hand in quantity; There did we view the kingdoms of the world, And what might please mine eye I there beheld. Then in this show let me an actor be, That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning see. MEPHIST. Let it be so, my Faustus. But, first, stay, And view their triumphs as they pass this way; And then devise what best contents thy mind, By cunning in thine art to cross the Pope, Or dash the pride of this solemnity; To make his monks and abbots stand like apes, And point like antics at his triple crown; To beat the beads about the friars' pates, Or clap huge horns upon the Cardinals' heads; Or any villany thou canst devise; And I'll perform it, Faustus. Hark! they come: This day shall make thee be admir'd in Rome.

Enter the CARDINALS and BISHOPS, some bearing crosiers, some the pillars; MONKS and FRIARS, singing their procession; then the POPE, RAYMOND king of Hungary, the ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, BRUNO led in chains, and ATTENDANTS.

POPE. Cast down our footstool. RAYMOND. Saxon Bruno, stoop, Whilst on thy back his Holiness ascends Saint Peter's chair and state pontifical. BRUNO. Proud Lucifer, that state belongs to me; But thus I fall to Peter, not to thee. POPE. To me and Peter shalt thou grovelling lie, And crouch before the Papal dignity.-- Sound trumpets, then; for thus Saint Peter's heir, From Bruno's back, ascends Saint Peter's chair. [A flourish while he ascends.] Thus, as the gods creep on with feet of wool, Long ere with iron hands they punish men, So shall our sleeping vengeance now arise, And smite with death thy hated enterprise.-- Lord Cardinals of France and Padua,

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Go forthwith to our holy consistory, And read, amongst the statutes decretal, What, by the holy council held at Trent, The sacred synod hath decreed for him That doth assume the Papal government Without election and a true consent: Away, and bring us word with speed. CARDINAL OF FRANCE. We go, my lord. [Exeunt CARDINALS of France and Padua.] POPE. Lord Raymond. [They converse in dumb show.] FAUSTUS. Go, haste thee, gentle Mephistophilis, Follow the cardinals to the consistory; And, as they turn their superstitious books, Strike them with sloth and drowsy idleness, And make them sleep so sound, that in their shapes Thyself and I may parley with this Pope, This proud confronter of the Emperor; And, in despite of all his holiness, Restore this Bruno to his liberty, And bear him to the states of Germany. MEPHIST. Faustus, I go. FAUSTUS. Despatch it soon: The Pope shall curse, that Faustus came to Rome. [Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.] BRUNO. Pope Adrian, let me have right of law: I was elected by the Emperor. POPE. We will depose the Emperor for that deed, And curse the people that submit to him: Both he and thou shall stand excommunicate, And interdict from church's privilege And all society of holy men. He grows too proud in his authority, Lifting his lofty head above the clouds, And, like a steeple, overpeers the church: But we'll pull down his haughty insolence; And, as Pope Alexander, our progenitor, Trod on the neck of German Frederick, Adding this golden sentence to our praise, "That Peter's heirs should tread on Emperors, And walk upon the dreadful adder's back,

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Treading the lion and the dragon down, And fearless spurn the killing basilisk," So will we quell that haughty schismatic, And, by authority apostolical, Depose him from his regal government. BRUNO. Pope Julius swore to princely Sigismond, For him and the succeeding Popes of Rome, To hold the Emperors their lawful lords. POPE. Pope Julius did abuse the church's rights, And therefore none of his decrees can stand. Is not all power on earth bestow'd on us? And therefore, though we would, we cannot err. Behold this silver belt, whereto is fix'd Seven golden seals, fast sealed with seven seals, In token of our seven-fold power from heaven, To bind or loose, lock fast, condemn or judge, Resign or seal, or what so pleaseth us: Then he and thou, and all the world, shall stoop, Or be assured of our dreadful curse, To light as heavy as the pains of hell.

Re-enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS, in the shapes of the CARDINALS of France and Padua.

MEPHIST. Now tell me, Faustus, are we not fitted well? FAUSTUS. Yes, Mephistophilis; and two such cardinals Ne'er serv'd a holy Pope as we shall do. But, whilst they sleep within the consistory, Let us salute his reverend fatherhood. RAYMOND. Behold, my lord, the Cardinals are return'd. POPE. Welcome, grave fathers: answer presently What hath our holy council there decreed Concerning Bruno and the Emperor, In quittance of their late conspiracy Against our state and papal dignity? FAUSTUS. Most sacred patron of the church of Rome, By full consent of all the synod Of priests and prelates, it is thus decreed,-- That Bruno and the German Emperor Be held as Lollards and bold schismatics, And proud disturbers of the church's peace;

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And if that Bruno, by his own assent, Without enforcement of the German peers, Did seek to wear the triple diadem, And by your death to climb Saint Peter's chair, The statutes decretal have thus decreed,-- He shall be straight condemn'd of heresy, And on a pile of faggots burnt to death. POPE. It is enough. Here, take him to your charge, And bear him straight to Ponte Angelo, And in the strongest tower enclose him fast. To-morrow, sitting in our consistory, With all our college of grave cardinals, We will determine of his life or death. Here, take his triple crown along with you, And leave it in the church's treasury. Make haste again, my good Lord Cardinals, And take our blessing apostolical. MEPHIST. So, so; was never devil thus bless'd before. FAUSTUS. Away, sweet Mephistophilis, be gone; The Cardinals will be plagu'd for this anon. [Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS with BRUNO.] POPE. Go presently and bring a banquet forth, That we may solemnize Saint Peter's feast, And with Lord Raymond, King of Hungary, Drink to our late and happy victory. A Sennet while the banquet is brought in; and then enter

FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS in their own shapes.

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, come, prepare thyself for mirth: The sleepy Cardinals are hard at hand, To censure Bruno, that is posted hence, And on a proud-pac'd steed, as swift as thought, Flies o'er the Alps to fruitful Germany, There to salute the woful Emperor. FAUSTUS. The Pope will curse them for their sloth to-day, That slept both Bruno and his crown away. But now, that Faustus may delight his mind, And by their folly make some merriment, Sweet Mephistophilis, so charm me here, That I may walk invisible to all,

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And do whate'er I please, unseen of any. MEPHIST. Faustus, thou shalt: then kneel down presently, Whilst on thy head I lay my hand, And charm thee with this magic wand. First, wear this girdle; then appear Invisible to all are here: The planets seven, the gloomy air, Hell, and the Furies' forked hair, Pluto's blue fire, and Hecat's tree, With magic spells so compass thee, That no eye may thy body see! So, Faustus, now, for all their holiness, Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd. FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis.--Now, friars, take heed, Lest Faustus make your shaven crowns to bleed. MEPHIST. Faustus, no more: see, where the Cardinals come!

Re-enter the CARDINALS of France and Padua with a book.

POPE. Welcome, Lord Cardinals; come, sit down.-- Lord Raymond, take your seat.--Friars, attend, And see that all things be in readiness, As best beseems this solemn festival. CARDINAL OF FRANCE. First, may it please your sacred Holiness To view the sentence of the reverend synod Concerning Bruno and the Emperor? POPE. What needs this question? did I not tell you, To-morrow we would sit i' the consistory, And there determine of his punishment? You brought us word even now, it was decreed That Bruno and the cursed Emperor Were by the holy council both condemn'd For loathed Lollards and base schismatics: Then wherefore would you have me view that book? CARDINAL OF FRANCE. Your grace mistakes; you gave us no such charge. RAYMOND. Deny it not; we all are witnesses That Bruno here was late deliver'd you, With his rich triple crown to be reserv'd And put into the church's treasury. BOTH CARDINALS. By holy Paul, we saw them not!

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POPE. By Peter, you shall die, Unless you bring them forth immediately!-- Hale them to prison, lade their limbs with gyves.-- False prelates, for this hateful treachery Curs'd be your souls to hellish misery! [Exeunt ATTENDANTS with the two CARDINALS.] FAUSTUS. So, they are safe. Now, Faustus, to the feast: The Pope had never such a frolic guest. POPE. Lord Archbishop of Rheims, sit down with us. ARCHBISHOP. I thank your Holiness. FAUSTUS. Fall to; the devil choke you, an you spare! POPE. Who is that spoke?--Friars, look about.-- Lord Raymond, pray, fall to. I am beholding To the Bishop of Milan for this so rare a present. FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. How now! who snatch'd the meat from me? Villains, why speak you not?-- My good Lord Archbishop, here's a most dainty dish Was sent me from a cardinal in France. FAUSTUS. I'll have that too. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. What Lollards do attend our holiness, That we receive such great indignity? Fetch me some wine. FAUSTUS. Ay, pray, do, for Faustus is a-dry. POPE. Lord Raymond, I drink unto your grace. FAUSTUS. I pledge your grace. [Snatches the cup.] POPE. My wine gone too!--Ye lubbers, look about, And find the man that doth this villany, Or, by our sanctitude, you all shall die!-- I pray, my lords, have patience at this Troublesome banquet. ARCHBISHOP. Please it your Holiness, I think it be some ghost crept out of Purgatory, and now is come unto your Holiness for his pardon. POPE. It may be so.-- Go, then, command our priests to sing a dirge, To lay the fury of this same troublesome ghost.

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[Exit an ATTENDANT.--The POPE crosses himself.] FAUSTUS. How now! must every bit be spic'd with a cross?-- Nay, then, take that. [Strikes the POPE.] POPE. O, I am slain!--Help me, my lords! O, come and help to bear my body hence!-- Damn'd be his soul for ever for this deed! [Exeunt all except FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.] MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what will you do now? for I can tell you you'll be cursed with bell, book, and candle. FAUSTUS. Bell, book, and candle,--candle, book, and bell,-- Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell!

Re-enter the FRIARS, with bell, book, and candle, for the Dirge.

FIRST FRIAR. Come, brethren, lets about our business with good devotion. [They sing.] CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON THE FACE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat Dominus!

[MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling fire-works among them, and exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN and DICK with a cup.

DICK. Sirrah Robin, we were best look that your devil can answer the stealing of this same cup, for the Vintner's boy follows us at the hard heels. ROBIN. 'Tis no matter; let him come: an he follow us, I'll so

315 The Pilgrim’s Progress conjure him as he was never conjured in his life, I warrant him. Let me see the cup. DICK. Here 'tis. [Gives the cup to ROBIN.] Yonder he comes: now, Robin, now or never shew thy cunning.

Enter VINTNER.

VINTNER. O, are you here? I am glad I have found you. You are a couple of fine companions: pray, where's the cup you stole from the tavern? ROBIN. How, how! we steal a cup! take heed what you say: we look not like cup-stealers, I can tell you. VINTNER. Never deny't, for I know you have it; and I'll search you. ROBIN. Search me! ay, and spare not. --Hold the cup, Dick [Aside to DICK, giving him the cup].-- Come, come, search me, search me. [VINTNER searches him.] VINTNER. Come on, sirrah, let me search you now. DICK. Ay, ay, do, do. --Hold the cup, Robin [Aside to ROBIN, giving him the cup].-- I fear not your searching: we scorn to steal your cups, I can tell you. [VINTNER searches him.] VINTNER. Never out-face me for the matter; for, sure, the cup is between you two. ROBIN. Nay, there you lie; 'tis beyond us both. VINTNER. A plague take you! I thought 'twas your knavery to take it away: come, give it me again. ROBIN. Ay, much! when, can you tell?--Dick, make me a circle, and stand close at my back, and stir not for thy life.--Vintner, you shall have your cup anon.--Say nothing, Dick.--[Reads from a book] O per se, O; Demogorgon; Belcher, and Mephistophilis!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

MEPHIST. You princely legions of infernal rule, How am I vexed by these villains' charms! From Constantinople have they brought me now, Only for pleasure of these damned slaves. [Exit VINTNER.]

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ROBIN. By lady, sir, you have had a shrewd journey of it! will it please you to take a shoulder of mutton to supper, and a tester in your purse, and go back again? DICK. Ay, I pray you heartily, sir; for we called you but in jest, I promise you. MEPHIST. To purge the rashness of this cursed deed, First, be thou turned to this ugly shape, For apish deeds transformed to an ape. ROBIN. O, brave! an ape! I pray, sir, let me have the carrying of him about, to shew some tricks. MEPHIST. And so thou shalt: be thou transformed to a dog, and carry him upon thy back. Away! be gone! ROBIN. A dog! that's excellent: let the maids look well to their porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.--Come, Dick, come. [Exeunt ROBIN and DICK.] MEPHIST. Now with the flames of ever-burning fire I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly amainsic Unto my Faustus, to the Great Turk's court. [Exit.]

Enter MARTINO and FREDERICK at several doors.

MARTINO. What, ho, officers, gentlemen! Hie to the presence to attend the Emperor.-- Good Frederick, see the rooms be voided straight: His majesty is coming to the hall; Go back, and see the state in readiness. FREDERICK. But where is Bruno, our elected Pope, That on a Fury's back came post from Rome? Will not his grace consort the Emperor? MARTINO. O, yes; and with him comes the German conjurer, The learned Faustus, fame of Wittenberg, The wonder of the world for magic art; And he intends to shew great Carolus The race of all his stout progenitors, And bring in presence of his majesty The royal shapes and perfect semblances Of Alexander and his beauteous paramour. FREDERICK. Where is Benvolio? MARTINO. Fast asleep, I warrant you;

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He took his rouse with stoops of Rhenish wine So kindly yesternight to Bruno's health, That all this day the sluggard keeps his bed. FREDERICK. See, see, his window's ope! we'll call to him. MARTINO. What, ho! Benvolio! Enter BENVOLIO above, at a window, in his nightcap, buttoning. BENVOLIO. What a devil ail you two? MARTINO. Speak softly, sir, lest the devil hear you; For Faustus at the court is late arriv'd, And at his heels a thousand Furies wait, To accomplish whatsoe'er the doctor please. BENVOLIO. What of this? MARTINO. Come, leave thy chamber first, and thou shalt see This conjurer perform such rare exploits, Before the Pope and royal Emperor, As never yet was seen in Germany. BENVOLIO. Has not the Pope enough of conjuring yet? He was upon the devil's back late enough: An if he be so far in love with him, I would he would post with him to Rome again! FREDERICK. Speak, wilt thou come and see this sport? BENVOLIO. Not I. MARTINO. Wilt thou stand in thy window, and see it, then? BENVOLIO. Ay, an I fall not asleep i' the mean time. MARTINO. The Emperor is at hand, who comes to see What wonders by black spells may compass'd be. BENVOLIO. Well, go you attend the Emperor. I am content, for this once, to thrust my head out at a window; for they say, if a man be drunk over night, the devil cannot hurt him in the morning: if that be true, I have a charm in my head, shall control him as well as the conjurer, I warrant you. [Exeunt FREDERICK and MARTINO.]

A Sennet. Enter CHARLES the German Emperor, BRUNO, DUKE OF SAXONY, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, FREDERICK, MARTINO, and Attendants.

EMPEROR. Wonder of men, renowm'd magician, Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court. This deed of thine, in setting Bruno free From his and our professed enemy,

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Shall add more excellence unto thine art Than if by powerful necromantic spells Thou couldst command the world's obedience: For ever be belov'd of Carolus! And if this Bruno, thou hast late redeem'd, In peace possess the triple diadem, And sit in Peter's chair, despite of chance, Thou shalt be famous through all Italy, And honour'd of the German Emperor. FAUSTUS. These gracious words, most royal Carolus, Shall make poor Faustus, to his utmost power, Both love and serve the German Emperor, And lay his life at holy Bruno's feet: For proof whereof, if so your grace be pleas'd, The doctor stands prepar'd by power of art To cast his magic charms, that shall pierce through The ebon gates of ever-burning hell, And hale the stubborn Furies from their caves, To compass whatsoe'er your grace commands. BENVOLIO. Blood, he speaks terribly! but, for all that, I do not greatly believe him: he looks as like a conjurer as the Pope to a costermonger. [Aside.] EMPEROR. Then, Faustus, as thou late didst promise us, We would behold that famous conqueror, Great Alexander, and his paramour, In their true shapes and state majestical, That we may wonder at their excellence. FAUSTUS. Your majesty shall see them presently.-- Mephistophilis, away, And, with a solemn noise of trumpets' sound, Present before this royal Emperor Great Alexander and his beauteous paramour. MEPHIST. Faustus, I will. [Exit.] BENVOLIO. Well, Master Doctor, an your devils come not away quickly, you shall have me asleep presently: zounds, I could eat myself for anger, to think I have been such an ass all this while, to stand gaping after the devil's governor, and can see nothing! FAUSTUS. I'll make you feel something anon, if my art fail me not.--

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My lord, I must forewarn your majesty, That, when my spirits present the royal shapes Of Alexander and his paramour, Your grace demand no questions of the king, But in dumb silence let them come and go. EMPEROR. Be it as Faustus please; we are content. BENVOLIO. Ay, ay, and I am content too: an thou bring Alexander and his paramour before the Emperor, I'll be Actaeon, and turn myself to a stag. FAUSTUS. And I'll play Diana, and send you the horns presently. Sennet. Enter, at one door, the EMPEROR ALEXANDER, at the other, DARIUS. They meet. DARIUS is thrown down; ALEXANDER kills him, takes off his crown, and, offering to go out, his PARAMOUR meets him. He embraceth her, and sets DARIUS' crown upon her head; and, coming back, both salute the EMPEROR, who, leaving his state, offers to embrace them; which FAUSTUS seeing, suddenly stays him. Then trumpets cease, and music sounds. My gracious lord, you do forget yourself; These are but shadows, not substantial. EMPEROR. O, pardon me! my thoughts are so ravish'd With sight of this renowmed emperor, That in mine arms I would have compass'd him. But, Faustus, since I may not speak to them, To satisfy my longing thoughts at full, Let me this tell thee: I have heard it said That this fair lady, whilst she liv'd on earth, Had on her neck a little wart or mole; How may I prove that saying to be true? FAUSTUS. Your majesty may boldly go and see. EMPEROR. Faustus, I see it plain; And in this sight thou better pleasest me Than if I gain'd another monarchy. FAUSTUS. Away! be gone! [Exit show.]--See, see, my gracious lord! what strange beast is yon, that thrusts his head out at window? EMPEROR. O, wondrous sight!--See, Duke of Saxony, Two spreading horns most strangely fastened Upon the head of young Benvolio! SAXONY. What, is he asleep or dead? FAUSTUS. He sleeps, my lord; but dreams not of his horns.

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EMPEROR. This sport is excellent: we'll call and wake him.-- What, ho, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. A plague upon you! let me sleep a while. EMPEROR. I blame thee not to sleep much, having such a head of thine own. SAXONY. Look up, Benvolio; 'tis the Emperor calls. BENVOLIO. The Emperor! where?--O, zounds, my head! EMPEROR. Nay, an thy horns hold, 'tis no matter for thy head, for that's armed sufficiently. FAUSTUS. Why, how now, Sir Knight! what, hanged by the horns! this is most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head, for shame! let not all the world wonder at you. BENVOLIO. Zounds, doctor, this is your villany! FAUSTUS. O, say not so, sir! the doctor has no skill, No art, no cunning, to present these lords, Or bring before this royal Emperor The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander. If Faustus do it, you are straight resolv'd, In bold Actaeon's shape, to turn a stag:-- And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty, I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so As all his footmanship shall scarce prevail To keep his carcass from their bloody fangs.-- Ho, Belimoth, Argiron, Asteroth! BENVOLIO. Hold, hold!--Zounds, he'll raise up a kennel of devils, I think, anon.--Good my lord, entreat for me.--'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments. EMPEROR. Then, good Master Doctor, Let me entreat you to remove his horns; He has done penance now sufficiently. FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for injury done to me, as to delight your majesty with some mirth, hath Faustus justly requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am content to remove his horns.--Mephistophilis, transform him [MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns]:--and hereafter, sir, look you speak well of scholars. BENVOLIO. Speak well of ye! 'sblood, an scholars be such cuckold-makers, to clap horns of honest men's heads o' this order, I'll ne'er trust smooth faces and small ruffs more.--But, an I be not revenged for this, would I might be turned to a gaping oyster, and drink nothing but salt water!

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[Aside, and then exit above.] EMPEROR. Come, Faustus: while the Emperor lives, In recompense of this thy high desert, Thou shalt command the state of Germany, And live belov'd of mighty Carolus. [Exeunt.]

Enter BENVOLIO, MARTINO, FREDERICK, and SOLDIERS.

MARTINO. Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts From this attempt against the conjurer. BENVOLIO. Away! you love me not, to urge me thus: Shall I let slip so great an injury, When every servile groom jests at my wrongs, And in their rustic gambols proudly say, "Benvolio's head was grac'd with horns today?" O, may these eyelids never close again, Till with my sword I have that conjurer slain! If you will aid me in this enterprise, Then draw your weapons and be resolute; If not, depart: here will Benvolio die, But Faustus' death shall quit my infamy. FREDERICK. Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may, And kill that doctor, if he come this way. BENVOLIO. Then, gentle Frederick, hie thee to the grove, And place our servants and our followers Close in an ambush there behind the trees. By this, I know the conjurer is near: I saw him kneel, and kiss the Emperor's hand, And take his leave, laden with rich rewards. Then, soldiers, boldly fight: if Faustus die, Take you the wealth, leave us the victory. FREDERICK. Come, soldiers, follow me unto the grove: Who kills him shall have gold and endless love. [Exit FREDERICK with SOLDIERS.] BENVOLIO. My head is lighter, than it was, by the horns; But yet my heart's more ponderous than my head, And pants until I see that conjurer dead. MARTINO. Where shall we place ourselves, Benvolio? BENVOLIO. Here will we stay to bide the first assault: O, were that damned hell-hound but in place,

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Thou soon shouldst see me quit my foul disgrace!

Re-enter FREDERICK.

FREDERICK. Close, close! the conjurer is at hand, And all alone comes walking in his gown; Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down. BENVOLIO. Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home! For horns he gave I'll have his head anon. MARTINO. See, see, he comes!

Enter FAUSTUS with a false head.

BENVOLIO. No words. This blow ends all: Hell take his soul! his body thus must fall. [Stabs FAUSTUS.] FAUSTUS. [falling.] O! FREDERICK. Groan you, Master Doctor? BENVOLIO. Break may his heart with groans!--Dear Frederick, see, Thus will I end his griefs immediately. MARTINO. Strike with a willing hand. [BENVOLIO strikes off FAUSTUS' head.] His head is off. BENVOLIO. The devil's dead; the Furies now may laugh. FREDERICK. Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown, Made the grim monarch of infernal spirits Tremble and quake at his commanding charms? MARTINO. Was this that damned head, whose art conspir'd Benvolio's shame before the Emperor? BENVOLIO. Ay, that's the head, and there the body lies, Justly rewarded for his villanies. FREDERICK. Come, let's devise how we may add more shame To the black scandal of his hated name. BENVOLIO. First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs, I'll nail huge forked horns, and let them hang Within the window where he yok'd me first, That all the world may see my just revenge. MARTINO. What use shall we put his beard to? BENVOLIO. We'll sell it to a chimney-sweeper: it will wear out ten birchen brooms, I warrant you. FREDERICK. What shall his eyes do?

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BENVOLIO. We'll pull out his eyes; and they shall serve for buttons to his lips, to keep his tongue from catching cold. MARTINO. An excellent policy! and now, sirs, having divided him, what shall the body do? [FAUSTUS rises.] BENVOLIO. Zounds, the devil's alive again! FREDERICK. Give him his head, for God's sake. FAUSTUS. Nay, keep it: Faustus will have heads and hands, Ay, all your hearts to recompense this deed. Knew you not, traitors, I was limited For four-and-twenty years to breathe on earth? And, had you cut my body with your swords, Or hew'd this flesh and bones as small as sand, Yet in a minute had my spirit return'd, And I had breath'd a man, made free from harm. But wherefore do I dally my revenge?-- Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis?

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, and other Devils.

Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs, And mount aloft with them as high as heaven: Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell. Yet, stay: the world shall see their misery, And hell shall after plague their treachery. Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence, And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt. Take thou this other, drag him through the woods Amongst the pricking thorns and sharpest briers; Whilst, with my gentle Mephistophilis, This traitor flies unto some steepy rock, That, rolling down, may break the villain's bones, As he intended to dismember me. Fly hence; despatch my charge immediately. FREDERICK. Pity us, gentle Faustus! save our lives! FAUSTUS. Away! FREDERICK. He must needs go that the devil drives.

[Exeunt MEPHISTOPHILIS and DEVILS with BENVOLIO, MARTINO, and FREDERICK.]

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Enter the ambushed SOLDIERS.

FIRST SOLDIER. Come, sirs, prepare yourselves in readiness; Make haste to help these noble gentlemen: I heard them parley with the conjurer. SECOND SOLDIER. See, where he comes! despatch and kill the slave. FAUSTUS. What's here? an ambush to betray my life! Then, Faustus, try thy skill.--Base peasants, stand! For, lo, these trees remove at my command, And stand as bulwarks 'twixt yourselves and me, To shield me from your hated treachery! Yet, to encounter this your weak attempt, Behold, an army comes incontinent! [FAUSTUS strikes the door, and enter a DEVIL playing on a drum; after him another, bearing an ensign; and divers with weapons; MEPHISTOPHILIS with fire-works. They set upon the SOLDIERS, drive them out, and exeunt.]

Enter, at several doors, BENVOLIO, FREDERICK, and MARTINO, their heads and faces bloody, and besmeared with mud and dirt; all having horns on their heads.

MARTINO. What, ho, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. Here.--What, Frederick, ho! FREDERICK. O, help me, gentle friend!--Where is Martino? MARTINO. Dear Frederick, here, Half smother'd in a lake of mud and dirt, Through which the Furies dragg'd me by the heels. FREDERICK. Martino, see, Benvolio's horns again! MARTINO. O, misery!--How now, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. Defend me, heaven! shall I be haunted still? MARTINO. Nay, fear not, man; we have no power to kill. BENVOLIO. My friends transformed thus! O, hellish spite! Your heads are all set with horns. FREDERICK. You hit it right; It is your own you mean; feel on your head. BENVOLIO. Zounds, horns again! MARTINO. Nay, chafe not, man; we all are sped. BENVOLIO. What devil attends this damn'd magician, That, spite of spite, our wrongs are doubled? FREDERICK. What may we do, that we may hide our shames?

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BENVOLIO. If we should follow him to work revenge, He'd join long asses' ears to these huge horns, And make us laughing-stocks to all the world. MARTINO. What shall we, then, do, dear Benvolio? BENVOLIO. I have a castle joining near these woods; And thither we'll repair, and live obscure, Till time shall alter these our brutish shapes: Sith black disgrace hath thus eclips'd our fame, We'll rather die with grief than live with shame. [Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS, a HORSE-COURSER, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

HORSE-COURSER. I beseech your worship, accept of these forty dollars. FAUSTUS. Friend, thou canst not buy so good a horse for so small a price. I have no great need to sell him: but, if thou likest him for ten dollars more, take him, because I see thou hast a good mind to him. HORSE-COURSER. I beseech you, sir, accept of this: I am a very poor man, and have lost very much of late by horse-flesh, and this bargain will set me up again. FAUSTUS. Well, I will not stand with thee: give me the money [HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]. Now, sirrah, I must tell you that you may ride him o'er hedge and ditch, and spare him not; but, do you hear? in any case, ride him not into the water. HORSE-COURSER. How, sir! not into the water! why, will he not drink of all waters? FAUSTUS. Yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into the water: o'er hedge and ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into the water. Go, bid the hostler deliver him unto you, and remember what I say. HORSE-COURSER. I warrant you, sir!--O, joyful day! now am I a made man for ever. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die? Thy fatal time draws to a final end; Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts: Confound these passions with a quiet sleep: Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross; Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.

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[He sits to sleep.]

Re-enter the HORSE-COURSER, wet.

HORSE-COURSER. , what a cozening doctor was this! I, riding my horse into the water, thinking some hidden mystery had been in the horse, I had nothing under me but a little straw, and had much ado to escape drowning. Well, I'll go rouse him, and make him give me my forty dollars again.--Ho, sirrah Doctor, you cozening scab! Master Doctor, awake, and rise, and give me my money again, for your horse is turned to a bottle of hay, Master Doctor! [He pulls off FAUSTUS' leg]. Alas, I am undone! what shall I do? I have pulled off his leg. FAUSTUS. O, help, help! the villain hath murdered me. HORSE-COURSER. Murder or not murder, now he has but one leg, I'll outrun him, and cast this leg into some ditch or other. [Aside, and then runs out.] FAUSTUS. Stop him, stop him, stop him!--Ha, ha, ha! Faustus hath his leg again, and the Horse-courser a bundle of hay for his forty dollars.

Enter WAGNER.

How now, Wagner! what news with thee? WAGNER. If it please you, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly entreat your company, and hath sent some of his men to attend you, with provision fit for your journey. FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt's an honourable gentleman, and one to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning. Come, away! [Exeunt.

Enter ROBIN, DICK, the HORSE-COURSER, and a CARTER.

CARTER. Come, my masters, I'll bring you to the best beer in Europe.--What, ho, hostess! where be these whores?

Enter HOSTESS.

HOSTESS. How now! what lack you? What, my old guess! welcome. ROBIN. Sirrah Dick, dost thou know why I stand so mute? DICK. No, Robin: why is't?

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ROBIN. I am eighteen-pence on the score. but say nothing; see if she have forgotten me. HOSTESS. Who's this that stands so solemnly by himself? What, my old guest! ROBIN. O, hostess, how do you? I hope my score stands still. HOSTESS. Ay, there's no doubt of that; for methinks you make no haste to wipe it out. DICK. Why, hostess, I say, fetch us some beer. HOSTESS. You shall presently.--Look up into the hall there, ho! [Exit.--Drink is presently brought in.] DICK. Come, sirs, what shall we do now till mine hostess comes? CARTER. Marry, sir, I'll tell you the bravest tale how a conjurer served me. You know Doctor Faustus? HORSE-COURSER. Ay, a plague take him! here's some on's have cause to know him. Did he conjure thee too? CARTER. I'll tell you how he served me. As I was going to Wittenberg, t'other day, with a load of hay, he met me, and asked me what he should give me for as much hay as he could eat. Now, sir, I thinking that a little would serve his turn, bad him take as much as he would for three farthings: so he presently gave me my money and fell to eating; and, as I am a cursen man, he never left eating till he had eat up all my load of hay. ALL. O, monstrous! eat a whole load of hay! ROBIN. Yes, yes, that may be; for I have heard of one that has eat a load of logs. HORSE-COURSER. Now, sirs, you shall hear how villanously he served me. I went to him yesterday to buy a horse of him, and he would by no means sell him under forty dollars. So, sir, because I knew him to be such a horse as would run over hedge and ditch and never tire, I gave him his money. So, when I had my horse, Doctor Faustus bad me ride him night and day, and spare him no time; but, quoth he, in any case, ride him not into the water. Now, sir, I thinking the horse had had some quality that he would not have me know of, what did I but rid him into a great river? and when I came just in the midst, my horse vanished away, and I sate straddling upon a bottle of hay. ALL. O, brave doctor! HORSE-COURSER. But you shall hear how bravely I served him for it. I went me home to his house, and there I found him asleep. I kept a hallooing and whooping in his ears; but all could not wake him. I, seeing that, took him by the leg, and never rested

328 The Pilgrim’s Progress pulling till I had pulled me his leg quite off; and now 'tis at home in mine hostry. ROBIN. And has the doctor but one leg, then? that's excellent; for one of his devils turned me into the likeness of an ape's face. CARTER. Some more drink, hostess! ROBIN. Hark you, we'll into another room and drink a while, and then we'll go seek out the doctor. [Exeunt.]

Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, his DUCHESS, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and ATTENDANTS.

DUKE. Thanks, Master Doctor, for these pleasant sights; nor know I how sufficiently to recompense your great deserts in erecting that enchanted castle in the air, the sight whereof so delighted me as nothing in the world could please me more. FAUSTUS. I do think myself, my good lord, highly recompensed in that it pleaseth your grace to think but well of that which Faustus hath performed.--But, gracious lady, it may be that you have taken no pleasure in those sights; therefore, I pray you tell me, what is the thing you most desire to have; be it in the world, it shall be yours: I have heard that great-bellied women do long for things are rare and dainty. DUCHESS. True, Master Doctor; and, since I find you so kind, I will make known unto you what my heart desires to have; and, were it now summer, as it is January, a dead time of the winter, I would request no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes. FAUSTUS. This is but a small matter.--Go, Mephistophilis; away! [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] Madam, I will do more than this for your content.

Re-Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes.

Here now, taste you these: they should be good, for they come from a far country, I can tell you. DUKE. This makes me wonder more than all the rest, that at this time of the year, when every tree is barren of his fruit, from whence you had these ripe grapes. FAUSTUS. Please it your grace, the year is divided into two circles over the whole world; so that, when it is winter with

329 The Pilgrim’s Progress us, in the contrary circle it is likewise summer with them, as in India, Saba, and such countries that lie far east, where they have fruit twice a-year; from whence, by means of a swift spirit that I have, I had these grapes brought, as you see. DUCHESS. And, trust me, they are the sweetest grapes that e'er I tasted. [The CLOWNS bounce at the gate, within.] DUKE. What rude disturbers have we at the gate? Go, pacify their fury, set it ope, And then demand of them what they would have. [They knock again, and call out to talk with FAUSTUS.] SERVANT. Why, how now, masters! what a coil is there! What is the reason you disturb the Duke? DICK [within]. We have no reason for it; therefore a fig for him! SERVANT. Why, saucy varlets, dare you be so bold? HORSE-COURSER [within]. I hope, sir, we have wit enough to be more bold than welcome. SERVANT. It appears so: pray, be bold elsewhere, and trouble not the Duke. DUKE. What would they have? SERVANT. They all cry out to speak with Doctor Faustus. CARTER [within]. Ay, and we will speak with him. DUKE. Will you, sir?--Commit the rascals. DICK [within]. Commit with us! he were as good commit with his father as commit with us. FAUSTUS. I do beseech your grace, let them come in; They are good subject for a merriment. DUKE. Do as thou wilt, Faustus; I give thee leave. FAUSTUS. I thank your grace.

Enter ROBIN, DICK, CARTER, and HORSE-COURSER.

Why, how now, my good friends! Faith, you are too outrageous: but, come near; I have procur'd your pardons: welcome, all. ROBIN. Nay, sir, we will be welcome for our money, and we will pay for what we take.--What, ho! give's half a dozen of beer here, and be hanged! FAUSTUS. Nay, hark you; can you tell me where you are? CARTER. Ay, marry, can I; we are under heaven. SERVANT. Ay; but, Sir Saucebox, know you in what place?

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HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, the house is good enough to drink in. --Zouns, fill us some beer, or we'll break all the barrels in the house, and dash out all your brains with your bottles! FAUSTUS. Be not so furious: come, you shall have beer.-- My lord, beseech you give me leave a while; I'll gage my credit 'twill content your grace. DUKE. With all my heart, kind doctor; please thyself; Our servants and our court's at thy command. FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace.--Then fetch some beer. HORSE-COURSER. Ay, marry, there spake a doctor, indeed! and, faith, I'll drink a health to thy wooden leg for that word. FAUSTUS. My wooden leg! what dost thou mean by that? CARTER. Ha, ha, ha!--Dost hear him, Dick? he has forgot his leg. HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, he does not stand much upon that. FAUSTUS. No, faith; not much upon a wooden leg. CARTER. Good Lord, that flesh and blood should be so frail with your worship! Do not you remember a horse-courser you sold a horse to? FAUSTUS. Yes, I remember I sold one a horse. CARTER. And do you remember you bid he should not ride him into the water? FAUSTUS. Yes, I do very well remember that. CARTER. And do you remember nothing of your leg? FAUSTUS. No, in good sooth. CARTER. Then, I pray you, remember your courtesy. FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir. CARTER. 'Tis not so much worth. I pray you, tell me one thing. FAUSTUS. What's that? CARTER. Be both your legs bed-fellows every night together? FAUSTUS. Wouldst thou make a Colossus of me, that thou askest me such questions? CARTER. No, truly, sir; I would make nothing of you; but I would fain know that.

Enter HOSTESS with drink.

FAUSTUS. Then, I assure thee certainly, they are. CARTER. I thank you; I am fully satisfied. FAUSTUS. But wherefore dost thou ask? CARTER. For nothing, sir: but methinks you should have a wooden

331 The Pilgrim’s Progress bed-fellow of one of 'em. HORSE-COURSER. Why, do you hear, sir? did not I pull off one of your legs when you were asleep? FAUSTUS. But I have it again, now I am awake: look you here, sir. ALL. O, horrible! had the doctor three legs? CARTER. Do you remember, sir, how you cozened me, and eat up my load of---- [FAUSTUS, in the middle of each speech, charms them dumb.] DICK. Do you remember how you made me wear an ape's---- HORSE-COURSER. You whoreson conjuring scab, do you remember how you cozened me with a ho---- ROBIN. Ha' you forgotten me? you think to carry it away with your hey-pass and re-pass: do you remember the dog's fa---- [Exeunt CLOWNS.] HOSTESS. Who pays for the ale? hear you, Master Doctor; now you have sent away my guess, I pray who shall pay me for my a---- [Exit HOSTESS.] DUCHESS. My lord, We are much beholding to this learned man. DUKE. So are we, madam; which we will recompense With all the love and kindness that we may: His artful sport drives all sad thoughts away. [Exeunt.]

Thunder and lightning. Enter DEVILS with covered dishes; MEPHISTOPHILIS leads them into FAUSTUS'S study; then enter WAGNER.

WAGNER. I think my master means to die shortly; he has made his will, and given me his wealth, his house, his goods, and store of golden plate, besides two thousand ducats ready-coined. I wonder what he means: if death were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's now at supper with the scholars, where there's such belly-cheer as Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like: and, see where they come! belike the feast is ended. [Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and two or three SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world,

332 The Pilgrim’s Progress we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us so much favour as to let us see that peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd, It is not Faustus' custom to deny The just request of those that wish him well: You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece, No otherwise for pomp or majesty Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her, And brought the spoils to rich Dardania. Be silent, then, for danger is in words.

Music sounds. MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in HELEN; she passeth over the stage.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Was this fair Helen, whose admired worth Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy? THIRD SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit to tell her worth, Whom all the world admires for majesty. FIRST SCHOLAR. Now we have seen the pride of Nature's work, We'll take our leaves: and, for this blessed sight, Happy and blest be Faustus evermore! FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same wish I to you. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.]

Enter an OLD MAN.

OLD MAN. O gentle Faustus, leave this damned art, This magic, that will charm thy soul to hell, And quite bereave thee of salvation! Though thou hast now offended like a man, Do not persever in it like a devil: Yet, yet thou hast an amiable soul, If sin by custom grow not into nature; Then, Faustus, will repentance come too late; Then thou art banish'd from the sight of heaven: No mortal can express the pains of hell. It may be, this my exhortation

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Seems harsh and all unpleasant: let it not; For, gentle son, I speak it not in wrath, Or envy of thee, but in tender love, And pity of thy future misery; And so have hope that this my kind rebuke, Checking thy body, may amend thy soul. FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what hast thou done? Hell claims his right, and with a roaring voice Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost come;" And Faustus now will come to do thee right. [MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.] OLD MAN. O, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps! I see an angel hover o'er thy head, And, with a vial full of precious grace, Offers to pour the same into thy soul: Then call for mercy, and avoid despair. FAUSTUS. O friend, I feel Thy words to comfort my distressed soul! Leave me a while to ponder on my sins. OLD MAN. Faustus, I leave thee; but with grief of heart, Fearing the enemy of thy hapless soul. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast thou done? I do repent; and yet I do despair: Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast: What shall I do to shun the snares of death? MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord: Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh. FAUSTUS. I do repent I e'er offended him. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord To pardon my unjust presumption, And with my blood again I will confirm The former vow I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart, Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift. FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and aged man, That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer, With greatest torments that our hell affords. MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul; But what I may afflict his body with

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I will attempt, which is but little worth. FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-- That I may have unto my paramour That heavenly Helen which I saw of late, Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow, And keep my oath I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. This, or what else my Faustus shall desire, Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye.

Re-enter HELEN, passing over the stage between two CUPIDS.

FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-- [Kisses her.] Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appear'd to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms; And none but thou shalt be my paramour! [Exeunt.]

Thunder. Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

LUCIFER. Thus from infernal Dis do we ascend To view the subjects of our monarchy, Those souls which sin seals the black sons of hell;

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'Mong which, as chief, Faustus, we come to thee, Bringing with us lasting damnation To wait upon thy soul: the time is come Which makes it forfeit. MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night, Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be. BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay, To mark him how he doth demean himself. MEPHIST. How should he but in desperate lunacy? Fond worldling, now his heart-blood dries with grief; His conscience kills it; and his labouring brain Begets a world of idle fantasies To over-reach the devil; but all in vain; His store of pleasures must be sauc'd with pain. He and his servant Wagner are at hand; Both come from drawing Faustus' latest will. See, where they come!

Enter FAUSTUS and WAGNER.

FAUSTUS. Say, Wagner,--thou hast perus'd my will,-- How dost thou like it? WAGNER. Sir, So wondrous well, As in all humble duty I do yield My life and lasting service for your love. FAUSTUS. Gramercy, Wagner.

Enter SCHOLARS.

Welcome, Gentlemen.

[Exit WAGNER.]

FIRST SCHOLAR. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are chang'd. FAUSTUS. O, gentlemen! SECOND SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus? FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still! but now must die eternally. Look, sirs, comes he not? comes he not? FIRST SCHOLAR. O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear? SECOND SCHOLAR. Is all our pleasure turn'd to melancholy?

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THIRD SCHOLAR. He is not well with being over-solitary. SECOND SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians, And Faustus shall be cur'd. THIRD SCHOLAR. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing. FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both body and soul. SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven, and remember mercy is infinite. FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, O, would I had never seen Wittenberg, never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must remain in hell for ever, hell. O, hell, for ever! Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever? SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God. FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul! O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em? '?' sic ALL. Who, Faustus? FAUSTUS. Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning! ALL. O, God forbid! FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; this is the time, and he will fetch me. FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee? FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch me body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what may we do to save Faustus? FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.

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THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus. FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and pray for him. FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me. SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy upon thee. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell. ALL. Faustus, farewell. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.] MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven; Therefore despair; think only upon hell, For that must be thy mansion, there to dwell. FAUSTUS. O thou bewitching fiend, 'twas thy temptation Hath robb'd me of eternal happiness! MEPHIST. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice: 'Twas I that, when thou wert i'the way to heaven, Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book To view the Scriptures, then I turn'd the leaves, And led thine eye. What, weep'st thou? 'tis too late; despair! Farewell: Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell. [Exit.]

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL at several doors.

GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me, Innumerable joys had follow'd thee! But thou didst love the world. EVIL ANGEL. Gave ear to me, And now must taste hell-pains perpetually. GOOD ANGEL. O, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps, Avail thee now? EVIL ANGEL. Nothing, but vex thee more, To want in hell, that had on earth such store. GOOD ANGEL. , thou hast lost celestial happiness, Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end Hadst thou affected sweet divinity, Hell or the devil had had no power on thee: Hadst thou kept on that way, Faustus, behold,

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[Music, while a throne descends.] In what resplendent glory thou hadst sit In yonder throne, like those bright-shining saints, And triumph'd over hell! That hast thou lost; And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee: The jaws of hell are open to receive thee. [Exit. The throne ascends.] EVIL ANGEL. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare [Hell is discovered.] Into that vast perpetual torture-house: There are the Furies tossing damned souls On burning forks; there bodies boil in lead; There are live quarters broiling on the coals, That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair Is for o'er-tortur'd souls to rest them in; These that are fed with sops of flaming fire, Were gluttons, and lov'd only delicates, And laugh'd to see the poor starve at their gates: But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be. FAUSTUS. O, I have seen enough to torture me! EVIL ANGEL. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all: He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall: And so I leave thee, Faustus, till anon; Then wilt thou tumble in confusion.

[Exit. Hell disappears.--The clock strikes eleven.]

FAUSTUS. O Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn'd perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente, lente currite, noctis equi! The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. O, I'll leap up to heaven!--Who pulls me down?--

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See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!-- Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!-- Where is it now? 'tis gone: And, see, a threatening arm, an angry brow! Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! No! Then will I headlong run into the earth: Gape, earth! O, no, it will not harbour me! You stars that reign'd at my nativity, Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud[s], That, when you vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths; But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!

[The clock strikes the half-hour.]

O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. O, if my soul must suffer for my sin, Impose some end to my incessant pain; Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd! No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd Into some brutish beast! all beasts are happy, For, when they die, Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

[The clock strikes twelve.]

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It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be chang'd into small water-drops, And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!

Thunder. Enter DEVILS.

O, mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books!--O Mephistophilis! [Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]

Enter SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, For such a dreadful night was never seen; Since first the world's creation did begin, Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard: Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, help us, heaven! see, here are Faustus' limbs, All torn asunder by the hand of death! THIRD SCHOLAR. The devils whom Faustus serv'd have torn him thus; For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought, I heard him shriek and call aloud for help; At which self time the house seem'd all on fire With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such As every Christian heart laments to think on, Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, We'll give his mangled limbs due burial; And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black, Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. [Exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,

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And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall, Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise, Only to wonder at unlawful things, Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits To practise more than heavenly power permits. [Exit.] Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.

4. THE LATE RENAISSANCE (-)

- the Cavaliers (Ben Jonson, Robert Herrick, Gather ye rose-buds) ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674)

‘Cherry ripe...’ Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy: If so be, you ask me where They do grow? I answer, ' There, Where my Julia's lips do smile There's the land, or Cherry Isle: Whose plantations fully show All the year, where Cherries grow.’

‘Gather ye rose-buds...’

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, 342 The Pilgrim’s Progress

When youth and blood are warmer: But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

Then, be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

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To Daffodils Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

Upon the Loss of His Mistresses

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses; Stately Julia, prime of all; Sapho next, a principal: Smooth Anthea, for a skin White, and Heaven-like crystalline: Sweet Electra, and die choice Myrrha, for the lute, and voice. Next, Corinna, for her wit, And for the graceful use of it: With Perilla: all are gone; Only Herrick's left alone, For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.

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Corinna's Going a-Maying Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see't?

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Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying: But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost, can n'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

The Night-Piece Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow,

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Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th'-wisp mis-light thee; Nor snake, or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the Moon does slumber? The Stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number.

Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

Delight in Disorder A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher, A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat, A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.

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Richard Lovelace, (To Lucasta, Going to the Wars; ) RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658)

Song To Lucasta, Going to the Wars Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more. To Althea from Prison When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crown’d, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confined, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

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Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

To Lucasta, on Going Beyond the Seas If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

Though seas and land be 'twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfin'd In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Andrew Marvell, (To His Coy Mistress)

ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)

To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough, and time This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow;

349 The Pilgrim’s Progress An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze. Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state Nor would I love at lower rare.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found. Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place. But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball. And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

The Garden

How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid, While all the flowers, and trees, do close, To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men,

350 The Pilgrim’s Progress Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas! they know or heed, How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wond'rous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; - The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; - Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate:

351 The Pilgrim’s Progress After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new, Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?

- the Metaphysicals(John Donne, The Good Morrow; Love's Growth; Death; Song; Going to Bed; Love’s Progress; The Flea;)

JOHN DONNE (1573-1631)

The Good-Morrow I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown; Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eyes, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

Love's Growth I scarce believe my love to be so pure As I had thought it was,

352 The Pilgrim’s Progress Because it doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the grass; Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring make it more.

But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow With more, not only be no quintessence, But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense, And of the sun his active vigour borrow, Love's not so pure, and abstract, as they use To say, which have no mistress but their Muse; But as all else, being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent, Love by the spring-is grown; As in the firmament Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown, Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough, From love's awaken'd root do bud out now.

If, as in water stirr'd more circles be Produced by one, love such additions take, Those like so many spheres but one heaven make, For they are all concentric unto thee; And though each spring do add to love new heat, As princes do in times of action get New taxes, and remit them not in peace, No winter shall abate this spring's increase.

Song Go and catch a tailing star. Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are. Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee. Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know. 353 The Pilgrim’s Progress Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not: I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

The Relic When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, - For graves have learn'd that woman-head, To be to more than one a bed - And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will not he let us alone, And think that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their souls at the last busy day Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land, Where mass-devotion doth command, Then he that digs us up will bring Us to the bishop or the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something else thereby; All women should adore us, and some men. And, since at such time miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First we loved well and faithfully, Yet knew not what we loved, nor why; Difference of sex we never knew, No more than guardian angels do; Coming and going we Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals; Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals, Which nature, injured by late law, sets free. These miracles we did; but now alas! All measure, and all language, I should pass, Should I tell what a miracle she was.

The Indifferent I can love both fair and brown, Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays, Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays, Her whom the country formed, and whom the town,

354 The Pilgrim’s Progress Her who believes, and her who tries, Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, And her who is dry cork, and never cries; I can love her, and her, and you, and you, I can love any, so she be not true.

Will no other vice content you? Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers? Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others? Or doth a fear that men are true torment you? O we are not, be not you so; Let me, and do you, twenty know; Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. Must I, who came to travail thorough you, Grow your fixed subject, because you are true?

Venus heard me sigh this song, And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more. She went, examined, and returned ere long, And said, Alas, some two or three Poor heretics in love there be, Which think to 'stablish dangerous constancy. But I have told them, Since you will be true, You shall be true to them who are false to you.

The Canonization

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune, flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve Take you a course, get you a place, Observe His Honor, or His Grace, Or the King's real, or his stamped face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love? What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned? Who says my tears have overflowed his ground? When did my colds a forward spring remove? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one man to the plaguy bill? Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move, Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly, We're tapers too, and at our own cost die, And we in us find the eagle and the dove.

355 The Pilgrim’s Progress The phoenix riddle hath more wit By us: we two being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns, all shall approve Us canonized for love:

And thus invoke us: You whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage; You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes (So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize) Countries, towns, courts: Beg from above A pattern of your love!

Break of Day

‘Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because 'twas night? Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, This were the worst that it could say, That being well, I fain would stay, And that I loved my heart and honor so That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove? O, that's the worst disease of love. The poor, the foul, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man. He which hath business, and makes love, doth do Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

356 The Pilgrim’s Progress

The Flea Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, we are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thy self nor me the weaker now; ‘Tis true; then learn how false fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say, No;

So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. 357 The Pilgrim’s Progress

But we, by a love so much refined That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

358 The Pilgrim’s Progress

Elegy 18. Loves Progress Who ever loves, if hee doe not propose The right true end of love, hee’s one which goes To sea for nothing but to make him sicke. And love’s a beare-whelpe borne; if wee’overlicke Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take We erre, and of a lumpe a monster make. Were not a Calfe a monster that were growne Fac’d like a man, though better than his owne? Perfection is in unitie; Preferre One woman first, and then one thing in her. I, when I value gold, may thinke upon The ductillness, the application, The wholsomeness, the ingenuity, From rust, from soyle, from fyre ever free, But if I love it, ‘tis because ‘tis made By our new Nature, use, the soule of trade. All these in women wee might thinke upon (If women had them) but yet love but one. Can men more injure women than to say They love’them for that by which they are not they? Makes virtue woman? Must I cool my blood Till I bothe bee, and find one, wise and good? May barren Angels love so: But if wee Make love to woman, Vertue is not shee, As Beauty’s not, nor Wealth. Hee that strayes thus, From her to hers, is more adulterous Than if hee tooke her mayde. Search every spheare And firmament, our Cupid is not there. He’s an infernall God, and under ground With Pluto dwells, where gold and fyre abound. Men to such Gods their sacrificing coales Did not in Altars lay, but pits and holes. Although wee see celestiall bodies move Above the earth, the earth we till and love: So we her ayres contemplate, words and hart And virtues; But we love the Centrique part. Nor is the soule more worthy, or more fit For love than this, as infinite as it. But in attaining this desired place How much they stray that set out at the face. The hair a forrest is of ambushes, Of springes, snares, fetters and manacles. The brow becalms us, when ‘tis smooth and plaine, And when ‘tis wrinkled, shipwrecks us againe; Smooth ‘tis a Paradise where we would have Immortal stay, and wrinkled ‘tis our grave. The nose like to the first Meridian runs Not ‘twixt an East and West, but ‘twixt two suns. It leaves a cheeke, a rosy hemisphere, On either side, and then directs us where 359 The Pilgrim’s Progress Upon the Ilands Fortunate wee fall (Not faint Canarye but Ambrosiall), Her swelling lips; to which when we are come Wee anchor there, and think our selves at home, For they seem all: there Syrens songs, and there Wise Delphique Oracles doe fill the eare; There in a creeke where chosen pearles doe swell The Remora, her cleaving tongue doth dwell. These, and the glorious promontorye, her chinne, O’rpast; and the straight Hellespont between The Sestos and Abydos of her brests, Not of two Lovers, but two Loves, the nests, Succeeds a boundless sea, but that thine eye Some Iland moles may scatter’d there descrye; And sailing towards her India, in that way Shall at her faire Atlantique navell stay; Though thence the current be thy pilot made, Yet ere thou bee where thou wouldst bee embray’d, Thou shalt upon another forrest set Where some doe shipwracke, and no farther gett. When thou art there, consider what this chace Mispent, by thy beginning at the face. Rather set out below; practice my art. Some symetrie the foote hath with that, Which thou dost seeke, and is thy map for that, Lovely enough to stop, but not stay at; Least subject to disguise and change it is, Men say, the devill never can change his. It is the embleme that hath figured Firmness; ‘tis the first part that comes to bed. Civility, wee see, refin’d the kisse Which, at the face begun, transplanted is Since to the hand, since to th’Imperiall knee, Now at the Papall foote delights to bee. If kings thinke that the nearer way and doe Rise from the foote, lovers may doe so too. For as free spheares move faster far than can Birds, whome the ayre resists, so may that man Which goes this empty and etheriall way Than if at beauties elements stay. Rich Nature hath in woman wisely made Two purses, and their mouths aversely laid; They then which to the lower tribute owe That way which the exchequer lookes must goe. Hee which doth not, his error is as greate As who by Clyster gave the stomach meate.

Elegy 19. Going to Bed Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, Until I labor, I in labor lie. The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight, Is tired with standing though he never fight. 360 The Pilgrim’s Progress Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering, But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime Tells me from you that now it is bed-time. Off with that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals. Off with that wiry coronet and show The hairy diadem which on you doth grow; Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed. In such white robes, heaven's angels used to be Received by men; thou, angel, bring'st with thee A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know By this these angels from an evil sprite, Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. License my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned, My mine of precious stones, my empery, How blest am I in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds is to be free; There where my hand is set, my seal shall be. Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee, As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are like Atalanta's balls, cast in men s views, That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem, His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them. Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings, made For laymen, are all women thus arrayed; Themselves are mystic books, which only we (Whom their imputed grace will dignify) Must see revealed. Then since that I may know, As liberally as to a midwife show Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence, There is no penance due to innocence. To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What need'st thou have more covering than a man?

From Holy Sonnets 1 Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste; I run to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way, 361 The Pilgrim’s Progress Despair behind, and death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh. Only thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can look, I rise again; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me That not one hour myself I can sustain. Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

5 I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite; But black sin hath betrayed to endless night My world's both parts, and O, both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drowned no more. But O, it must be burnt! Alas, the fire Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler; let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.

7 At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go: All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For, if above all these, my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.

9 If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on else-immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned, alas! why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? And, mercy being easy and glorious To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he? But who am I that dare dispute with thee

362 The Pilgrim’s Progress O God? Oh, of thine only worthy blood And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sin's black memory. That thou remember them some claim as debt; I think it mercy if thou wilt forget.

10 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

13 What if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright. Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell; And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigor: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned, This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.

14 Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, to another due, Labor to admit you, but O, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy. Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

363 The Pilgrim’s Progress Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

17 Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her soul early into heaven ravished, Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set. Here the admiring her my mind did whet To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head; But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed, A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet. But why should I beg more love, whenas thou Dost woo my soul, for hers offering all thine: And dost not only fear lest I allow My love to saints and angels, things divine, But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt Lest the world, flesh, yea, devil put thee out.

18 Show me, dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear. What! is it she which on the other shore Goes richly painted? or which, robbed and tore, Laments and mourns in Germany and here? Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year? Is she self-truth, and errs? now new, now outwore? Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore On one, on seven, or on no hill appear? Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights First travel we to seek, and then make love? Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights, And let mine amorous soul court thy mild dove, Who is most true and pleasing to thee then When she is embraced and open to most men.

George Herbert, The Collar GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633)

The Collar I struck the beard, and cried 'No more: I will abroad. What, shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are fee; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; 364 The Pilgrim’s Progress Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage. Thy rope of sands Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load.' But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling ' Child'; And I replied, ' My Lord.'

- the religious poetry (John Milton, Paradise Lost; On His Blindness)

JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)

On His Blindness When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light denied, I fondly ask; but patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly. Thousands at His bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

365 The Pilgrim’s Progress PARADISE LOST

Summary

Each book of Paradise Lost is prefaced with an argument, or summary. These arguments were written by Milton and added because early readers had requested some sort of guide to the poem. Several of the books also begin with a prologue. The prologue to Book I states Milton’s purpose: to tell about the fall of man and justify God’s ways to man. The epic begins traditionally in medias res. Satan and the other rebellious angels awake to find themselves in Hell on a lake of fire. Satan is lying beside Beelzebub. Satan raises himself from the lake and flies to the shore. He calls for the other angels to do the same, and they assemble by the lake. Satan tells them that all is not lost and tries to inspire his followers. Led by Mammon and Mulciber, the fallen angels build their capital and palace, Pandemonium. The highest ranking of the angels then assemble for a council.In the council, Satan asks what the demons think should be the next move against God. Moloch argues for open warfare. Belial twists Moloch’s arguments, proposing that nothing should be done. Mammon, the materialistic angel, argues that they do the best with what they have. Finally, Beelzebub, Satan’s second in command, proposes that the angels try to get at God through his new creation, Man. Beelzebub’s proposal, which is really Satan’s proposal, is adopted, and Satan volunteers to find the new world and new creatures. He leaves at once, flying to the Gate of Hell. There, he meets his children, Sin and Death. Sin opens the gate for Satan who flies out into Chaos and Night. Sin and Death follow him. Finally, in the distance Satan sees Earth.God watches Satan approach Earth and predicts his success in corrupting Man. Man has free will. But God omnisciently knows what will happen. God adds that Man can be saved through mercy and grace, but he must also accept the just punishment of death, unless someone takes on death for Man. The Son offers to become a man and suffer death in order to overcome it. The angels rejoice. In the meantime, Satan, sitting on the edge of the Earth, cannot see the way to Man. Satan disguises himself as a cherub and flies to the sun to talk with the archangel, Uriel. Uriel shows Satan the way to Man.Looking at Earth, Satan is taken with its beauty but quickly overcomes his sympathy to concentrate on what he must do. He sees Adam and Eve and is entranced with their beauty. As Satan listens to the pair, they talk about God’s one commandment that they not eat from the Tree of Knowledge under penalty of death. Satan immediately begins to formulate a plan. Uriel, on the sun, becomes suspicious of the cherub whose face shows changing emotions and goes to warn Gabriel. Gabriel says that he and his angels will capture any interlopers in the Garden, and late that night Ithuriel and Zephron capture Satan whispering in Eve’s ear. The two angels bring Satan before Gabriel, who, with God’s help, banishes the tempter from Earth. When Eve awakes, she tells Adam of her troubling dream. Adam comforts her, reminding her that they are safe if they obey God. God decides to send the angel Raphael to warn Adam and Eve to be wary of Satan. Raphael goes to Earth where he eats with Adam and Eve. After the meal, Raphael tells Adam about the great rebellion in Heaven. Raphael says that Lucifer (Satan) was jealous of the Son and through sophistic argument got his followers, about one third of the angels, to follow him to the North. There, only one of Satan’s followers stood up against him—Abdiel, who returned to God. Satan attacks God and the Heavenly Host, whose power has been limited by God. Nonetheless, God’s forces have little difficulty in defeating the rebels. Michael splits Satan in half, which is humiliating, but not deadly, because Satan, as an angel, cannot die. After the first day of battle, the rebels construct a cannon and begin the second day’s battle with some success. God’s forces begin to pull up mountains and hurl them at the rebels, burying them and their cannons. God is amused at the presumption of the rebels but does not want the landscape destroyed. He sends the Son forth by himself in a chariot. The rebels are quickly herded into Hell.Next, Raphael responds

366 The Pilgrim’s Progress to Adam’s questions about the creation of the world. The angel explains the day-by-day creation of the world in six days. Then, in an effort to keep the angel engaged in conversation, Adam asks about the motions of the heavenly bodies. Raphael explains that Adam should leave some questions to God’s wisdom. Next, Adam describes his own creation, his introduction to Eden, and the creation of Eve. He describes how beautiful Eve is to him and the bliss of wedded love. Raphael gives Adam a final warning about Satan as he leaves.Having been gone from Eden for eight days, Satan returns, sneaking in through a fountain near the Tree of Knowledge. He takes the form of a serpent to try to trick Man. When Adam and Eve awake, they argue over whether they should work together or alone. Eve finally convinces Adam to let her work by herself. Satan, in serpent’s form, approaches Eve and, using clever but fallacious arguments, convinces her to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. After Eve eats, she reveals what she has done to Adam, who, unable to bear the thought of losing Eve, eats also. Having eaten the fruit, the two are overcome with lust and run to the woods to make love. When they awake, they are filled with shame and guilt. Each blames the other. In Heaven, the angels are horrified that Man has fallen, but God assures them that He had foreknowledge of all that would happen. He sends the Son to Earth to pronounce judgment on the humans and the serpent. The Son goes to Earth and makes his judgments. He adds though, that through mercy, Adam and Eve and all humans may eventually be able to overcome death. In an act of pity, the Son clothes the two humans.Sin and Death meanwhile have sensed an opportunity on Earth. They construct a huge causeway from Hell to Earth. On their way across, they meet Satan returning to Hell. They proceed to Earth while Satan enters Hell in disguise. Satan appears on his throne and announces what he has done. Expecting to hear the applause of all the fallen angels, he instead hears only hissing as he and all his followers are turned into snakes. When they eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge which appears before them, it turns to bitter ashes.On Earth, Sin and Death see infinite opportunities. God, looking down on the two, says eventually they will be cast into Hell and sealed up. Adam and Eve lament, but Eve submissively asks Adam’s forgiveness. He relents, his love overcoming his bitterness. She suggests suicide as a way to avoid the terrible curse on the world, but Adam says they must obey God. God sends the angel, Michael, to take Adam and Eve out of Eden. Before doing so, Michael takes Adam to a hill and gives the human a vision of biblical history, ending with the birth of Jesus who will be the savior of Man. Adam rejoices. Adam and Eve together are led out of Eden. Behind them a flaming sword guards the entrance; ahead, they face a new life in a new world.

PARADISE LOST The Argument This first Book proposes first in brief the whole Subject, Mans disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise wherein he was plac’t: Then touches the prime cause of his fall, the Serpent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; who revolting from God, and drawing to his side many Legions of Angels, was by the command of God driven out of Heaven with all his Crew into the great Deep. Which action past over, the Poem hasts into the midst of things, presenting Satan with his Angels now fallen into Hell, describ’d here, not in the Center (for Heaven and Earth may be suppos’d as yet not made, certainly not yet accurst) but in a place of utter darkness, fitliest call’d Chaos: Here Satan with his Angels lying on the burning Lake, thunder-struck and, astonisht, after a certain space recovers, as from confusion, calls up him who next in Order and Dignity lay by him; they confer of thir miserable fall. Satan awakens all his Legions, who lay till then in the same manner confounded; They rise, thir Numbers, array of Battel, thir chief Leaders nam’d, according to the Idols known afterwards in Canaan and the Countries adjoyning. To these Satan directs his Speech, comforts them with hope yet of regaining Heaven, but tells them lastly of a new World and new kind of Creature to be created, according to an ancient Prophesie or report in Heaven; for that Angels were long before this visible Creation, was the opinion of many ancient Fathers.

367 The Pilgrim’s Progress To find out the truth of this Prophesie, and what to determin thereon he refers to a full Councell. What his Associates thence attempt. Pandemonium the Palace of Satan rises, suddenly built out of the Deep: The infernal Peers there sit in Counsel.

Book 1 OF MANS First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, Sing Heav’nly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed, In the Beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill Delight thee more, and Siloa’s Brook that flow’d Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above th’ Aonian Mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime. And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all Temples th’ upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to the highth of this great Argument I may assert Eternal Providence, And justifie the wayes of God to men. (1-26)

Say first, for Heav’n hides nothing from thy view Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause Mov’d our Grand Parents in that happy State, Favour’d of Heav’n so highly, to fall off From their Creator, and transgress his Will For one restraint, Lords of the World besides? Who first seduc’d them to that fowl revolt? Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv’d The Mother of Mankinde, what time his Pride Had cast him out from Heav’n, with all his Host Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring To set himself in Glory above his Peers! He trusted to have equal’d the most High, If he oppos’d; and with ambitious aim Against the Throne and Monarchy of God Rais’d impious War in Heav’n and Battel proud With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power Hurld headlong flaming from th’ Ethereal Skie With hideous ruine and combustion down 368 The Pilgrim’s Progress To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire, Who durst defie th’ Omnipotent to Arms. Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe Confounded though immortal: But his doom Reserv’d him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes That witness’d huge affliction and dismay Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate: At once as far as Angels kenn he views The dismal Situation waste and wilde, A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round As one great Furnace flam’d, yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv’d only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum’d: Such place Eternal Justice had prepar’d For those rebellious, here their Prison ordain’d In utter darkness, and their portion set As far remov’d from God and light of Heav’n As from the Center thrice to th’ utmost Pole. O how unlike the place from whence they fell! There the companions of his fall, o’rewhelm’d With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, He soon discerns, and weltring by his side One next himself in power, and next in crime, Long after known in Palestine, and nam’d Beelzebub. To whom th’ Arch-Enemy, And thence in Heav’n call’d Satan, with bold words Breaking the horrid silence thus began. If thou beest he; But O how fall’n! how chang’d From him, who in the happy Realms of Light Cloth’ d with transcendent brightness didst outshine Myriads though bright: If he Whom mutual league, United thoughts and counsels, equal hope, And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize, Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest From what highth fal’n, so much the stronger provd He with his Thunder: and till then who knew The force of those dire Arms? yet not for those Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage Can else inflict do I repent or change, Though chang’d in outward lustre; that fixt mind And high disdain, from sence of injur’d merit,

369 The Pilgrim’s Progress That with the mightiest rais’d me to contend, And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of Spirits arm’d’ That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring, His utmost power with adverse power oppos’d In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav’n, And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome? That Glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace With suppliant knee, and deifie his power Who from the terrour of this Arm so late Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed, That were an ignominy and shame beneath This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods And this Empyreal substance cannot fail, Since through experience of this great event In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc’t, We may with more successful hope resolve To wage by force or guile eternal War Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe, Who now triumphs, and in th’ excess of joy Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav’n. (26-124)

Whereto with speedy words th’ Arch-fiend reply’d. Fall’n Cherube, to be weak is miserable Doing or Suffering: but of this be sure, To do ought good never will be our task, But ever to do ill our sole delight, As being the contrary to his high will Whom we resist. If then his Providence Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, Our labour must be to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil; Which oft times may succeed, so as perhaps Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb His inmost counsels from their destind aim. (156-168)

Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime, Said then the lost Arch Angel, this the seat That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since hee Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid What shall be right: fardest from him is best Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings

370 The Pilgrim’s Progress A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time. The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heav’n Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than hee Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n. (242-263)

He call’d so loud, that all the hollow Deep Of Hell resounded. Princes, Potentates, Warriers, the Flowr of Heav’n, once yours, now lost, If such astonishment as this can sieze Eternal spirits; or have ye chos’n this place After the toyl of Battel to repose Your wearied vertue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the Vales of Heav’n? Or in this abject posture have ye sworn To adore the Conquerour? who now beholds Cherube and Seraph rowling in the Flood With scatter’d Arms and Ensigns, till anon His swift pursuers from Heav’n Gates discern Th’ advantage, and descending tread us down Thus drooping, or with linked Thunderbolts Transfix us to the bottom of this Gulfe. Awake, arise, or be for ever fall’n. (314-330)

All these and more came flocking; but with looks Down cast and damp, yet such wherein appear’d Obscure som glimps of joy, to have found thir chief Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost In loss it self; which on his count’nance cast Like doubtful hue: but he his wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth not substance, gently rais’d Their fainted courage, and dispel’d their fears. Then strait commands that at the warlike sound Of Trumpets loud and Clarions be upreard His mighty Standard; that proud honour claim’d Azazel as his right, a Cherube tall: Who forthwith from the glittering Staff unfurld Th’ Imperial Ensign, which full high advanc’t Shon like a Meteor streaming to the Wind With Gemms and Golden lustre rich imblaz’d, Seraphic arms and Trophies: all the while Sonorous mettal blowing Martial sounds: At which the universal Host upsent A shout that tore Hells Concave, and beyond Frighted the Reign of Chaos and old Night.

371 The Pilgrim’s Progress All in a moment through the gloom were seen Ten thousand Banners rise into the Air With Orient Colours waving: with them rose A Forrest huge of Spears: and thronging Helms Appear’d, and serried shields in thick array Of depth immeasurable: (522-549)

Henceforth his might we know, and know our own So as not either to provoke, or dread New warr, provok’t; our better part remains To work in close design, by fraud or guile What force effected not: that he no less At length from us may find, who overcomes By force, hath overcome but half his foe. Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife There went a fame in Heav’n that he ere long Intended to create, and therein plant A generation, whom his choice regard Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven: Thither, if but to prie, shall be perhaps Our first eruption, thither or elsewhere: For this Infernal Pit shall never hold Caelestial Spirits in Bondage, nor th’ Abysse Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts Full Counsel must mature: Peace is despaird, For who can think Submission! Warr then, Warr Open or understood must be resolv’d. (643-662)

Book II The Argument The Consultation begun, Satan debates whether another Battel be to be hazarded for the recovery of Heaven: some advise it, others dissuade: A third proposal is prefer’d, mention’d before by Satan, to search the truth of that Prophesie or Tradition in Heaven concerning another world, and another kind of creature equal or not much inferiour to themselves, about this time to be created: Thir doubt who shall be sent on this difficult search: Satan thir chief undertakes alone the voyage, is honourd and applauded. The Councel thus ended, the rest betake them several wayes and to several imployments, as thir inclinations lead them, to entertain the time till Satan return. He passes on his journey to Hell Gates, finds them shut, and who sat there to guard them, by whom at length they are op’nd, and discover to him the great Gulf between Hell and Heaven; with what difficulty he passes through, directed by Chaos, the Power of that place, to the sight of this new World which he sought.

O Progeny of Heav’n, Empyreal Thrones, With reason hath deep silence and demur Seis’d us, though undismaid: long is the way And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light; Our prison strong, this huge convex of Fire, Outrageous to devour, immures us round Ninefold, and gates of burning Adamant Barr’d over us prohibit all egress. These past, if any pass, the void profound Of unessential Night receives him next 372 The Pilgrim’s Progress Wide gaping, and with utter loss of being Threatens him, plung’d in that abortive gulf. If thence he scape into what ever world, Or unknown Region, what remains him less Then unknown dangers and as hard escape. But I should ill become this Throne, O Peers, And this Imperial Sov’ranty, adorn’d With splendor, arm’d with power, if aught propos’d And judg’d of public moment, in the shape Of difficulty or danger could deterre Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume These Royalties, and not refuse to Reign, Refusing to accept as great a share Of hazard as of honour, due alike To him who Reigns, and so much to him due Of hazard more, as he above the rest High honourd sits? Go therfore mighty powers, Terror of Heav’n, though fall’n; intend at home, While here shall be our home, what best may ease The present misery, and render Hell More tollerable; if there be cure or charm To respite or deceive, or slack the pain Of this ill Mansion: intermit no watch Against a wakeful Foe, while I abroad Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all: this enterprize None shall partake with me. Thus saying rose The Monarch, and prevented all reply. (430-468)

T’ whom Satan turning boldly, thus. Ye Powers And Spirits of this nethermost Abyss, Chaos and ancient Night, I come no Spie, With purpose to explore or to disturb The secrets of Realm, but by constraint Wandring this darksome desart, as my way Lies through your spacious Empire up to light, Alone, and without guide, half lost, I seek What readiest path leads where your gloomie bounds Confine with Heav’n; or if som other place From your Dominion won, th’ Ethereal King Possesses lately, thither to arrive I travel this profound, direct my course; Directed, no mean recompence it brings To your behoof, if I that Region lost, All usurpation thence expell’d, reduce To her original darkness and your sway (Which is my present journey) and once more Erect the Standerd there of ancient Night; Yours be th’ advantage all, mine the revenge. (968-987)

Book III The Argument 373 The Pilgrim’s Progress God sitting on his Throne sees Satan flying towards this world, then newly created; shews him to the Son who sat at his right hand; foretells the success of Satan in perverting mankind; clears his own justice and Wisdom from all imputation, having created Man free and able enough to have withstood his Tempter; yet declares his Purpose of grace towards him, in regard he fell not of his own malice, as did Satan, but by him seduc’t. The Son of God renders praises to his Father for the manifestation of his gracious purpose towards Man; but God again declares, that Grace cannot be extended towards Man without the satisfaction of divine justice; Man hath offended the majesty of God by aspiring to Godhead, and therefore with all his Progeny devoted to death must dye, unless some one can be found sufficient to answer for his offence, and undergoe his Punishment. The Son of God freely offers himself a Ransome for Man: the Father accepts him, ordains his incarnation, pronounces his exaltation above all Names in Heaven and Earth; commands all the Angels to adore him; they obey, and hymning to their Harps in full Quire, celebrate the Father and the Son. Mean while Satan alights upon the bare convex of this Worlds outermost Orb; where wandring he first finds a place since call’d The Lymbo of Vanity; what persons and things fly up thither; thence comes to the Gate of Heaven, describ’d ascending by stairs, and the waters above the Firmament that flow about it: His passage thence to the Orb of the Sun; he finds there Uriel the Regent of that Orb, but first changes himself into the shape of a meaner Angel; and pretending a zealous desire to behold the new Creation and Man whom God had plac’t here, inquires of him the place of his habitation, and is directed; alights first on Mount Niphates. HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born, Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam’d? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’d In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th’ Orphean Lyre I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion yeild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget

374 The Pilgrim’s Progress Those other two equal’d with me in Fate, So were I equal’d with them in renown, Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the Book of knowledge fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. Now had the Almighty Father from above, From the pure Empyrean where he sits High Thron’d above all highth, bent down his eye, His own works and their works at once to view: About him all the Sanctities of Heaven Stood thick as Starrs, and from his sight receiv’d Beatitude past utterance; on his right The radiant image of his Glory sat, His onely Son; On Earth he first beheld Our two first Parents, yet the onely two Of mankind, in the happie Garden plac’t, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivald love In blissful solitude; he then survey’d Hell and the Gulf between, and Satan there Coasting the wall of Heav’n on this side Night In the dun Air sublime, and ready now To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet On the bare outside of this World, that seem’d Firm land imbosom’d without Firmament, Uncertain which, in Ocean or in Air. Him God beholding from his prospect high, Wherein past, present, future he beholds, Thus to his onely Son foreseeing spake. (1-79)

But yet all is not don; Man disobeying, Disloyal breaks his fealtie, and sinns Against the high Supremacie of Heav’n, Affecting God-head, and so loosing all,

375 The Pilgrim’s Progress To expiate his Treason hath naught left, But to destruction sacred and devote, He with his whole posteritie must die, Die hee or Justice must; unless for him Some other able, and as willing, pay The rigid satisfaction, death for death. Say Heav’nly Powers, where shall we find such love, Which of ye will be mortal to redeem Mans mortal crime, and just th’ unjust to save, Dwels in all Heaven charitie so deare? He ask’d, but all the Heav’nly Quire stood mute, And silence was in Heav’n: on mans behalf Patron or Intercessor none appeerd, Much less that durst upon his own head draw The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set. And now without redemption all mankind Must have bin lost, adjudg’d to Death and Hell By doom severe, had not the Son of God, In whom the fulness dwels of love divine, His dearest mediation thus renewd. Father, thy word is past, man shall find grace; And shall grace not find means, that finds her way, The speediest of thy winged messengers, To visit all thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplor’d, unsought, Happie for man, so coming; he her aide Can never seek, once dead in sins and lost; Attonement for himself or offering meet, Indebted and undon, hath none to bring: Behold mee then, mee for him, life for life I offer, on mee let thine anger fall; Account mee man; I for his sake will leave Thy bosom, and this glorie next to thee Freely put off, and for him lastly die Well pleas’d, on me let Death wreck all his rage; Under his gloomie power I shall not long Lie vanquisht; thou hast givn me to possess Life in my self for ever, by thee I live, Though now to Death I yeild, and am his due All that of me can die, yet that debt paid, Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsom grave His prey, nor suffer my unspotted Soule For ever with corruption there to dwell; But I shall rise Victorious, and subdue My Vanquisher, spoild of his vanted spoile; Death his deaths wound shall then receive, & stoop Inglorious, of his mortall sting disarm’d. I through the ample Air in Triumph high Shall lead Hell Captive maugre Hell, and show The powers of darkness bound. Thou at the sight Pleas’d, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile, While by thee rais’d I ruin all my Foes,

376 The Pilgrim’s Progress Death last, and with his Carcass glut the Grave: Then with the multitude of my redeemd Shall enter Heaven long absent, and returne, Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud Of anger shall remain, but peace assur’d, And reconcilement; wrauth shall be no more Thenceforth, but in thy presence Joy entire. (203-265)

Book IV The Argument Satan now in prospect of Eden, and nigh the place where he must now attempt the bold enterprize which he undertook alone against God and Man, falls into many doubts with himself, and many passions, fear, envy, and despare; but at length confirms himself in evil, journeys on to Paradise, whose outward prospect and scituation is described, overleaps the bounds, sits in the shape of a Cormormant on the Tree of life, as highest in the Garden to look about him. The Garden describ’d; Satans first sight of Adam and Eve; his wonder at thir excellent form and happy state, but with resolution to work thir fall; overhears thir discourse, thence gathers that the Tree of knowledge was forbidden them to eat of, under penalty of death; and thereon intends to found his temptation, by seducing them to transgress: then leaves them a while, to know further of thir state by some other means. Mean while Uriel descending on a Sun-beam warns Gabriel, who had in charge the Gate of Paradise, that some evil spirit had escap’d the Deep, and past at Noon by his Sphere in the shape of a good Angel down to Paradise, discovered after by his furious gestures in the Mount. Gabriel promises to find him out ere morning. Night coming on, Adam and Eve discourse of going to thir rest: thir Bower describ’d; thir Evening worship. Gabriel drawing forth his Bands of Night-watch to walk the round of Paradise, appoints two strong Angels to Adams Bower, least the evil spirit should be there doing some harm to Adam or Eve sleeping; there they find him at the ear of Eve, tempting her in a dream, and bring him, though unwilling, to Gabriel; by whom question’d, he scornfully answers, prepares resistance, but hinder’d by a Sign from Heaven, flies out of Paradise. O thou that with surpassing Glory crownd, Look’st from thy sole Dominion like the God Of this new World; at whose sight all the Starrs Hide thir diminisht heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy Spheare; Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me down Warring in Heav’n against Heav’ns matchless King: Ah wherefore! he deservd no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. What could be less then to afford him praise, The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks, How due! yet all his good prov’d ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I ‘sdeind subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to ow; 377 The Pilgrim’s Progress Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then? O had his powerful Destiny ordaind Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood Then happie; no unbounded hope had rais’d Ambition. Yet why not? som other Power As great might have aspir’d, and me though mean Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great Fell not, but stand unshak’n, from within Or from without, to all temptations arm’d. Hadst thou the same free Will and Power to stand? Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, But Heav’ns free Love dealt equally to all? Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe. Nay curs’d be thou; since against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I flie Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire? Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep Still threatning to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav’n. O then at last relent: is there no place Left for Repentance, none for Pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc’d With other promises and other vaunts Then to submit, boasting I could subdue Th’ Omnipotent. Ay me, they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vaine, Under what torments inwardly I groane: While they adore me on the Throne of Hell, With Diadem and Scepter high advancd The lower still I fall, onely Supream In miserie; such joy Ambition findes. But say I could repent and could obtaine By Act of Grace my former state; how soon Would highth recal high thoughts, how soon unsay What feign’d submission swore: ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement grow Where wounds of deadly hate have peirc’d so deep: Which would but lead me to a worse relapse, And heavier fall: so should I purchase deare Short intermission bought with double smart. This knows my punisher; therefore as far From granting hee, as I from begging peace: All hope excluded thus, behold in stead

378 The Pilgrim’s Progress Of us out-cast, exil’d, his new delight, Mankind created, and for him this World. So farwel Hope, and with Hope farwel Fear, Farwel Remorse: all Good to me is lost; Evil be thou my Good; by thee at least Divided Empire with Heav’ns King I hold By thee, and more then half perhaps will reigne; As Man ere long, and this new World shall know. (31-113)

Beneath him with new wonder now he views To all delight of human sense expos’d In narrow room Natures whole wealth, yea more, A Heaven on Earth: for blissful Paradise Of God the Garden was, by him in the East Of Eden planted; Eden stretchd her Line From Auran Eastward to the Royal Towrs Of Great Seleucia, built by Grecian Kings, Or where the Sons of Eden long before Dwelt in Telassar: in this pleasant soile His farr more pleasant Garden God ordaind; Out of the fertil ground he caus’d to grow All Trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; And all amid them stood the Tree of Life, High eminent, blooming Ambrosial Fruit Of vegetable Gold; and next to Life Our Death the Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill. Southward through Eden went a River large, Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggie hill Pass’d underneath ingulft, for God had thrown That Mountain as his Garden mould high rais’d Upon the rapid current, which through veins Of porous Earth with kindly thirst up drawn, Rose a fresh Fountain, and with many a rill Waterd the Garden; thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the neather Flood, Which from his darksom passage now appeers, And now divided into four main Streams, Runs divers, wandring many a famous Realme And Country whereof here needs no account, But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, How from that Saphire Fount the crisped Brooks, Rowling on Orient Pearl and sands of Gold, With mazie error under pendant shades Ran Nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flours worthy of Paradise which not nice Art In Beds and curious Knots, but Nature boon Powrd forth profuse on Hill and Dale and Plaine, Both where the morning Sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierc’t shade Imbround the noontide Bowrs: Thus was this place, A happy rural seat of various view. (205-245)

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…Mount Amara, though this by som suppos’d True Paradise under the Ethiop Line By Nilus head, enclos’d with shining Rock, A whole dayes journey high, but wide remote From this Assyrian Garden, where the Fiend Saw undelighted all delight, all kind Of living Creatures new to sight and strange: Two of far nobler shape erect and tall, Godlike erect, with native Honour clad In naked Majestie seemd Lords of all, And worthie seemd, for in thir looks Divine The image of thir glorious Maker shon, Truth, Wisdome, Sanctitude severe and pure, Severe, but in true filial freedom plac’t; Whence true autoritie in men; though both Not equal, as their sex not equal seemd; For contemplation hee and valour formd, For softness shee and sweet attractive Grace, Hee for God only, shee for God in him: His fair large Front and Eye sublime declar’d Absolute rule; and Hyacinthin Locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Clustring, but not beneath his shoulders broad: Shee as a vail down to the slender waste Her unadorned golden tresses wore Dissheveld, but in wanton ringlets wav’d As the Vine curles her tendrils, which impli’d Subjection, but requir’d with gentle sway, And by her yeilded, by him best receivd, Yeilded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet reluctant amorous delay. Nor those mysterious parts were then conceald, Then was not guiltie shame, dishonest shame Of natures works, honor dishonorable, Sin-bred, how have ye troubl’d all mankind With shews instead, meer shews of seeming pure, And banisht from mans life his happiest life, Simplicitie and spotless innocence. So passd they naked on, nor shund the sight Of God or Angel, for they thought no ill: So hand in hand they passd, the lovliest pair That ever since in loves imbraces met, Adam the goodliest man of men since born His Sons, the fairest of her Daughters Eve. (285-324)

Sole partner and sole part of all these joyes, Dearer thy self then all; needs must the Power That made us, and for us this ample World Be infinitly good, and of his good As liberal and free as infinite, That rais’d us from the dust and plac’t us here

380 The Pilgrim’s Progress In all this happiness, who at his hand Have nothing merited, nor can performe Aught whereof hee hath need, hee who requires From us no other service then to keep This one, this easie charge, of all the Trees In Paradise that heare delicious fruit So various, not to taste that onely Tree Of knowledge, planted by the Tree of Life, So neer grows Death to Life, what ere Death is, Som dreadful thing no doubt; for well thou knowst God hath pronounc’t it death to taste that Tree, The only sign of our obedience left Among so many signes of power and rule Conferrd upon us, and Dominion giv’n Over all other Creatures that possesse Earth, Aire, and Sea. Then let us not think hard One easie prohibition, who enjoy Free leave so large to all things else, and choice Unlimited of manifold delights: But let us ever praise him, and extoll His bountie, following our delightful task To prune these growing Plants, & tend these Flours, Which were it toilsom, yet with thee were sweet. (411-440)

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Book V The Argument Morning approach’t, Eve relates to Adam her troublesome dream; he likes it not, yet comforts her: They come forth to thir day labours: Their Morning Hymn at the Door of their Bower. God to render Man inexcusable sends Raphael to admonish him of his obedience, of his free estate, of his enemy near at hand; who he is, and why his enemy, and whatever else may avail Adam to know. Raphael comes down to Paradise, his appearance describ’d, his coming discern’d by Adam afar off sitting at the door of his Bower; he goes out to meet him, brings him to his lodge, entertains him with the choycest fruits of Paradise got together by Eve; their discourse at Table: Raphael performs his message, minds Adam of his state and of his enemy; relates at Adams request who that enemy is, and how he came to be so, beginning from his first revolt in Heaven, and the occasion thereof; how he drew his Legions after him to the parts of the North, and there incited them to rebel with him, perswading all but only Abdiel a Seraph, who in Argument diswades and opposes him, then forsakes him.

Such whispering wak’d her, but with startl’d eye On Adam, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return’d, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass’d, have dream’d, If dream’d, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass’t, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call’d me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou Eve? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor’d song; now reignes Full Orb’d the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav’n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass’d through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem’d, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap’d and wing’d like one of those from Heav’n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill’d Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz’d; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg’d, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis’d? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? 382 The Pilgrim’s Progress Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus’d not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil’d At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy’d, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd’n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair’d, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic Eve, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier, thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav’n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. (29-81)

Raphael, said hee, thou hear’st what stir on Earth Satan from Hell scap’t through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with Adam, in what Bowre or shade Thou find’st him from the heat of Noon retir’d, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable, whence wame him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heaven, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. (224-242)

Thus Adam made request, and Raphael After short pause assenting, thus began. High matter thou injoinst me, O prime of men, Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate To human sense th’ invisible exploits Of warring Spirits; how without remorse The ruin of so many glorious once And perfet while they stood; how last unfould

383 The Pilgrim’s Progress The secrets of another world, perhaps Not lawful to reveal? yet for thy good This is dispenc’t, and what surmounts the reach Of human sense, I shall delineate so, By lik’ning spiritual to corporal forms, As may express them best, though what if Earth Be but the shaddow of Heav’n, and things therein Each to other like, more then on earth is thought? As yet this world was not, and Chaos wilde Reignd where these Heav’ns now rowl, where Earth now rests Upon her Center pois’d, when on a day For Time, though in Eternitie, appli’d To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future) on such day As Heav’ns great Year brings forth, th’ Empyreal Host Of Angels by Imperial summons call’d, Innumerable before th’ Almighties Throne Forthwith from all the ends of Heav’n appeerd Under thir Hierarchs in orders bright Ten thousand thousand Ensignes high advanc’d, Standards, and Gonfalons twixt Van and Reare Streame in the Aire, and for distinction serve Of Hierarchies, of Orders, and Degrees; Or in thir glittering Tissues bear imblaz’d Holy Memorials, acts of Zeale and Love Recorded eminent. Thus when in Orbes Of circuit inexpressible they stood, Orb within Orb, the Father infinite, By whom in bliss imbosom’d sat the Son, A midst as from a flaming Mount, whose top Brightness had made invisible, thus spake. Hear all ye Angels, Progenie of Light, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers, Hear my Decree, which unrevok’t shall stand. This day I have begot whom I declare My onely Son, and on this holy Hill Him have anointed, whom ye now behold At my right hand; your Head I him appoint; And by my Self have sworn to him shall bow All knees in Heav’n, and shall confess him Lord: Under his great Vice-gerent Reign abide United as one individual Soule For ever happie: him who disobeyes Mee disobeyes, breaks union and that day Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls Into utter darkness, deep ingulft, his place Ordaind without redemption, without end. (561-615)

Son, thou in whom my glory I behold In full resplendence, Heir of all my might, Neerly it now concernes us to be sure Of our Omnipotence, and with what Arms

384 The Pilgrim’s Progress We mean to hold what anciently we claim Of Deitie or Empire, such a foe Is rising, who intends to erect his Throne Equal to ours, throughout the spacious North; Nor so content, hath in his thought to trie In battel, what our Power is, or our right. Let us advise, and to this hazard draw With speed what force is left, and all imploy In our defence, lest unawares we lose This our high place, our Sanctuarie, our Hill. To whom the Son with calm aspect and cleer Light’ning Divine, ineffable, serene, Made answer. Mightie Father, thou thy foes Justly hast in derision, and secure Laugh’st at thir vain designes and tumults vain, Matter to mee of Glory, whom thir hate Illustrates, when they see all Regal Power Giv’n me to quell thir pride, and in event Know whether I be dextrous to subdue Thy Rebels, or be found the worst in Heav’n. (719-741)

That we were formd then saist thou? & the work Of secondarie hands, by task transferd From Father to his Son? strange point and new! Doctrin which we would know whence learnt: who saw When this creation was? rememberst thou Thy making, while the Maker gave thee being? We know no time when we were not as now; Know none before us, self-begot, self-rais’d By our own quick’ning power, when fatal course Had circl’d his full Orbe, the birth mature Of this our native Heav’n, Ethereal Sons. Our puissance is our own, our own right hand Shall teach us highest deeds, by proof to try Who is our equal: then thou shalt behold Whether by supplication we intend Address, and to begirt th’ Almighty Throne Beseeching or besieging. This report, These tidings carrie to th’ anointed King; And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight. (852-871)

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Book VI The Argument Raphael continues to relate how Michael and Gabriel were sent forth to Battel against Satan and his Angels. The first Fight describ’d: Satan and his Powers retire under Night: He calls a Councel, invents devilish Engines, which in the second dayes Fight put Michael and his Angels to some disorder; But they at length pulling up Mountains overwhelm’d both the force and Machins of Satan: Yet the Tumult not so ending, God on the third day sends Messiah his Son, for whom he had reserv’d the glory of that Victory: Hee in the Power of his Father coming to the place, and causing all his Legions to stand still on either side, with his Chariot and Thunder driving into the midst of his Enemies, pursues them unable to resist towards the wall of Heaven; which opening, they leap down with horrour and confusion into the place of punishment prepar’d for them in the Deep: Messiah returns with triumph to his Father.

To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern repli’d. Apostat still thou errst, nor end wilt find Of erring, from the path of truth remote: Unjustly thou deprav’st it with the name Of Servitude to serve whom God ordains, Or Nature; God and Nature bid the same, When he who rules is worthiest, and excells Them whom he governs. This is servitude, To serve th’ unwise, or him who hath rebelld Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thy self not free, but to thy self enthrall’d; Yet leudly dar’st our ministring upbraid. Reign thou in Hell thy Kingdom, let mee serve In Heav’n God ever blest, and his Divine Behests obey, worthiest to be obey’d, Yet Chains in Hell, not Realms expect: mean while From mee returnd, as erst thou saidst, from flight, This greeting on thy impious Crest receive. (171-188)

So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell On the proud Crest of Satan, that no sight, Nor motion of swift thought, less could his Shield Such ruin intercept: ten paces huge He back recoild; the tenth on bended knee His massie Spear upstaid; as if on Earth Winds under ground or waters forcing way Sidelong, had push’t a Mountain from his seat Half sunk with all his Pines. Amazement seis’d The Rebel Thrones, but greater rage to see Thus foil’d thir mightiest, ours joy filld, and shout, Presage of Victorie and fierce desire Of Battel: whereat Michael bid sound Th’ Arch-angel trumpet; through the vast of Heav’n It sounded, and the faithful Armies rung Hosanna to the Highest: nor stood at gaze The adverse Legions, nor less hideous joyn’d The horrid shock: now storming furie rose, 386 The Pilgrim’s Progress And clamour such as heard in Heav’n till now Was never, Arms on Armour clashing bray’d Horrible discord, and the madding Wheeles Of brazen Chariots rag’d; dire was the noise Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss Of fiery Darts in flaming volies flew, And flying vaulted either Host with fire. So under fierie Cope together rush’d Both Battels maine, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage; all Heav’n Resounded, and had Earth bin then, all Earth Had to her Center shook. What wonder? when Millions of fierce encountring Angels fought On either side, the least of whom could weild These Elements, and arm him with the force Of all thir Regions: how much more of Power Armie against Armie numberless to raise Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb, Though not destroy, thir happie Native seat; Had not th’ Eternal King Omnipotent From his strong hold of Heav’n high over-rul’d And limited thir might; though numberd such As each divided Legion might have seemed A numerous Host, in strength each armed hand A Legion; led in fight, yet Leader seemd Each Warriour single as in Chief, expert When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway Of Battel, open when, and when to close The ridges of grim Warr; no thought of flight, None of retreat, no unbecoming deed That argu’d fear; each on himself reli’d, As onely in his arm the moment lay Of victorie; deeds of eternal fame Were don, but infinite: for wide was spred That Warr and various; somtimes on firm ground A standing fight, then soaring on main wing Tormented all the Air; all Air seemd then Conflicting Fire: long time in eeven scale The Battel hung; till Satan, who that day Prodigious power had shewn, and met in Armes No equal, raunging through the dire attack Of fighting Seraphim confus’d, at length Saw where the Sword of Michael smote, and fell’d Squadrons at once, with huge two-handed sway Brandisht aloft the horrid edge came down Wide wasting; such destruction to withstand He hasted, and oppos’d the rockie Orb Of tenfold Adamant, his ample Shield A vast circumference: At his approach The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toile Surceas’d, and glad as hoping here to end Intestine War in Heav’n, the arch foe subdu’d

387 The Pilgrim’s Progress Or Captive drag’d in Chains, with hostile frown And visage all enflam’d first thus began. (189-261)

So scoffing in ambiguous words, he scarce Had ended; when to Right and Left the Front Divided, and to either Flank retir’d. Which to our eyes discoverd new and strange, A triple-mounted row of Pillars laid On Wheels (for like to Pillars most they seem’d Or hollow’d bodies made of Oak or Fir With branches lopt, in Wood or Mountain fell’d) Brass, Iron, Stonie mould, had not thir mouthes With hideous orifice gap’t on us wide. Portending behind truce; at each behind A Seraph stood, and in his hand a Reed Stood waving tipt with fire; while we suspense, Collected stood within our thoughts amus’d, Not long, for sudden all at once thir Reeds Put forth, and to a narrow vent appli’d With nicest touch. Immediate in a flame, But soon obscurd with smoak, all Heav’n appeerd, From those deep-throated Engins belcht, whose roar Emboweld with outragious noise the Air, And all her entrails tore, disgorging foule Thir devillish glut, chaind Thunderbolts and Hail Of Iron Globes, which on the Victor Host Level’d, with such impetuous furie smote, That whom they hit, none on thir feet might stand, Though standing else as Rocks, but down they fell By thousands, Angel on Arch-Angel rowl’d; The sooner for thir Arms, unarm’d they might Have easily as Spirits evaded swift By quick contraction or remove; but now Foule dissipation should and forc’t rout; Nor serv’d it to relax thir serried files. What should they do? if on they rusht, repulse Repeated, and indecent overthrow Doubl’d, would render them yet more despis’d, And to thir foes a laughter; for in view Stood rankt of Seraphim another row In posture to displode thir second tire Of Thunder: back defeated to return They worse abhorr’d. Satan beheld thir plight, And to his Mates thus in derision call’d. O Friends, why come not on these Victors proud? Ere while they fierce were coming, and when wee, To entertain them fair with open Front And Brest, (what could we more?) propounded terms Of composition, strait they chang’d thir minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell, As they would dance, yet for a dance they seemd Somwhat extravagant and wilde, perhaps

388 The Pilgrim’s Progress For suppose of offerd peace: but suppose If our proposals once again were heard We should compel them to a quick result. (568-619)

So spake the Son, and into terrour chang’d His count’nance too severe to be beheld And full of wrauth bent on his Enemies. At once the Four spred out thir Starrie wings With dreadful shade contiguous, and the Orbes Of his fierce Chariot rowld, as with the sound Of torrent Floods, or of a numerous Host. Hee on his impious Foes right onward drove, Gloomie as Night; under his burning Wheeles The stedfast Empyrean shook throughout, All but the Throne it self of God. Full soon Among them he arriv’d; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand Thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in thir Soules infix’d Plagues; they astonisht all resistance lost, All courage; down thir idle weapons drop’d; O’re Shields and Helmes, and helmed heads he rode Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate, That wish’d the Mountains now might be again Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. Nor less on either side tempestuous fell His arrows, from the fourfold-visag’d Foure, Distinct with eyes, and from the living Wheels, Distinct alike with multitude of eyes, One Spirit in them rul’d, and every eye Glar’d lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among th’ accurst, that witherd all thir strength, And of thir wonted vigour left them draind, Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fall’n. Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check’d His Thunder in mid Volie, for he meant Not to destroy, but root them out of Heav’n: The overthrown he rais’d, and as a Heard Of Goats or timerous flock together throngd Drove them before him Thunder-struck, pursu’d With terrors and with furies to the bounds And Chrystall wall of Heav’n, which op’ning wide, Rowld inward, and a spacious Gap disclos’d Into the wastful Deep; the monstrous sight Strook them with horror backward, but far worse Urg’d them behind; headlong themselvs they threw Down from the verge of Heav’n, Eternal wrauth Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. Hell heard th’ unsufferable noise, Hell saw Heav’n ruining from Heav’n, and would have fled Affrighted; but strict Fate had cast too deep Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. Nine dayes they fell; confounded Chaos roard,

389 The Pilgrim’s Progress And felt tenfold confusion in thir fall Through his wilde Anarchie, so huge a rout Incumberd him with ruin: Hell at last Yawning receavd them whole, and on them clos’d, Hell thir fit habitation fraught with fire Unquenchable, the house of woe and paine. Disburd’nd Heav’n rejoic’d, and soon repaird Her mural breach, returning whence it rowld. Sole Victor from th’ expulsion of his Foes Messiah his triumphal Chariot turnd: To meet him all his Saints, who silent stood Eye witnesses of his Almightie Acts, With jubilie advanc’d; and as they went, Shaded with branching Palme, each order bright, Sung Triumph, and him sung Victorious King, Son, Heire, and Lord, to him Dominion giv’n, Worthiest to Reign: he celebrated rode Triumphant through mid Heav’n, into the Courts And Temple of his mightie Father Thron’d On high; who into Glorie him receav’d, Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss. Thus measuring things in Heav’n by things on Earth At thy request, and that thou maist beware By what is past, to thee I have reveal’d What might have else to human Race bin hid: The discord which befel, and Warr in Heav’n Among th’ Angelic Powers, and the deep fall Of those too high aspiring, who rebelld With Satan, hee who envies now thy state, Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee also from obedience, that with him Bereavd of happiness thou maist partake His punishment, Eternal miserie; Which would be all his solace and revenge, As a despite don against the most High, Thee once to gaine Companion of his woe. But list’n not to his Temptations, warne Thy weaker; let it profit thee to have heard By terrible Example the reward Of disobedience; firm they might have stood, Yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress. (824-912)

Book VII The Argument Raphael at the request of Adam relates how and wherefore this world was first created; that God, after the expelling of Satan and his Angels out of Heaven, declar’d his pleasure to create another World and other Creatures to dwell therein; sends his Son with Glory and attendance of Angels to perform the work of Creation in six dayes: the Angels celebrate with Hymns the performance thereof, and his re-ascention into Heaven.

Silence, ye troubl’d waves, and thou Deep, peace, Said then th’ Omnific Word, your discord end: 390 The Pilgrim’s Progress Nor staid, but on the Wings of Cherubim Uplifted, in Paternal Glorie rode Farr into Chaos, and the World unborn; For Chaos heard his voice: him all his Traine Follow’d in bright procession to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might. Then staid the fervid Wheeles, and in his hand He took the golden Compasses, prepar’d In Gods Eternal store, to circumscribe This Universe, and all created things: One foot he center’d, and the other turn’d Round through the vast profunditie obscure, And said, thus farr extend, thus farr thy bounds, This be thy just Circumference, O World. Thus God the Heav’n created, thus the Earth, Matter unform’d and void: Darkness profound Cover’d th’ Abyss: but on the watrie calme His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspred, And vital vertue infus’d, and vital warmth T hroughout the fluid Mass, but downward purg’d The black tartareous cold infernal dregs Adverse to life; then founded, then conglob’d Like things to like, the rest to several place Disparted, and between spun out the Air, And Earth self-ballanc’t on her Center hung. Let ther be Light, said God, and forthwith Light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure Sprung from the Deep, and from her Native East To journie through the airie gloom began, Sphear’d in a radiant Cloud, for yet the Sun Was not; shee in a cloudie Tabernacle Sojourn’d the while. God saw the Light was good; And light from darkness by the Hemisphere Divided: Light the Day, and Darkness Night He nam’d. Thus was the first Day Eev’n and Morn: Nor past uncelebrated, nor unsung By the Celestial Quires, when Orient Light Exhaling first from Darkness they beheld: Birth-day of Heav’n and Earth; with joy and shout T he hollow Universal Orb they fill’d, And touch’t thir Golden Harps, & hymning prais’d God and his works, Creatour him they sung, Both when first Eevning was, and when first Morn. (216-260)

Let us make now Man in our image, Man In our similitude, and let them rule Over the Fish and Fowle of Sea and Aire, Beast of the Field, and over all the Earth, And every creeping thing that creeps the ground. This said, he formd thee, Adam, thee O Man Dust of the ground, and in thy nostrils breath’ d The breath of Life; in his own Image hee

391 The Pilgrim’s Progress Created thee, in the Image of God Express, and thou becam’st a living Soul. Male he created thee, but thy consort Femal for Race; then bless’d Mankinde, and said, Be fruitful, multiplie, and fill the Earth, Subdue it, and throughout Dominion hold Over Fish of the Sea, and Fowle of the Aire, And every living thing that moves on the Earth. Wherever thus created, for no place Is yet distinct by name, thence, as thou know’st He brought thee into this delicious Grove, This Garden, planted with the Trees of God, Delectable both to behold and taste; And freely all thir pleasant fruit for food Gave thee all sorts are here that all Earth yeelds, Varietie without end; but of the Tree Which tasted works knowledge of Good and Evil, Thou mai’st not; in the day thou eat’st, thou di’st; Death is the penaltie impos’d, beware, And govern well thy appetite, least sin Surprise thee, and her black attendant Death. Here finish’d hee, and all that he had made View’d, and behold all was entirely good; So Ev’n and Morn accomplish’t the Sixt day: Yet not till the Creator from his work Desisting, though unwearied, up returnd Up to the Heav’n of Heav’ns his high abode, Thence to behold this new created World Th’ addition of his Empire, how it shew’d In prospect from his Throne, how good, how faire, Answering his great Idea. Up he rode Followd with acclamation and the sound Symphonious of ten thousand Harpes that tun’d Angelic harmonies: the Earth, the Aire Resounded, (thou remember’st for thou heardst) The Heav’ns and all the Constellations rung, The Planets in thir stations list’ning stood, While the bright Pomp ascended jubilant. (519-564)

Book VIII The Argument Adam inquires concerning celestial Motions, is doubtfully answer’d, and exhorted to search rather things more worthy of knowledge: Adam assents, and still desirous to detain Raphael, relates to him what he remember’d since his own Creation, his placing in Paradise, his talk with God concerning solitude and fit society, his first meeting and Nuptials with Eve, his discourse with the Angel thereupon; who after admonitions repeated departs.

While thus I call’d, and stray’d I knew not whither, From where I first drew Aire, and first beheld This happie Light, when answer none return’d, On a green shadie Bank profuse of Flours Pensive I sate me down; there gentle sleep 392 The Pilgrim’s Progress First found me, and with soft oppression seis’d My droused sense, untroubl’d, though I thought I then was passing to my former state Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve: When suddenly stood at my Head a dream, Whose inward apparition gently mov’d My Fancy to believe I yet had being, And livd: One came, methought, of shape Divine, And said, thy Mansion wants thee, Adam, rise, First Man, of Men innumerable ordain’d First Father, call’d by thee I come thy Guide To the Garden of bliss, thy seat prepar’d. So saying, by the hand he took me rais’d, And over Fields and Waters, as in Aire Smooth sliding without step, last led me up A woodie Mountain; whose high top was plaine, A Circuit wide, enclos’d, with goodliest Trees Planted, with Walks, and Bowers, that what I saw Of Earth before scarce pleasant seemd. Each Tree Load’n with fairest Fruit, that hung to the Eye Tempting, stirr’d in me sudden appetite To pluck and eate; whereat I wak’d, and found Before mine Eyes all real, as the dream Had lively shadowd: Here had new begun My wandring, had not hee who was my Guide Up hither, from among the Trees appeer’d, Presence Divine. Rejoycing, but with awe In adoration at his feet I fell Submiss: he rear’d me, & Whom thou soughtst I am, Said mildely, Author of all this thou seest Above, or round about thee or beneath. This Paradise I give thee, count it thine To Till and keep, and of the Fruit to eate: Of every Tree that in the Garden growes Eate freely with glad heart; fear here no dearth: But of the Tree whose operation brings Knowledg of good and ill, which I have set The Pledge of thy Obedience and thy Faith, Amid the Garden by the Tree of Life, Remember what I warne thee, shun to taste, And shun the bitter consequence: for know, The day thou eat’st thereof, my sole command Transgrest, inevitably thou shalt dye; From that day mortal, and this happie State Shalt loose, expell’d from hence into a World Of woe and sorrow. Sternly he pronounc’d The rigid interdiction, which resounds Yet dreadful in mine eare… (283-335)

Hee ended, or I heard no more, for now My earthly by his Heav’nly overpower’d, Which it had long stood under, streind to the highth

393 The Pilgrim’s Progress In that celestial Colloquie sublime, As with an object that excels the sense, Dazl’d and spent, sunk down, and sought repair Of sleep, which instantly fell on me, call’d By Nature as in aide, and clos’d mine eyes. Mine eyes he clos’d, but op’n left the Cell Of Fancie my internal sight, by which Abstract as in a transe methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape Still glorious before whom awake I stood; Who stooping op’nd my left side, and took From thence a Rib, with cordial spirits warme, And Life-blood streaming fresh; wide was the wound, But suddenly with flesh fill’d up & heal’d: The Rib he formd and fashond with his hands; Under his forming hands a Creature grew, Manlike, but different sex, so lovly faire, That what seemd fair in all the World, seemd now Mean, or in her summd up, in her containd And in her looks, which from that time infus’d Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before, And into all things from her Aire inspir’d The spirit of love and amorous delight. She disappeerd, and left me dark, I Wak’d To find her, or for ever to deplore Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure: When out of hope, behold her, not farr off, Such as I saw her in my dream, adornd With what all Earth or Heaven could bestow To make her amiable: On she came, Led by her Heav’nly Maker, though unseen, And guided by his voice, nor uninformd Of nuptial Sanctitie and marriage Rites: Grace was in all her steps, Heav’n in her Eye, In every gesture dignitie and love. I overjoy’d could not forbear aloud. (452-490)

Book IX The Argument Satan having compast the Earth, with meditated guile returns as a mist by Night into Paradise, enters into the Serpent sleeping. Adam and Eve in the Morning go forth to thir labours, which Eve proposes to divide in several places, each labouring apart: Adam consents not, alledging the danger, lest that Enemy, of whom they were forewarn’d, should attempt her found alone: Eve loath to be thought not circumspect or firm enough, urges her going apart, the rather desirous to make tryal of her strength; Adam at last yields: The Serpent finds her alone; his subtle approach, first gazing, then speaking, with much flattery extolling Eve above all other Creatures. Eve wondring to hear the Serpent speak, asks how he attain’d to human speech and such understanding not till now; the Serpent answers, that by tasting of a certain Tree in the Garden he attain’d both to Speech and Reason, till then void of both: Eve requires him to bring her to that Tree, and finds it to be the Tree of Knowledge forbidden: The Serpent now grown bolder, with many wiles and arguments induces her at length to eat; she pleas’d with the taste deliberates awhile whether to impart thereof to Adam or not, at last brings him of the Fruit, relates what 394 The Pilgrim’s Progress persuaded her to eat thereof: Adam at first amaz’d, but perceiving her lost, resolves through vehemence of love to perish with her; and extenuating the trespass, eats also of the Fruit: The effects thereof in them both; they seek to cover thir nakedness, then fall to variance and accusation of one another.

The Temptation and Fall of Eve Illustration From Milton's "Paradise Lost" 1807 ,William Blake (1757-1827/

…What he decreed He effected; Man he made, and for him built Magnificent this World, and Earth his seat, Him Lord pronounc’d, and, O indignitie! Subjected to his service Angel wings, And flaming Ministers to watch and tend Thir earthie Charge: Of these the vigilance I dread, and to elude, thus wrapt in mist Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and prie In every Bush and Brake, where hap may finde The Serpent sleeping, in whose mazie foulds To hide me, and the dark intent I bring. O foul descent! that I who erst contended With Gods to sit the highest, am now constraind Into a Beast, and mixt with bestial slime, This essence to incarnate and imbrute, That to the hight of Deitie aspir’d; But what will not Ambition and Revenge Descend to? who aspires must down as low As high he soard, obnoxious first or last To basest things. Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on it self recoiles; Let it; I reck not, so it light well aim’d, Since higher I fall short, on him who next Provokes my envie, this new Favorite Of Heav’n, this Man of Clay, Son of despite, Whom us the more to spite his Maker rais’d From dust: spite then with spite is best repaid. (151-178)

That space the Evil one abstracted stood From his own evil and for the time remaind Stupidly good, of enmitie disarm’d, Of guile, of hate, of envie, of revenge; But the hot Hell that alwayes in him burnes, Though in mid Heav’n, soon ended his delight, And tortures him now more, the more he sees Of pleasure not for him ordain’d: then soon

395 The Pilgrim’s Progress Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites. Thoughts, whither have ye led me, with what sweet Compulsion thus transported to forget What hither brought us, hate, nor love, nor hope Of Paradise for Hell, hope here to taste Of pleasure, but all pleasure to destroy, Save what is in destroying, other joy To me is lost. Then let me not let pass Occasion which now smiles, behold alone The Woman, opportune to all attempts, Her Husband, for I view far round, not nigh, Whose higher intellectual more I shun, And strength, of courage hautie, and of limb Heroic built, though of terrestrial mould, Foe not informidable, exempt from wound, I not; so much hath Hell debas’d, and paine Infeebl’d me, to what I was in Heav’n. Shee fair, divinely fair, fit Love for Gods, Not terrible, though terrour be in Love And beautie, not approacht by stronger hate, Hate stronger, under shew of Love well feign’d, The way which to her ruin now I tend. (463-493)

O Sacred, Wise, and Wisdom-giving Plant, Mother of Science, Now I feel thy Power Within me cleere, not onely to discerne Things in thir Causes, but to trace the wayes Of highest Agents, deemd however wise. Queen of this Universe, doe not believe Those rigid threats of Death; ye shall not Die: How should ye? by the Fruit? it gives you Life To Knowledge: By the Threatner? look on mee, Mee who have touch’d and tasted, yet both live, And life more perfet have attaind then Fate Meant mee, by ventring higher then my Lot. Shall that be shut to Man, which to the Beast Is open? or will God incense his ire For such a petty Trespass, and not praise Rather your dauntless vertue, whom the pain Of Death denounc’t, whatever thing Death be, Deterrd not from atchieving what might leade To happier life, knowledge of Good and Evil; Of good, how just? of evil, if what is evil Be real, why not known, since easier shunnd? God therefore cannot hurt ye, and be just; Not just, not God; not feard then, nor obeid: Your feare it self of Death removes the feare. Why then was this forbid? Why but to awe, Why but to keep ye low and ignorant, His worshippers; he knows that in the day Ye Eate thereof, your Eyes that seem so cleere,

396 The Pilgrim’s Progress Yet are but dim, shall perfetly be then Op’nd and cleerd, and ye shall be as Gods, Knowing both Good and Evil as they know. That ye should be as Gods, since I as Man, Internal Man, is but proportion meet, I of brute human, yee of human Gods. So ye shall die perhaps, by putting off Human, to put on Gods, death to be wisht, Though threat’nd, which no worse then this can bring. And what are Gods that Man may not become As they, participating God-like food? The Gods are first, and that advantage use On our belief, that all from them proceeds; I question it, for this fair Earth I see, Warm’d by the Sun, producing every kind, Them nothing: If they all things, who enclos’d Knowledge of Good and Evil in this Tree, That whoso eats thereof, forthwith attains Wisdom without their leave? and wherein lies Th’ offence, that Man should thus attain to know? What can your knowledge hurt him, or this Tree Impart against his will if all be his? Or is it envie, and can envie dwell In heav’nly brests? these, these and many more Causes import your need of this fair Fruit. Goddess humane, reach then, and freely taste. (679-732)

He ended, and his words replete with guile Into her heart too easie entrance won: Fixt on the Fruit she gaz’d, which to behold Might tempt alone, and in her ears the sound Yet rung of his perswasive words, impregn’d With Reason, to her seeming, and with Truth; Meanwhile the hour of Noon drew on, and wak’d An eager appetite, rais’d by the smell So savorie of that Fruit, which with desire, Inclinable now grown to touch or taste, Sollicited her longing eye; yet first Pausing a while, thus to her self she mus’d. Great are thy Vertues, doubtless, best of Fruits, Though kept from Man, & worthy to be admir’d, Whose taste, too long forborn, at first assay Gave elocution to the mute, and taught The Tongue not made for Speech to speak thy praise: Thy praise hee also who forbids thy use, Conceales not from us, naming thee the Tree Of Knowledge, knowledge both of good and evil; Forbids us then to taste, but his forbidding Commends thee more, while it inferrs the good By thee communicated, and our want: For good unknown, sure is not had, or had And yet unknown, is as not had at all.

397 The Pilgrim’s Progress In plain then, what forbids he but to know, Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise? Such prohibitions binde not. But if Death Bind us with after-bands, what profits then Our inward freedom? In the day we eate Of this fair Fruit, our doom is, shall die. How dies the Serpent? hee hath eat’n and lives, And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discernes, Irrational till then. For us alone Was death invented? or to us deni’d This intellectual food, for beasts reserv’d? For Beasts it seems: yet that one Beast which first Hath tasted, envies not, but brings with joy The good befall’n him, Author unsuspect, Friendly to man, farr from deceit or guile. What fear I then, rather what know to feare Under this ignorance of Good and Evil, Of God or Death, of Law or Penaltie? Here grows the Cure of all, this Fruit Divine, Fair to the Eye, inviting to the Taste, Of vertue to make wise: what hinders then To reach, and feed at once both Bodie and Mind? So saying, her rash hand in evil hour Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck’d, she eat: Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe, That all was lost. Back to the Thicket slunk The guiltie Serpent, and well might, for Eve Intent now wholly on her taste, naught else Regarded, such dilight till then, as seemd, In Fruit she never tasted, whether true Or fansied so, through expectation high Of knowledge, nor was God-head from her thought. Greedily she ingore’d without restraint, And knew not eating Death: Satiate at length, And hight’nd as with Wine, jocond’and boon, Thus to her self she pleasingly began. (733-790)

Thus Eve with Countnance blithe her storie told; But in her Cheek distemper flushing glowd. On th’ other side, Adam, soon as he heard The fatal Trespass done by Eve, amaz’d, Astonied stood and Blank, while horror chill Ran through his veins, and all his joynts relax’d; From his slack hand the Garland wreath’ d for Eve Down drop’d, and all the faded Roses shed: Speechless he stood and pale, till thus at length First to himself he inward silence broke. O fairest of Creation, last and best Of all Gods Works, Creature in whom excell’d Whatever can to sight or thought be formd, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

398 The Pilgrim’s Progress How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defac’t, deflourd, and now to Death devote? Rather how hast thou yeelded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred Fruit forbidd’n! som cursed fraud Of Enemie hath beguil’d thee, yet unknown, And mee with thee hath ruind, for with thee Certain my resolution is to Die; How can I live without thee, how forgoe Thy sweet Converse and Love so dearly joyn’d, To live again in these wilde Woods forlorn? Should God create another Eve, and I Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no no, I feel The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh, Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. (888-916)

So saying, she embrac’d him, and for joy Tenderly wept, much won that he his Love Had so enobl’d, as of choice to incur Divine displeasure for her sake, or Death. In recompence (for such compliance bad Such recompence best merits) from the bough She gave him of that fair enticing Fruit With liberal hand: he scrupl’d not to eat Against his better knowledge, not deceav’d, But fondly overcome with Femal charm. Earth trembl’d from her entrails, as again In pangs, and Nature gave a second groan, Skie lowr’d, and muttering Thunder, som sad drops Wept at compleating of the mortal Sin Original; while Adam took no thought, Eating his fill, nor Eve to iterate Her former trespass fear’d, the more to soothe Him with her lov’d societie, that now As with new Wine intoxicated both They swim in mirth, and fansie that they feel Divinitie within them breeding wings Wherewith to scorn the Earth: but that false Fruit Farr other operation first displaid, Carnal desire enflaming, hee on Eve Began to cast lascivious Eyes, she him As wantonly repaid; in Lust they burne: Till Adam thus ‘gan Eve to dalliance move. Eve, now I see thou art exact of taste, And elegant, of Sapience no small part, Since to each meaning savour we apply, And Palate call judicious; I the praise Yeild thee, so well this day thou hast purvey’d. Much pleasure we have lost, while we abstain’d From this delightful Fruit, nor known till now

399 The Pilgrim’s Progress True relish, tasting; if such pleasure be In things to us forbidden, it might be wish’d, For this one Tree had bin forbidden ten. But come, so well refresh’t, now let us play, As meet is, after such delicious Fare; For never did thy Beautie since the day I saw thee first and wedded thee, adorn’d With all perfections, so enflame my sense With ardor to enjoy thee, fairer now Than ever, bountie of this vertuous Tree. (990-133)

Book X The Argument Man’s transgression known, the Guardian Angels forsake Paradise, and return up to Heaven to approve thir vigilance, and are approvd, God declaring that The entrance of Satan could not be by them prevented. He sends his Son to judge the Transgressors, who descends and gives Sentence accordingly; then in pity cloaths them both, and reascends. Sin and Death sitting till then at the Gates of Hell, by wondrous sympathie feeling the success of Satan in this new World, and the sin by Man there committed, resolve to sit no longer confin’d in Hell, but to follow Satan thir Sire up to the place of Man: To make the way easier from Hell to this World to and fro, they pave a broad Highway or Bridge over Chaos, according to the Track that Satan first made; then preparing for Earth, they meet him proud of his success returning to Hell; thir mutual gratulation. Satan arrives at Pandemonium, in full assembly relates with boasting his success against Man; instead of applause is entertained with a general hiss by all his audience, transform’d with himself also suddenly into Serpents, according to his doom giv’n in Paradise; then deluded with shew of the forbidden Tree springing up before them, they greedily reaching to take of the Fruit, chew dust and bitter ashes. The proceedings of Sin and Death; God foretels the final Victory of his Son over them, and the renewing of all things; but for the present commands his Angels to make several alterations in the Heavens and Elements. Adam more and more perceiving his fall’n condition heavily bewailes, rejects the condolement of Eve; she persists and at length appeases him: then to evade the Curse likely to fall on thir Ofspring, proposes to Adam violent wayes, which he approves not, but conceiving better hope, puts her in mind of the late Promise made them, that her Seed should be reveng’d on the Serpent, and exhorts her with him to seek Peace of the offended Deity, by repentance and supplication.

…This Woman whom thou mad’st to be my help, And gav’st me as thy perfet gift, so good, So fit, so acceptable, so Divine, That from her hand I could suspect no ill, And what she did, whatever in it self, Her doing seem’d to justifie the deed; Shee gave me of the Tree, and I did eate. To whom the sovran Presence thus repli’d. Was shee thy God, that her thou didst obey Before his voice, or was shee made thy guide, Superior, or but equal, that to her Thou did’st resigne thy Manhood, and the Place Wherein God set thee above her made of thee, And for thee, whose perfection farr excell’d Hers in all real dignitie: Adornd She was indeed, and lovely to attract Thy Love, not thy Subjection, and her Gifts 400 The Pilgrim’s Progress Were such as under Government well seem’d, Unseemly to heare rule, which was thy part And person, had’st thou known thy self aright. So having said, he thus to Eve in few: Say Woman, what is this which thou hast done? To whom sad Eve with shame nigh overwhelm’d, Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge Bold or loquacious, thus abasht repli’d. The Serpent me beguil’d and I did eate. Which when the Lord God heard, without delay To Judgement he proceeded on th’ accus’d Serpent though brute, unable to transferre The Guilt on him who made him instrument Of mischief, and polluted from the end Of his Creation; justly then accurst, As vitiated in Nature: more to know Concern’d not Man (since he no further knew) Nor alter’d his offence; yet God at last To Satan first in sin his doom apply’d Though in mysterious terms, judg’d as then best: And on the Serpent thus his curse let fall. (311-174)

…Him by fraud I have seduc’d From his Creator, and the more to increase Your wonder, with an Apple; he thereat Offended, worth your laughter, hath giv’n up Both his beloved Man and all his World, To Sin and Death a prey, and so to us, Without our hazard, labour, or allarme, To range in, and to dwell, and over Man, To rule, as over all he should have rul’d. True is, mee also he hath judg’d, or rather Mee not, but the brute Serpent in whose shape Man I deceav’d: that which to mee belongs, Is enmity, which he will put between Mee and Mankinde; I am to bruise his heel; His Seed, when is not set, shall bruise my head: A World who would not purchase with a bruise, Or much more grievous pain? Ye have th’ account Of my performance: What remaines, ye Gods, But up and enter now into full bliss. (485-503) He added not, and from her turn’d, but Eve Not so repulst, with Tears that ceas’d not flowing, And tresses all disorderd, at his feet Fell humble, and imbracing them, besaught His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint. Forsake me not thus, Adam, witness Heav’n What love sincere, and reverence in my heart I beare thee, and unweeting have offended, Unhappilie deceav’d; thy suppliant I beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not, Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid,

401 The Pilgrim’s Progress Thy counsel in this uttermost distress, My onely strength and stay: forlorn of thee, Whither shall I betake me, where subsist? While yet we live, scarse one short hour perhaps, Between us two let there be peace, both joyning, As joyn’d in injuries, one enmitie Against a Foe by doom express assign’d us, That cruel Serpent: On me exercise not Thy hatred for this miserie befall’n, On me already lost, mee, then thy self More miserable; both have sin’d, but thou Against God onely, I against God and thee, And to the place of judgement will return, There with my cries importune Heaven, that all The sentence from thy head remov’d may light On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe, Mee mee onely just object of his ire. (909-936)

Book XI The Argument The Son of God presents to his Father the Prayers of our first Parents now repenting, and intercedes for them: God accepts them, but declares that they must no longer abide in Paradise; sends Michael with a Band of Cherubim to dispossess them; but first to reveal to Adam future things: Michaels coming down. Adam shews to Eve certain ominous signs; he discerns Michaels approach, goes out to meet him: the Angel denounces thir departure. Eve’s Lamentation. Adam pleads, but submits: The Angel leads him up to a high Hill, sets before him in vision what shall happ’n till the Flood.

Michael, this my behest have thou in charge, Take to thee from among the Cherubim Thy choice of flaming Warriours, least the Fiend Or in behalf of Man, or to invade Vacant possession som new trouble raise: Hast thee, and from the Paradise of God Without remorse drive out the sinful Pair, From hallowd ground th’ unholie, and denounce To them and to thir Progenie from thence Perpetual banishment. Yet least they faint At the sad Sentence rigorously urg’d, For I behold them soft’nd and with tears Bewailing thir excess, all terror hide. if patiently thy bidding they obey, Dismiss them not disconsolate; reveale To Adam what shall come in future dayes, As I shall thee enlighten, intermix My Cov’nant in the Womans seed renewd; So send them forth, though sorrowing, yet in peace: And on the East side of the Garden place, Where entrance up from Eden easiest climbes, Cherubic watch, and of a Sword the flame Wide waving, all approach farr off to fright, And guard all passage to the Tree of Life: 402 The Pilgrim’s Progress Least Paradise a receptacle prove To Spirits foule, and all my Trees thir prey, With whose stol’n Fruit Man once more to delude. (99-125)

His eyes he op’nd, and beheld a field, Part arable and tilth, whereon were Sheaves New reapt, the other part sheep-walks and foulds; Ith’ midst an Altar as the Land-mark stood Rustic, of grassie sord; thither anon A sweatie Reaper from his Tillage brought First Fruits, the green Eare, and the yellow Sheaf, Uncull’d, as came to hand; a Shepherd next More meek came with the Firstlings of his Flock Choicest and best; then sacrificing, laid The Inwards and thir Fat, with Incense strew’d, On the cleft Wood, and all due Rites perform’d. His Offring soon propitious Fire from Heav’n Consum’d with nimble glance, and grateful steame; The others not, for his was not sincere; Whereat hee inlie rag’d, and as they talk’d, Smote him into the Midriff with a stone That beat out life; he fell, and deadly pale Groand out his Soul with gushing bloud effus’d. Much at that sight was Adam in his heart Dismai’d, and thus in haste to th’ Angel cri’d. (429-449)

He lookd, and saw the Ark hull on the floud, Which now abated, for the Clouds were fled, Drivn by a keen North-winde, that blowing drie Wrinkl’d the face of Deluge, as decai’d; And the cleer Sun on his wide watrie Glass Gaz’d hot, and of the fresh Wave largely drew, As after thirst, which made thir flowing shrink From standing lake to tripping ebbe, that stole With soft foot towards the deep, who now had stopt His Sluces, as the Heav’n his windows shut. The Ark no more now flotes, but seems on ground Fast on the top of som high mountain fixt. And now the tops of Hills as Rocks appeer; With clamor thence the rapid Currents drive Towards the retreating Sea thir furious tyde. Forthwith from out the Arke a Raven flies, And after him, the surer messenger, A Dove sent forth once and agen to spie Green Tree or ground whereon his foot may light; The second time returning, in his Bill An Olive leafe he brings, pacific signe: Anon drie ground appeers, and from his Arke The ancient Sire descends with all his Train; Then with uplifted hands, and eyes devout, Grateful to Heav’n, over his head beholds A dewie Cloud, and in the Cloud a Bow

403 The Pilgrim’s Progress Conspicuous with three listed colours gay, Betok’ning peace from God, and Cov’nant new. Whereat the heart of Adam erst so sad Greatly rejoyc’d, and thus his joy broke forth. (850-869)

Book XII The Argument The Angel Michael continues from the Flood to relate what shall succeed; then, in the mention of Abraham, comes by degrees to explain, who that Seed of the Woman shall be, which was promised Adam and Eve in the Fall; his Incarnation, Death, Resurrection, and Ascention; the state of the Church till his second Coming. Adam greatly satisfied and recomforted by these Relations and Promises descends the Hill with Michael; wakens Eve, who all this while had slept, but with gentle dreams compos’d to quietness of mind and submission. Michael in either hand leads them out of Paradise, the fiery Sword waving behind them, and the Cherubim taking thir Stations to guard the Place. As one who in his journey bates at Noone, Though bent on speed, so heer the Archangel paus’d Betwixt the world destroy’d and world restor’d, If Adam aught perhaps might interpose; Then with transition sweet new Speech resumes.

Adam & Eve-The Expulsion From The Garden (from Milton''s "Paradise Lost") Gustave Dore (1832-1883/

…This ponder, that all Nations of the Earth Shall in his Seed be blessed; by that Seed Is meant thy great deliverer, who shall bruise The Serpents head; whereof to thee anon Plainlier shall be reveald. This Patriarch blest, Whom faithful Abraham due time shall call, A Son, and of his Son a Grand-childe leaves, Like him in faith, in wisdom, and renown; The Grandchilde with twelve Sons increast, departs From Canaan, to a land hereafter call’d Egypt, divided by the River Nile; See where it flows, disgorging at seaven mouthes Into the Sea: to sojourn in that Land He comes invited by a yonger Son In time of dearth, a Son whose worthy deeds Raise him to be the second in that Realme Of Pharao: there he dies, and leaves his Race Growing into a Nation, and now grown Suspected to a sequent King, who seeks To stop thir overgrowth, as inmate guests Too numerous; whence of guests he makes them slaves

404 The Pilgrim’s Progress Inhospitably, and kills thir infant Males: Till by two brethren (those two brethren call Moses and Aaron) sent from God to claime His people from enthralment, they return With glory and spoile back to thir promis’d Land. (147-172)

…But the voice of God To mortal eare is dreadful; they beseech That Moses might report to them his will, And terror cease; he grants them thir desire, Instructed that to God is no access Without Mediator, whose high Office now Moses in figure beares, to introduce One greater, of whose day he shall foretell, And all the Prophets in thir Age, the times Of great Messiah shall sing. Thus Laws and Rites Establisht, such delight hath God in Men Obedient to his will, that he voutsafes Among them to set up his Tabernacle, The holy One with mortal Men to dwell: By his prescript a Sanctuary is fram’d Of Cedar, overlaid with Gold, therein An Ark, and in the Ark his Testimony, The Records of his Cov’nant, over these A Mercie-seat of Gold between the wings Of two bright Cherubim, before him burn Seaven Lamps as in a Zodiac representing The Heav’nly fires; over the Tent a Cloud Shall rest by Day, a fierie gleame by Night, Save when they journie, and at length they come, Conducted by his Angel to the Land Promisd to Abraham and his Seed… (235-260)

The Law of God exact he shall fulfill Both by obedience and by love, though love Alone fulfill the Law; thy punishment He shall endure by coming in the Flesh To a reproachful life and cursed death, Proclaming Life to all who shall believe In his redemption, and that his obedience Imputed becomes theirs by Faith, his merits To save them, not thir own, though legal works. For this he shall live hated, be blasphem’d, Seis’d on by force, judg’d, and to death condemnd A shameful and accurst, naild to the Cross By his own Nation, slaine for bringing Life; But to the Cross he nailes thy Enemies, The Law that is against thee, and the sins Of all mankinde, with him there crucifi’d, Never to hurt them more who rightly trust In this his satisfaction; so he dies, But soon revives, Death over him no power

405 The Pilgrim’s Progress Shall long usurp; ere the third dawning light Returne, the Starres of Morn shall see him rise Out of his grave, fresh as the dawning light, Thy ransom paid, which Man from death redeems, His death for Man, as many as offerd Life Neglect not, and the benefit imbrace By Faith not void of workes: this God-like act Annuls thy doom, the death thou shouldst have dy’d, In sin for ever lost from life; this act Shall bruise the head of Satan, crush his strength Defeating Sin and Death, his two maine armes, And fix farr deeper in his head thir stings Then temporal death shall bruise the Victors heel, Or theirs whom he redeems, a death like sleep, A gentle wafting to immortal Life. (402-435)

…Truth shall retire Bestuck with slandrous darts, and works of Faith Rarely be found: so shall the World goe on, To good malignant, to bad men benigne, Under her own waight groaning, till the day Appeer of respiration to the just, And vengeance to the wicked, at return Of him so lately promiss’d to thy aid, The Womans seed, obscurely then foretold, Now amplier known thy Saviour and thy Lord, Last in the Clouds from Heav’n to be reveald In glory of the Father, to dissolve Satan with his perverted World, then raise From the conflagrant mass, purg’d and refin’d, New Heav’ns, new Earth, Ages of endless date Founded in righteousness and peace and love, To bring forth fruits Joy and eternal Bliss. (537-551) He ended; and thus Adam last reply’d. How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest, Measur’d this transient World, the Race of time, Till time stand fixt: beyond is all abyss, Eternitie, whose end no eye can reach. Greatly instructed I shall hence depart. Greatly in peace of thought, and have my fill Of knowledge, what this vessel can containe; Beyond which was my folly to aspire. Henceforth I learne, that to obey is best, And love with feare the onely God, to walk As in his presence, ever to observe His providence, and on him sole depend, Merciful over all his works, with good Still overcoming evil, and by small Accomplishing great things, by things deemd weak Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise By simply meek; that suffering for Truths sake Is fortitude to highest victorie,

406 The Pilgrim’s Progress And to the faithful Death the Gate of Life; Taught this by his example whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. To whom thus also th’ Angel last repli’d: This having learnt, thou hast attained the summe Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Starrs T hou knewst by name, and all th’ ethereal Powers, All secrets of the deep, all Natures works, Or works of God in Heav’n, Air, Earth, or Sea, And all the riches of this World enjoydst, And all the rule, one Empire; onely add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith, Add Vertue, Patience, Temperance, add Love, By name to come call’d Charitie, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt posses A Paradise within thee, happier farr. Let us descend now therefore from this top Of Speculation; for the hour precise Exacts our parting hence; and see the Guards, By mee encampt on yonder Hill, expect Thir motion, at whose Front a flaming Sword, In signal of remove, waves fiercely round; We may no longer stay: go, waken Eve; Her also I with gentle Dreams have calm’d Portending good, and all her spirits compos’d To meek submission: thou at season fit Let her with thee partake what thou hast heard, Chiefly what may concern her Faith to know, The great deliverance by her Seed to come (For by the Womans Seed) on all Mankind. That ye may live, which will be many dayes, Both in one Faith unanimous though sad, With cause for evils past, yet much more cheer’d With meditation on the happie end. He ended, and they both descend the Hill; Descended, Adam to the Bowre where Eve Lay sleeping ran before, but found her wak’t; And thus with words not sad she him receav’d. Whence thou returnst, & whither wentst, I know; For God is also in sleep, and Dreams advise, Which he hath sent propitious, some great good Presaging, since with sorrow and hearts distress Wearied I fell asleep: but now lead on; In mee is no delay; with thee to goe, Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, Is to go hence unwilling; thou to mee Art all things under Heav’n, all places thou, Who for my wilful crime art banisht hence. This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by mee is lost, Such favour I unworthie am voutsaft,

407 The Pilgrim’s Progress By mee the Promis’d Seed shall all restore. So spake our Mother Eve, and Adam heard Well pleas’d, but answer’d not; for now too nigh Th’ Archangel stood, and from the other Hill To thir fixt Station, all in bright array The Cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as Ev’ning Mist Ris’n from a River o’re the marish glides, And gathers ground fast at the Labourers heel Homeward returning. High in Front advanc’t, The brandisht Sword of God before them blaz’d Fierce as a Comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the Libyan Air adust, Began to parch that temperate Clime; whereat In either hand the hastning Angel caught Our lingring Parents, and to th’ Eastern Gate Led them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer’d. They looking back, all th’ Eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat, Wav’d over by that flaming Brand, the Gate With dreadful Faces throng’d and fierie Armes: Som natural tears they drop’d, but wip’d them soon; The World was all before them, where to choose Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, Through Eden took thir solitarie way. (552-649)

5. THE RESTORATION (-)

-the satire (Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel)

Absalom and Achitophel

Absalom and Achitophel is a landmark poetic political satire by John Dryden. The poem exists in two parts. The first part, of 1681, is undoubtedly by Dryden. The second part, of 1682, was written by another hand, most likely Nahum Tate, except for a few passages---including attacks on Thomas Shadwell and Elkanah Settle as Og and Doeg---that Dryden wrote himself. The poem is an allegory that uses the story of the rebellion of Absalom against King David as the basis for discussion of the background to the Monmouth Rebellion (1685), the Popish Plot (1678) and the Exclusion Crisis. Dryden's skill at walking a fine line between praise and condemnation of his king is extraordinary, and the poem is not only the finest satire Dryden wrote, but is probably the finest political satire ever written in English verse, even if the topicality of the satire is so intense as to obscure its value to modern readers. The story of Absalom's revolt is told in the Second Book of Samuel in the Old Testament of the Bible (chapters 14 and 15). David fought his beautiful, rebelling son, who died after fleeing battle and getting caught by his hair in bramble bushes. Absalom's advisor, Ahitophel (Achitophel in the Vulgate) committed suicide. This rebellion caused David enormous personal grief. In 1681 in England, Charles II was in advanced years. He had had a number of mistresses and produced a number of illegitimate children. One of these was James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth, who was very popular, both for his personal charisma and his fervor for the

408 The Pilgrim’s Progress Protestant cause. Charles had no legitimate heirs, and his brother, the future James II of England was suspected of being a Roman Catholic. When Charles's health suffered, there was a panic in the House of Commons over the potential for the nation being ruled by a Roman Catholic king. The Earl of Shaftesbury had sponsored and advocated the Exclusion Bill, but this bill was blocked by the House of Lords on two occasions. In the Spring of 1681, at the Oxford Parliament, Shaftesbury appealed to Charles II to legitimate Monmouth. Monmouth was caught preparing to rebel and seek the throne, and Shaftesbury was suspected of fostering this rebellion. The poem was written, possibly at Charles's behest, and published in early November of 1681. On November 24, 1681, Shaftesbury was seized and charged with high treason. A trial before a jury picked by Whig sheriffs acquitted him. Later, after the death of his father and unwilling to see his uncle James II become King, the Duke of Monmouth executed his plans and went into full revolt. The Monmouth Rebellion was put down, and in 1685 the Duke was executed. Dryden's poem tells the story of the first foment by making Monmouth into Absalom, the beloved boy, Charles into David (who also had some philandering), and Shaftesbury into Achitophel. It paints Buckingham, an old enemy of Dryden's (see The Rehearsal for one example), into Zimri, the unfaithful servant. The poem places most of the blame for the rebellion on Shaftesbury and makes Charles a very reluctant and loving man who has to be king before father. The poem also refers to some of the Popish Plot furor and the Bloody Assizes.

JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700)

Achitophel Of these the false Achitophel was first, A name to all succeeding ages curs'd. For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit, Restless, unfix'd in principles and place, In pow'r unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace; A fiery soul, which working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay: And o'er inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide; Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please, Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son; Got, while his soul did huddled notions try, And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy; In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the State; To compass this the triple bond he broke; The pillars of the public safety shook. 409 The Pilgrim’s Progress And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke; Then, seiz'd with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a Patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves in factious times With public zeal to cancel private crimes. How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the people's will! Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, Since in another's guilt they find their own! Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abbethdin With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean; Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; Swift of dispatch, and easy of access. Oh, had he been content to serve the crown, With virtues only proper to the gown; Or had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed; David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And Heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land. Achitophel, grown weary to possess A lawful fame, and lazy happiness, Disdained the golden fruit to gather free, And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since, He stood at bold defiance with his prince; Held up the buckler of the people's cause Against the crown, and skulked behind the laws. The wished occasion of the Plot he takes; Some circumstances finds, but more he makes. By buzzing emissaries fills the ears Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears Of arbitrary counsels brought to light, And proves the king himself a Jebusite. Weak arguments! which yet he knew full well Were strong with people easy to rebel. For, governed by the moon, the giddy Jews Tread the same track when she the prime renews; And once in twenty years, their scribes record, By natural instinct they change their lord. Achitophel still wants a chief, and none Was found so fit as warlike Absalon. Not that he wished his greatness to create, (For politicians neither love nor hate), But, for he knew his title not allowed, Would keep him still depending on the crowd: That kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. [From Absalom and Achitophel]

410 The Pilgrim’s Progress Zimri In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes; So over violent, or over civil, That every man, with him, was God or Devil, In squand'ring wealth was his peculiar art: Nothing went unrewarded, but desert Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late: He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief; For, spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel; Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. [From Absalom and Achitophel]

Song for Saint Cecilia's Day (November 22, 1687)

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal Frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead. Then cold and hot and moist and dry In order to their stations leap, And music's power obey. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal Frame began: From Harmony to Harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell

411 The Pilgrim’s Progress To worship that celestial sound: Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly, and so well. What passion cannot music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excite us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thund'ring drum Cries, 'hark the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!' The soft complaining flute. In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful Dame. But oh! what Art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher: When to her Organ vocal breath was given, An Angel heard, and straight appear'd Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS As from the power of sacred lays The Spheres began to move. And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful Hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The TRUMPET shall he heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die. And MUSIC shall untune the sky.

412 The Pilgrim’s Progress - the allegory (Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress)

JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688)

The Pilgrim's Progress Summary John Bunyan was a passionately religious man, imprisoned in 1660 for preaching without a license, and spending most of the next twelve years in jail. It was after his release and during his second imprisonment in 1676 that he seems to have written his most famous and influential work, The Pilgrim's Progress. It is an allegory told by a dreamer, much like certain medieval poems (Pearl is the clearest example). Its full title is The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to that which is to come and is was published in two parts, in 1678 and 1684. The dreamer sees a man, Christian, clothed in rags, with a burden on his back, leaving his house behind in the knowledge that it will burn down. The book he holds in his hands has told him so. He has to flee his family who think he has gone mad and escape the City of Destruction. On the advice of Evangelist he begins a journey through a series of allegorical places: the Slough of Despond, the House Beautiful, the Valley of Humiliation, the Valley of the Shadow of Death, Vanity Fair, Doubting Castle and so on to the Celestial City that he seeks. Each character and place in the dream is given an appropriate name: so Christian meets the goodly Hopeful and Faithful, the cheating Mr Legality and the evil Giant Despair. The format is not unlike that of Spenser's The Faerie Queene in this sense and in that of a divinely inspired journey. The second part concerns the Christiana, Christian's wife, who is inspired to follow on a similar pilgrimage. The Pilgrim's Progress has been so successful and admired that it has been translated into over one hundred languages.

The Pilgrim’s Progress {10} As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a Den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep: and, as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man clothed with rags, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own house, a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. [Isa. 64:6; Luke 14:33; Ps. 38:4; Hab. 2:2; Acts 16:30,31] I looked, and saw him open the book, and read therein; and, as he read, he wept, and trembled; and, not being able longer to contain, he brake out with a lamentable cry, saying, "What shall I do?" [Acts 2:37] {11} In this plight, therefore, he went home and refrained himself as long as he could, that his wife and children should not perceive his distress; but he could not be silent long, because that his trouble increased. Wherefore at length he brake his mind to his wife and children; and thus he began to talk to them: O my dear wife, said he, and you the children of my bowels, I, your dear friend, am in myself undone by reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me; moreover, I am for certain informed that this our city will be burned with fire from heaven; in which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee my wife, and you my sweet babes, shall miserably come to ruin, except (the which yet I see not) some way of escape can be found, whereby we may be delivered. At this his relations were sore amazed; not for that they believed that what he had said to them was true, but because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing towards night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him to bed. But the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears. So, when the morning was come, they would know how he did. He told them, Worse and worse: he also set to talking to them again; but they began to be hardened. They also thought to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages to him; sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would chide, and sometimes they would

413 The Pilgrim’s Progress quite neglect him. Wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery; he would also walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and sometimes praying: and thus for some days he spent his time. {12} Now, I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the fields, that he was, as he was wont, reading in his book, and greatly distressed in his mind; and, as he read, he burst out, as he had done before, crying, "What shall I do to be saved?" {13} I saw also that he looked this way and that way, as if he would run; yet he stood still, because, as I perceived, he could not tell which way to go. I looked then, and saw a man named Evangelist coming to him and asked, Wherefore dost thou cry? [Job 33:23] {14} He answered, Sir, I perceive by the book in my hand, that I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgement [Heb. 9:27]; and I find that I am not willing to do the first [Job 16:21], nor able to do the second. [Ezek. 22:14] CHRISTIAN no sooner leaves the World but meets EVANGELIST, who lovingly him greets With tidings of another: and doth show Him how to mount to that from this below. {15} Then said Evangelist, Why not willing to die, since this life is attended with so many evils? The man answered, Because I fear that this burden is upon my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall into Tophet. [Isa. 30:33] And, Sir, if I be not fit to go to prison, I am not fit, I am sure, to go to judgement, and from thence to execution; and the thoughts of these things make me cry. {16} Then said Evangelist, If this be thy condition, why standest thou still? He answered, Because I know not whither to go. Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within, Flee from the wrath to come. [Matt. 3.7] {17} The man therefore read it, and looking upon Evangelist very carefully, said, Whither must I fly? Then said Evangelist, pointing with his finger over a very wide field, Do you see yonder wicket-gate? [Matt. 7:13,14] The man said, No. Then said the other, Do you see yonder shining light? [Ps. 119:105; 2 Pet. 1:19] He said, I think I do. Then said Evangelist, Keep that light in your eye, and go up directly thereto: so shalt thou see the gate; at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do. {18} So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. Now, he had not run far from his own door, but his wife and children, perceiving it, began to cry after him to return; but the man put his fingers in his ears, and ran on, crying, Life! life! eternal life! [Luke 14:26] So he looked not behind him, but fled towards the middle of the plain. [Gen. 19:17] {19} The neighbours also came out to see him run [Jer. 20:10]; and, as he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried after him to return; and, among those that did so, there were two that resolved to fetch him back by force. The name of the one was Obstinate and the name of the other Pliable. Now, by this time, the man was got a good distance from them; but, however, they were resolved to pursue him, which they did, and in a little time they overtook him. Then said the man, Neighbours, wherefore are ye come? They said, To persuade you to go back with us. But he said, That can by no means be; you dwell, said he, in the City of Destruction, the place also where I was born: I see it to be so; and, dying there, sooner or later, you will sink lower than the grave, into a place that burns with fire and brimstone: be content, good neighbours, and go along with me. {20} OBST. What! said Obstinate, and leave our friends and our comforts behind us? CHR. Yes, said Christian, for that was his name, because that ALL which you shall forsake is not worthy to be compared with a little of that which I am seeking to enjoy [2 Cor. 4:18]; and, if you will go along with me, and hold it, you shall fare as I myself; for there, where I go, is enough and to spare. [Luke 15:17] Come away, and prove my words. {21} OBST. What are the things you seek, since you leave all the world to find them? CHR. I seek an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away [1 Pet. 1:4], and it is laid up in heaven, and safe there [Heb. 11:16], to be bestowed, at the time appointed, on them that diligently seek it. Read it so, if you will, in my book. OBST. Tush! said Obstinate, away with your book; will you go back with us or no?

414 The Pilgrim’s Progress CHR. No, not I, said the other, because I have laid my hand to the plough. [Luke 9:62] {22} OBST. Come, then, neighbour Pliable, let us turn again, and go home without him; there is a company of these crazy-headed coxcombs, that, when they take a fancy by the end, are wiser in their own eyes than seven men that can render a reason. [Prov. 26:16] PLI. Then said Pliable, Don't revile; if what the good Christian says is true, the things he looks after are better than ours: my heart inclines to go with my neighbour. OBST. What! more fools still! Be ruled by me, and go back; who knows whither such a brain- sick fellow will lead you? Go back, go back, and be wise. {23} CHR. Nay, but do thou come with thy neighbour, Pliable; there are such things to be had which I spoke of, and many more glorious besides. If you believe not me, read here in this book; and for the truth of what is expressed therein, behold, all is confirmed by the blood of Him that made it. [Heb. 9:17-22; 13:20] PLI. Well, neighbour Obstinate, said Pliable, I begin to come to a point; I intend to go along with this good man, and to cast in my lot with him: but, my good companion, do you know the way to this desired place? {24} CHR. I am directed by a man, whose name is Evangelist, to speed me to a little gate that is before us, where we shall receive instructions about the way. PLI. Come, then, good neighbour, let us be going. Then they went both together. OBST. And I will go back to my place, said Obstinate; I will be no companion of such misled, fantastical fellows. {25} Now, I saw in my dream, that when Obstinate was gone back, Christian and Pliable went talking over the plain; and thus they began their discourse. {26} CHR. Come, neighbour Pliable, how do you do? I am glad you are persuaded to go along with me. Had even Obstinate himself but felt what I have felt of the powers and terrors of what is yet unseen, he would not thus lightly have given us the back. PLI. Come, neighbour Christian, since there are none but us two here, tell me now further what the things are, and how to be enjoyed, whither we are going. {27} CHR. I can better conceive of them with my mind, than speak of them with my tongue. God's things unspeakable: but yet, since you are desirous to know, I will read of them in my book. PLI. And do you think that the words of your book are certainly true? CHR. Yes, verily; for it was made by Him that cannot lie. [Titus 1:2] PLI. Well said; what things are they? CHR. There is an endless kingdom to be inhabited, and everlasting life to be given us, that we may inhabit that kingdom for ever. [Isa. 45:17; John 10:28,29] PLI. Well said; and what else? CHR. There are crowns and glory to be given us, and garments that will make us shine like the sun in the firmament of heaven. [2 Tim. 4:8; Rev. 3:4; Matt. 13:43] PLI. This is very pleasant; and what else? CHR. There shall be no more crying, nor Sorrow: for He that is owner of the place will wipe all tears from our eyes. [Isa. 25.6-8; Rev. 7:17, 21:4] {28} PLI. And what company shall we have there? CHR. There we shall be with seraphims and cherubims, creatures that will dazzle your eyes to look on them. [Isa. 6:2] There also you shall meet with thousands and ten thousands that have gone before us to that place; none of them are hurtful, but loving and holy; every one walking in the sight of God, and standing in his presence with acceptance for ever. [1 Thess. 4:16,17; Rev. 5:11] In a word, there we shall see the elders with their golden crowns [Rev. 4:4], there we shall see the holy virgins with their golden harps [Rev. 14:1-5], there we shall see men that by the world were cut in pieces, burnt in flames, eaten of beasts, drowned in the seas, for the love that they bare to the Lord of the place, all well, and clothed with immortality as with a garment. [John 12:25; 2 Cor. 5:4]

415 The Pilgrim’s Progress PLI. The hearing of this is enough to ravish one's heart. But are these things to be enjoyed? How shall we get to be sharers thereof? CHR. The Lord, the Governor of the country, hath recorded that in this book; the substance of which is, If we be truly willing to have it, he will bestow it upon us freely. PLI. Well, my good companion, glad am I to hear of these things: come on, let us mend our pace. CHR. I cannot go so fast as I would, by reason of this burden that is on my back. {29} Now I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended this talk they drew near to a very miry slough, that was in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time, being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, because of the burden that was on his back, began to sink in the mire. {30} PLI. Then said Pliable; Ah! neighbour Christian, where are you now? CHR. Truly, said Christian, I do not know. PLI. At this Pliable began to be offended, and angrily said to his fellow, Is this the happiness you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill speed at our first setting out, what may we expect betwixt this and our journey's end? May I get out again with my life, you shall possess the brave country alone for me. And, with that, he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the slough which was next to his own house: so away he went, and Christian saw him no more. {31} Wherefore Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of Despond alone: but still he endeavoured to struggle to that side of the slough that was still further from his own house, and next to the wicket-gate; the which he did, but could not get out, because of the burden that was upon his back: but I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him, whose name was Help, and asked him, What he did there? CHR. Sir, said Christian, I was bid go this way by a man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that I might escape the wrath to come; and as I was going thither I fell in here. {32} HELP. But why did not you look for the steps? CHR. Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way, and fell in. HELP. Then said he, Give me thy hand: so he gave him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon sound ground, and bid him go on his way. [Ps. 40:2] {33} Then I stepped to him that plucked him out, and said, Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not mended, that poor travellers might go thither with more security? And he said unto me, This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended; it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place. And this is the reason of the badness of this ground. {34} It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should remain so bad. [Isa. 35:3,4] His labourers also have, by the direction of His Majesty's surveyors, been for above these sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of ground, if perhaps it might have been mended: yea, and to my knowledge, said he, here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's dominions, and they that can tell, say they are the best materials to make good ground of the place; if so be, it might have been mended, but it is the Slough of Despond still, and so will be when they have done what they can. {35} True, there are, by the direction of the Law-giver, certain good and substantial steps, placed even through the very midst of this slough; but at such time as this place doth much spew out its filth, as it doth against change of weather, these steps are hardly seen; or, if they be, men, through the dizziness of their heads, step beside, and then they are bemired to purpose,

416 The Pilgrim’s Progress notwithstanding the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate. [1 Sam. 12:23] {36} Now, I saw in my dream, that by this time Pliable was got home to his house again, so that his neighbours came to visit him; and some of them called him wise man for coming back, and some called him fool for hazarding himself with Christian: others again did mock at his cowardliness; saying, Surely, since you began to venture, I would not have been so base to have given out for a few difficulties. So Pliable sat sneaking among them. But at last he got more confidence, and then they all turned their tales, and began to deride poor Christian behind his back. And thus much concerning Pliable. But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his ground. But he considered again that he had no armour for his back; and therefore thought that to turn the back to him might give him the greater advantage with ease to pierce him with his darts. Christian's resolution at the approach of Apollyon Therefore he resolved to venture and stand his ground; for, thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the saving of my life, it would be the best way to stand. {142} So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold; he was clothed with scales, like a fish, (and they are his pride,) he had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him. {143} APOL. Whence come you? and whither are you bound? CHR. I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion. APOL. By this I perceive thou art one of my subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run away from thy king? Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more service, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to the ground. {144} CHR. I was born, indeed, in your dominions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, "for the wages of sin is death" [Rom 6:23]; therefore, when I was come to years, I did, as other considerate persons do, look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself. Apollyon's flattery APOL. There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet lose thee; but since thou complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go back: what our country will afford, I do here promise to give thee. CHR. But I have let myself to another, even to the King of princes; and how can I, with fairness, go back with thee? {145} APOL. Thou hast done in this, according to the proverb, "Changed a bad for a worse"; but it is ordinary for those that have professed themselves his servants, after a while to give him the slip, and return again to me. Do thou so too, and all shall be well. CHR. I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor? APOL. Thou didst the same to me, and yet I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn again and go back. {146} CHR. What I promised thee was in my nonage; and, besides, I count the Prince under whose banner now I stand is able to absolve me; yea, and to pardon also what I did as to my compliance with thee; and besides, O thou destroying Apollyon! to speak truth, I like his service, his wages, his servants, his government, his company, and country, better than thine; and, therefore, leave off to persuade me further; I am his servant, and I will follow him. {147} APOL. Consider, again, when thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for the most part, his servants come to an ill end,

417 The Pilgrim’s Progress because they are transgressors against me and my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths! and, besides, thou countest his service better than mine, whereas he never came yet from the place where he is to deliver any that served him out of their hands; but as for me, how many times, as all the world very well knows, have I delivered, either by power, or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, from him and his, though taken by them; and so I will deliver thee. CHR. His forbearing at present to deliver them is on purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is most glorious in their account; for, for present deliverance, they do not much expect it, for they stay for their glory, and then they shall have it when their Prince comes in his and the glory of the angels. APOL. Thou hast already been unfaithful in thy service to him; and how dost thou think to receive wages of him? CHR. Wherein, O Apollyon! have I been unfaithful to him? {148} APOL. Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of Despond; thou didst attempt wrong ways to be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldst have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off; thou didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice thing; thou wast, also, almost persuaded to go back at the sight of the lions; and when thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desirous of vain-glory in all that thou sayest or doest. CHR. All this is true, and much more which thou hast left out; but the Prince whom I serve and honour is merciful, and ready to forgive; but, besides, these infirmities possessed me in thy country, for there I sucked them in; and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of my Prince. {149} APOL. Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this Prince; I hate his person, his laws, and people; I am come out on purpose to withstand thee. CHR. Apollyon, beware what you do; for I am in the King's highway, the way of holiness; therefore take heed to yourself. APOL. Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou shalt go no further; here will I spill thy soul. {150} And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast; but Christian had a shield in his hand, with which he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that. Then did Christian draw, for he saw it was time to bestir him; and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the which, notwithstanding all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his head, his hand, and foot. This made Christian give a little back; Apollyon, therefore, followed his work amain, and Christian again took courage, and resisted as manfully as he could. This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even till Christian was almost quite spent; for you must know that Christian, by reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker and weaker. {151} Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall; and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee now. And with that he had almost pressed him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life; but as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good man, Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying, "Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall I shall arise" [Micah 7:8]; (Christian's victory over Apollyon) and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound. Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying, "Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us". [Rom. 8:37] And with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's wings, and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw him no more. [James 4:7] {152} In this combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of the fight -- he spake like a dragon; and, on the

418 The Pilgrim’s Progress other side, what sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him all the while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged sword; then, indeed, he did smile, and look upward; but it was the dreadfullest sight that ever I saw. A more unequal match can hardly be, -- CHRISTIAN must fight an Angel; but you see, The valiant man by handling Sword and Shield, Doth make him, tho' a Dragon, quit the field. {153} So when the battle was over, Christian said, "I will here give thanks to him that delivered me out of the mouth of the lion, to him that did help me against Apollyon." And so he did, saying – Great Beelzebub, the captain of this fiend, Design'd my ruin; therefore to this end He sent him harness'd out: and he with rage That hellish was, did fiercely me engage. But blessed Michael helped me, and I, By dint of sword, did quickly make him fly. Therefore to him let me give lasting praise, And thank and bless his holy name always. {154} Then there came to him a hand, with some of the leaves of the tree of life, the which Christian took, and applied to the wounds that he had received in the battle, and was healed immediately. He also sat down in that place to eat bread, and to drink of the bottle that was given him a little before; so, being refreshed, he addressed himself to his journey, with his sword drawn in his hand; for he said, I know not but some other enemy may be at hand. But he met with no other affront from Apollyon quite through this valley. {215} Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair: it is kept all the year long. It beareth the name of Vanity Fair because the town where it is kept is lighter than vanity; and, also because all that is there sold, or that cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saying of the wise, "all that cometh is vanity." [Eccl. 1; 2:11,17; 11:8; Isa. 11:17] {216} This fair is no new-erected business, but a thing of ancient standing; I will show you the original of it. Almost five thousand years agone, there were pilgrims walking to the Celestial City, as these two honest persons are: and Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with their companions, perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made, that their way to the city lay through this town of Vanity, they contrived here to set up a fair; a fair wherein, should be sold all sorts of vanity, and that it should last all the year long: therefore at this fair are all such merchandise sold, as houses, lands, trades, places, honours, preferments, titles, countries, kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, and delights of all sorts, as whores, bawds, wives, husbands, children, masters, servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and what not. And, moreover, at this fair there is at all times to be seen juggling cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind. Here are to be seen, too, and that for nothing, thefts, murders, adulteries, false swearers, and that of a blood-red colour. {217} And as in other fairs of less moment, there are the several rows and streets, under their proper names, where such and such wares are vended; so here likewise you have the proper places, rows, streets, (viz. countries and kingdoms), where the wares of this fair are soonest to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the French Row, the Italian Row, the Spanish Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities are to be sold. But, as in other fairs, some one commodity is as the chief of all the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchandise is greatly promoted in this fair; only our English nation, with some others, have taken a dislike thereat. {218} Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City lies just through this town where this lusty fair is kept; and he that will go to the city, and yet not go through this town, must needs go out of

419 The Pilgrim’s Progress the world. [1 Cor. 5:10] The Prince of princes himself, when here, went through this town to his own country, and that upon a fair day too; yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that invited him to buy of his vanities; yea, would have made him lord of the fair, would he but have done him reverence as he went through the town. [Matt. 4:8, Luke 4:5-7] Yea, because he was such a person of honour, Beelzebub had him from street to street, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a little time, that he might, if possible, allure the Blessed One to cheapen and buy some of his vanities; but he had no mind to the merchandise, and therefore left the town, without laying out so much as one farthing upon these vanities. This fair, therefore, is an ancient thing, of long standing, and a very great fair. {219} Now these pilgrims, as I said, must needs go through this fair. Well, so they did: but, behold, even as they entered into the fair, all the people in the fair were moved, and the town itself as it were in a hubbub about them; and that for several reasons: for – {220} First, The pilgrims were clothed with such kind of raiment as was diverse from the raiment of any that traded in that fair. The people, therefore, of the fair, made a great gazing upon them: some said they were fools, some they were bedlams, and some they are outlandish men. [1 Cor. 2:7-8] {221} Secondly, And as they wondered at their apparel, so they did likewise at their speech; for few could understand what they said; they naturally spoke the language of Canaan, but they that kept the fair were the men of this world; so that, from one end of the fair to the other, they seemed barbarians each to the other. {222} Thirdly, But that which did not a little amuse the merchandisers was, that these pilgrims set very light by all their wares; they cared not so much as to look upon them; and if they called upon them to buy, they would put their fingers in their ears, and cry, Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity, and look upwards, signifying that their trade and traffic was in heaven. [Ps. 119:37, Phil. 3:19-20] {223} One chanced mockingly, beholding the carriage of the men, to say unto them, What will ye buy? But they, looking gravely upon him, answered, "We buy the truth." [Prov. 23:23] At that there was an occasion taken to despise the men the more; some mocking, some taunting, some speaking reproachfully, and some calling upon others to smite them. At last things came to a hubbub and great stir in the fair, insomuch that all order was confounded. Now was word presently brought to the great one of the fair, who quickly came down, and deputed some of his most trusty friends to take these men into examination, about whom the fair was almost overturned. So the men were brought to examination; and they that sat upon them, asked them whence they came, whither they went, and what they did there, in such an unusual garb? The men told them that they were pilgrims and strangers in the world, and that they were going to their own country, which was the heavenly Jerusalem, [Heb. 11:13-16] and that they had given no occasion to the men of the town, nor yet to the merchandisers, thus to abuse them, and to let them in their journey, except it was for that, when one asked them what they would buy, they said they would buy the truth. But they that were appointed to examine them did not believe them to be any other than bedlams and mad, or else such as came to put all things into a confusion in the fair. Therefore they took them and beat them, and besmeared them with dirt, and then put them into the cage, that they might be made a spectacle to all the men of the fair. Behold Vanity Fair! the Pilgrims there Are chain'd and stand beside: Even so it was our Lord pass'd here, And on Mount Calvary died. {224} There, therefore, they lay for some time, and were made the objects of any man's sport, or malice, or revenge, the great one of the fair laughing still at all that befell them. But the men being patient, and not rendering railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing, and good words for bad, and kindness for injuries done, some men in the fair that were more observing, and less prejudiced than the rest, began to check and blame the baser sort for their continual abuses done by them to the men; they, therefore, in angry manner, let fly at them again, counting them as bad

420 The Pilgrim’s Progress as the men in the cage, and telling them that they seemed confederates, and should be made partakers of their misfortunes. The other replied that, for aught they could see, the men were quiet, and sober, and intended nobody any harm; and that there were many that traded in their fair that were more worthy to be put into the cage, yea, and pillory too, than were the men they had abused. Thus, after divers words had passed on both sides, the men behaving themselves all the while very wisely and soberly before them, they fell to some blows among themselves, and did harm one to another. Then were these two poor men brought before their examiners again, and there charged as being guilty of the late hubbub that had been in the fair. So they beat them pitifully, and hanged irons upon them, and led them in chains up and down the fair, for an example and a terror to others, lest any should speak in their behalf, or join themselves unto them. But Christian and Faithful behaved themselves yet more wisely, and received the ignominy and shame that was cast upon them, with so much meekness and patience, that it won to their side, though but few in comparison of the rest, several of the men in the fair. This put the other party yet into greater rage, insomuch that they concluded the death of these two men. Wherefore they threatened, that the cage nor irons should serve their turn, but that they should die, for the abuse they had done, and for deluding the men of the fair. Then were they remanded to the cage again, until further order should be taken with them. So they put them in, and made their feet fast in the stocks. {225} Here, therefore, they called again to mind what they had heard from their faithful friend Evangelist, and were the more confirmed in their way and sufferings by what he told them would happen to them. They also now comforted each other, that whose lot it was to suffer, even he should have the best of it; therefore each man secretly wished that he might have that preferment: but committing themselves to the all-wise disposal of Him that ruleth all things, with much content, they abode in the condition in which they were, until they should be otherwise disposed of. {226} Then a convenient time being appointed, they brought them forth to their trial, in order to their condemnation. When the time was come, they were brought before their enemies and arraigned. The judge's name was Lord Hate-good. Their indictment was one and the same in substance, though somewhat varying in form, the contents whereof were this: -- {227} "That they were enemies to and disturbers of their trade; that they had made commotions and divisions in the town, and had won a party to their own most dangerous opinions, in contempt of the law of their prince." Now, FAITHFUL, play the man, speak for thy God: Fear not the wicked's malice; nor their rod: Speak boldly, man, the truth is on thy side: Die for it, and to life in triumph ride. {228} Faithful's answer for himself Then Faithful began to answer, that he had only set himself against that which hath set itself against Him that is higher than the highest. And, said he, as for disturbance, I make none, being myself a man of peace; the parties that were won to us, were won by beholding our truth and innocence, and they are only turned from the worse to the better. And as to the king you talk of, since he is Beelzebub, the enemy of our Lord, I defy him and all his angels. {229} Then proclamation was made, that they that had aught to say for their lord the king against the prisoner at the bar, should forthwith appear and give in their evidence. So there came in three witnesses, to wit, Envy, Superstition, and Pickthank. They were then asked if they knew the prisoner at the bar; and what they had to say for their lord the king against him. {230} Then stood forth Envy, and said to this effect: My Lord, I have known this man a long time, and will attest upon my oath before this honourable bench, that he is – JUDGE. Hold! Give him his oath. (So they sware him.) Then he said – ENVY. My Lord, this man, notwithstanding his plausible name, is one of the vilest men in our country. He neither regardeth prince nor people, law nor custom; but doth all that he can to possess all men with certain of his disloyal notions, which he in the general calls principles of

421 The Pilgrim’s Progress faith and holiness. And, in particular, I heard him once myself affirm that Christianity and the customs of our town of Vanity were diametrically opposite, and could not be reconciled. By which saying, my Lord, he doth at once not only condemn all our laudable doings, but us in the doing of them. JUDGE. Then did the Judge say to him, Hast thou any more to say? ENVY. My Lord, I could say much more, only I would not be tedious to the court. Yet, if need be, when the other gentlemen have given in their evidence, rather than anything shall be wanting that will despatch him, I will enlarge my testimony against him. So he was bid to stand by. Then they called Superstition, and bid him look upon the prisoner. They also asked, what he could say for their lord the king against him. Then they sware him; so he began. {231} SUPER. My Lord, I have no great acquaintance with this man, nor do I desire to have further knowledge of him; however, this I know, that he is a very pestilent fellow, from some discourse that, the other day, I had with him in this town; for then, talking with him, I heard him say, that our religion was naught, and such by which a man could by no means please God. Which sayings of his, my Lord, your Lordship very well knows, what necessarily thence will follow, to wit, that we do still worship in vain, are yet in our sins, and finally shall be damned; and this is that which I have to say. {232} Then was Pickthank sworn, and bid say what he knew, in behalf of their lord the king, against the prisoner at the bar. Pickthank's testimony Pick. My Lord, and you gentlemen all, This fellow I have known of a long time, and have heard him speak things that ought not to be spoke; for he hath railed on our noble prince Beelzebub, and hath spoken contemptibly of his honourable friends, whose names are the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal Delight, the Lord Luxurious, the Lord Desire of Vain Glory, my old Lord Lechery, Sir Having Greedy, with all the rest of our nobility; and he hath said, moreover, That if all men were of his mind, if possible, there is not one of these noblemen should have any longer a being in this town. Besides, he hath not been afraid to rail on you, my Lord, who are now appointed to be his judge, calling you an ungodly villain, with many other such like vilifying terms, with which he hath bespattered most of the gentry of our town. {233} When this Pickthank had told his tale, the Judge directed his speech to the prisoner at the bar, saying, Thou runagate, heretic, and traitor, hast thou heard what these honest gentlemen have witnessed against thee? FAITH. May I speak a few words in my own defence? JUDGE. Sirrah! sirrah! thou deservest to live no longer, but to be slain immediately upon the place; yet, that all men may see our gentleness towards thee, let us hear what thou, vile runagate, hast to say. {234} Faithful's defence of himself FAITH. 1. I say, then, in answer to what Mr. Envy hath spoken, I never said aught but this, That what rule, or laws, or customs, or people, were flat against the Word of God, are diametrically opposite to Christianity. If I have said amiss in this, convince me of my error, and I am ready here before you to make my recantation. {235} 2. As to the second, to wit, Mr. Superstition, and his charge against me, I said only this, That in the worship of God there is required a Divine faith; but there can be no Divine faith without a Divine revelation of the will of God. Therefore, whatever is thrust into the worship of God that is not agreeable to Divine revelation, cannot be done but by a human faith, which faith will not be profitable to eternal life. {236} 3. As to what Mr. Pickthank hath said, I say (avoiding terms, as that I am said to rail, and the like) that the prince of this town, with all the rabblement, his attendants, by this gentleman named, are more fit for a being in hell, than in this town and country: and so, the Lord have mercy upon me! {237} Then the Judge called to the jury (who all this while stood by, to hear and observe): Gentlemen of the jury, you see this man about whom so great an uproar hath been made in this

422 The Pilgrim’s Progress town. You have also heard what these worthy gentlemen have witnessed against him. Also you have heard his reply and confession. It lieth now in your breasts to hang him or save his life; but yet I think meet to instruct you into our law. {238} There was an Act made in the days of Pharaoh the Great, servant to our prince, that lest those of a contrary religion should multiply and grow too strong for him, their males should be thrown into the river. [Exo. 1:22] There was also an Act made in the days of Nebuchadnezzar the Great, another of his servants, that whosoever would not fall down and worship his golden image, should be thrown into a fiery furnace. [Dan. 3:6] There was also an Act made in the days of Darius, that whoso, for some time, called upon any god but him, should be cast into the lions' den. [Dan. 6] Now the substance of these laws this rebel has broken, not only in thought, (which is not to be borne), but also in word and deed; which must therefore needs be intolerable. {239} For that of Pharaoh, his law was made upon a supposition, to prevent mischief, no crime being yet apparent; but here is a crime apparent. For the second and third, you see he disputeth against our religion; and for the treason he hath confessed, he deserveth to die the death. {240} Then went the jury out, whose names were, Mr. Blind-man, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, and Mr. Implacable; who every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the Judge. And first, among themselves, Mr. Blind-man, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth. Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very looks of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose, for he would always be condemning my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way, said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him; therefore, let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death. And so they did; therefore he was presently condemned to be had from the place where he was, to the place from whence he came, and there to be put to the most cruel death that could be invented. {241} They therefore brought him out, to do with him according to their law; and, first, they scourged him, then they buffeted him, then they lanced his flesh with knives; after that, they stoned him with stones, then pricked him with their swords; and, last of all, they burned him to ashes at the stake. Thus came Faithful to his end. {242} Now I saw that there stood behind the multitude a chariot and a couple of horses, waiting for Faithful, who (so soon as his adversaries had despatched him) was taken up into it, and straightway was carried up through the clouds, with sound of trumpet, the nearest way to the Celestial Gate. Brave FAITHFUL, bravely done in word and deed; Judge, witnesses, and jury have, instead Of overcoming thee, but shown their rage: When they are dead, thou'lt live from age to age*. *In the New Heaven and New Earth. {footnote from one edition} {243} But as for Christian, he had some respite, and was remanded back to prison. So he there remained for a space; but He that overrules all things, having the power of their rage in his own hand, so wrought it about, that Christian for that time escaped them, and went his way. And as he went, he sang, saying – Well, Faithful, thou hast faithfully profest Unto thy Lord; with whom thou shalt be blest, When faithless ones, with all their vain delights, Are crying out under their hellish plights: Sing, Faithful, sing, and let thy name survive; For though they kill'd thee, thou art yet alive! {382} Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the Pilgrims were got over the Enchanted

423 The Pilgrim’s Progress Ground, and entering into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they solaced themselves there for a season. Yea, here they heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every day the flowers appear on the earth, and heard the voice of the turtle in the land. [Isa. 62:4, Song of Solomon 2:10-12] In this country the sun shineth night and day; wherefore this was beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of Giant Despair, neither could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were within sight of the city they were going to, also here met them some of the inhabitants thereof; for in this land the Shining Ones commonly walked, because it was upon the borders of heaven. In this land also, the contract between the bride and the bridegroom was renewed; yea, here, "As the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so did their God rejoice over them." [Isa. 62:5] Here they had no want of corn and wine; for in this place they met with abundance of what they had sought for in all their pilgrimage. [Isa. 62:8] Here they heard voices from out of the city, loud voices, saying, "`Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh! Behold, his reward is with him!' Here all the inhabitants of the country called them, `The holy people, The redeemed of the Lord, Sought out'", etc. [Isa. 62:11,12] {383} Now as they walked in this land, they had more rejoicing than in parts more remote from the kingdom to which they were bound; and drawing near to the city, they had yet a more perfect view thereof. It was builded of pearls and precious stones, also the street thereof was paved with gold; so that by reason of the natural glory of the city, and the reflection of the sunbeams upon it, Christian with desire fell sick; Hopeful also had a fit or two of the same disease. Wherefore, here they lay by it a while, crying out, because of their pangs, If ye find my beloved, tell him that I am sick of love. {384} But, being a little strengthened, and better able to bear their sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet nearer and nearer, where were orchards, vineyards, and gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. Now, as they came up to these places, behold the gardener stood in the way, to whom the Pilgrims said, Whose goodly vineyards and gardens are these? He answered, They are the King's, and are planted here for his own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims. So the gardener had them into the vineyards, and bid them refresh themselves with the dainties. [Deut. 23:24] He also showed them there the King's walks, and the arbours where he delighted to be; and here they tarried and slept. {385} Now I beheld in my dream that they talked more in their sleep at this time than ever they did in all their journey; and being in a muse thereabout, the gardener said even to me, Wherefore musest thou at the matter? It is the nature of the fruit of the grapes of these vineyards to go down so sweetly as to cause the lips of them that are asleep to speak. {386} So I saw that when they awoke, they addressed themselves to go up to the city; but, as I said, the reflection of the sun upon the city (for the city was pure gold) was so extremely glorious that they could not, as yet, with open face behold it, but through an instrument made for that purpose. So I saw, that as I went on, there met them two men, in raiment that shone like gold; also their faces shone as the light. [Rev. 21:18, 2 Cor. 3:18] {387} These men asked the Pilgrims whence they came; and they told them. They also asked them where they had lodged, what difficulties and dangers, what comforts and pleasures they had met in the way; and they told them. Then said the men that met them, You have but two difficulties more to meet with, and then you are in the city. {388} Christian then, and his companion, asked the men to go along with them; so they told them they would. But, said they, you must obtain it by your own faith. So I saw in my dream that they went on together, until they came in sight of the gate. {389} Now, I further saw, that betwixt them and the gate was a river, but there was no bridge to go over: the river was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river, the Pilgrims were much stunned; but the men that went in with them said, You must go through, or you cannot come at the gate. {390} The Pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no other way to the gate; to which they answered, Yes; but there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, been permitted to

424 The Pilgrim’s Progress tread that path since the foundation of the world, nor shall, until the last trumpet shall sound. [1 Cor. 15:51,52] The Pilgrims then, especially Christian, began to despond in their minds, and looked this way and that, but no way could be found by them by which they might escape the river. Then they asked the men if the waters were all of a depth. They said: No; yet they could not help them in that case; for, said they, you shall find it deeper or shallower as you believe in the King of the place. *In the Resurrection of the Righteous. [Rev. 20:4-6] {391} They then addressed themselves to the water and, entering, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head, all his waves go over me! Selah. {392} Christian's conflict at the hour of death Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the bottom, and it is good. Then said Christian, Ah! my friend, the sorrows of death hath compassed me about; I shall not see the land that flows with milk and honey; and with that a great darkness and horror fell upon Christian, so that he could not see before him. Also here he in great measure lost his senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met with in the way of his pilgrimage. But all the words that he spake still tended to discover that he had horror of mind, and heart fears that he should die in that river, and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here also, as they that stood by perceived, he was much in the troublesome thoughts of the sins that he had committed, both since and before he began to be a pilgrim. It was also observed that he was troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, for ever and anon he would intimate so much by words. Hopeful, therefore, here had much ado to keep his brother's head above water; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful also would endeavour to comfort him, saying, Brother, I see the gate, and men standing by to receive us: but Christian would answer, It is you, it is you they wait for; you have been Hopeful ever since I knew you. And so have you, said he to Christian. Ah! brother! said he, surely if I was right he would now arise to help me; but for my sins he hath brought me into the snare, and hath left me. Then said Hopeful, My brother, you have quite forgot the text, where it is said of the wicked, "There are no bands in their death, but their strength is firm. They are not in trouble as other men, neither are they plagued like other men. [Ps. 73:4,5] These troubles and distresses that you go through in these waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you; but are sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live upon him in your distresses. {393} Then I saw in my dream, that Christian was as in a muse a while. To whom also Hopeful added this word, Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ maketh thee whole; and with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, Oh, I see him again! and he tells me, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee." [Isa. 43:2] Then they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian therefore presently found ground to stand upon, and so it followed that the rest of the river was but shallow. Thus they got over.

- the drama (William Congreve, The Way of the World)

William Congreve, The Way of the World

Genre: comic or satiric drama (see "Prologue" ll. 30-40).

Form: prose with some inset lyrics.

In 1700, when The Way of the World was performed on the English stage at Lincoln's Inn Fields (a new theatre that William Congreve managed), it was not a popular success. This was the last play Congreve was to write, perhaps for that reason. Since that time, however, this play has

425 The Pilgrim’s Progress come to be regarded not only as Congreve's masterpiece, but as a classic example of the Comedy of Manners. The play is aptly named for two reasons. First, its action takes place in the "present," which means it reflects the same social period during which the play was originally performed. Second, as a comedy of manners, its purpose is to expose to public scrutiny and laughter the often absurd, yet very human, passions and follies that characterize social behavior. It therefore transcends its time by holding a mirror to the fashionable world in all of its frivolity and confusion, while posing something more precious and sensible as an antidote.As with all comedies of this type, the principle comic material consists of sexual relations and confrontations. Marriages are made for the sake of convenience and tolerated within precise social limits. Affairs are conventional, jealousies abound, lovers are coy, and gallantry is contrived. Dowries are the coin of the marriage realm, and therefore, they are of central concern in all contracts and adulterous intrigues. Congreve makes clear that the general way of the world may be funny, but it is not particularly nice. In the way of all romantic comedies the ‘‘marriage of true minds’’ is finally achieved, but humiliation, cruelty, and villainy are the means by which the action goes forward. His comedy is not intended to remedy the world, of course, but to offer an insightful and amusing view of both its seedy and sympathetic aspects.

Characters: Note the "Dramatis Personae"'s careful description of characters in terms of their love and friendship relations, as well as their kinships. This play is founded upon the notion that love strives with and often overthrows the "natural" order of kin relationship, including that crucial artificial one that is formed by marriage. Note that all female characters who are not servants are styled "Mrs." as a term of respect. Only Mrs. Fainall is actually married. The following list describes the characters by their type, since members of the same type often are either allies or opponents in the plot.

• Rakes: Fainall (the antagonist); Mirabell (the co-protagonist [with Millamant]). • Would-be Rakes: Witwoud and Petulant. • Country Aristocrat: Sir Wilfull Witwoud. • Established (older & more powerful) City Woman: Lady Wishfort. • Younger (marriagable or seducable) City Women: Millamant ("loved by thousands"); Marwood (the double agent torn between Fainall and Mirabell); Mrs. Fainall (torn between her mother's power [Wishfort], her past association with Mirabell, and her loveless marriage to Fainall). • Servants: Foible (Mrs. Wishfort's maid, but ally of Mirabell); Peg (Mrs. Wishfort's underservant, subordinate to Foible); Mincing (Millamant's maid); Waitwell (Mirabell's servant and ally against Fainall and Wishfort, the man who plays "Sir Rowland," Mirabell's "uncle who hates him"); Betty (servant in the chocolate house).

Summary: The plot of "Way" is so complex that it may be partly to blame for the play's lack of critical success when Congreve first put it on. However, once mastered, the play begins to shed a glorious light upon the contemporary issues of courtship, truthfulness, and testing the quality of one's prospective mate and allies. It's also enormously funny and prophetic The real stuff of this play is in its conversation.

1. Lady W. resists Mirabell's marriage to her neice, Millamant, because Mirabell has toyed with Lady W's affections, and he has married off her daughter, his former mistress, to the notorious rake, Fainall. 2. Mirabell plots to "marry" Lady W. to "Sir Rowland" (his servant, Waitwell), which appeals to her vanity and to her desire for revenge. "Sir Rowland" is rumored to be Mirabel's uncle, a man who hates M. and who could, by having a male child of his own, disinherit Mirabell in M's father's will. This is a rumor Mirabell started himself, and he takes great pains to make sure it's spreading in his interrogation of Petulant in Act I. Mrs.

426 The Pilgrim’s Progress Fainall's aids M. in this fiction because she is disgusted with her husband's unfaithfulness with Mrs. Marwood. 3. Mrs. Marwood sees Mrs. Fainall plotting with Foible, and tells Lady W. that Sir Wilfull Witwoud (Lady W's cousin) would make a good and safe match for Millamant. Millamant's inheritance will not allow her to refuse a reasonable match proposed by her guardian, Lady W. Also, all of that forfeited inheritance will go from Lady W's neice, Millamant, to Lady W's daughter, Mrs. Fainall, whose fortunes are controlled by her husband (who would then give it to Mrs. Marwood, she thinks (see Act 2, Scene 3 [1927]). Mrs. Marwood, is motivated to aid Fainall, though she hates him, because she has been offended by Millamant's careless taunts about her age and by overhearing Mrs. Fainall plotting with Foible. 4. Mrs. Marwood tells Fainall he now can divorce Mrs. Fainall (jealously presuming Mrs. F. is having an affair with Mirabell). Fainall foils the match Lady Wishfort plans between Millamant and Sir Wilfull by getting the knight drunk. 5. In Act V, Fainall springs his trap, demanding Lady W's estate, his wife's estate (Mrs. Fainall), and half of Millamant's inheritance (Lady W's neice) in return for Fainall's not charging his wife with adultery. Mrs. Fainall dares them to attempt prosecution because she has proof of innocence, but Mrs. Marwood convinces Lady W. that the press coverage of the trial would humiliate the family. 6. Lady W offers Mirabell Millamant's hand in return for helping her escape (saving W's and M's fortunes, but apparently leaving Mrs. F. in deep trouble). 7. Mirabell reveals that Mrs. Fainall, before her marriage, had signed all her possessions over to him to prevent their falling into Fainall's hands. Thus, Fainall has nothing to sue for.

Issues and Research Sources:

1) The plot's complexity is a significant hurdle for the first-time reader. How could Congreve have expected his theater audience to follow such a plot? Obviously, he is trading in a subgenre of this New-Comedy style drama that other writers have been working in for some time before, setting his audience's expectations for the behaviors of all the main character types. Rakes will seduce, though wittily, fops will unconsciously parody themselves while imitating the behaviors of the rakes, the youngest and prettiest female part will be the "prize" for which the rakes compete, and the older, more experienced women will be torn between their allies or opponents to defend their dwindling social power. Wycherly, Etheridge, and Farquar all had produced works on these themes. Nevertheless, the play was a failure on its first performance and marked the end of Congreve's career. Could there be something in the play's satire of London society that caused its audience to reject it? Could it also mark the waning of audiences' appetite for plays which mocked middle-class mores and institutions like marriage, friendship, hard work, education, and even love?

2) Like Shakespeare's King Lear, Congreve’s play sets up a subplot and main plot in which servants mimic the behaviors of the aristocrats and their would-be followers. How are the servants treated in this play, especially when they are detected in misbehavior, and what does this tell you about England's emerging class system near the beginning of the modern period?

3) The characters of Congreve's play often quote (and misquote) literature from earlier eras. Millamant is especially careful to test her suitors' literary taste in the course of generally discouraging their efforts. In Act IV, Scenes 4 and 5, she tests Sir Wilfull Witwoud and Mirabell with lines by the Cavalier Poets, Sir John Suckling and Edward Waller. What about these two poets' appeals to a character like Millamant, and what does Congreve's choice of these two poets say about his expectations of their effects upon his audience?

427 The Pilgrim’s Progress o When Millamant recites the first two lines of Suckling's poem before receiving the "courtship" of Sir Wilfull Witwoud (IV), Congreve is telling us something about her state of mind by revealing what lyrics are on her mental "playlist." Because she does not complete the song, only knowledgeable audience members will know the rest of what she is thinking. Wouldn't it make sense for the wise modern student Notice what she was talking about immediately before the poem came to her mind, and what the whole poem says about love, lovers, faithfulness, age, etc.

4) If bad literary taste is one sign of a "bad person" in Congreve's universe, the resort to violence or the threat of it appears to be an even worse indicator of character. o How is the custom of the social duel-of-honor used in the characters Petulant and Witwoud, Sir Willful, and Mirabell?

5) See especially the exchanges on pp. 1921(Petulant to Mirabel re: "other throats to be cut") and 1942-3 (Petulant to Sir Wilfull re: "Do you speak by way of offense, sir?"). All male characters other than servants routinely would be wearing rapiers, dueling swords.This is crucial to your impression of Fainall's behavior, first exposed as physically abusive on p. 1927 in his intimidation of his mistress, Mrs. Marwood ("Let me go" implies what?), and finally in the ultimate unacceptable act on p. 1969--what is he about to do to his wife?

o How do these uses of real force, and the threat of real armed combat in the drawing room, affect your reading of the imagery of Millamant's song in Act III, Scene 12 (1940)? o How might you compare it with the way Marlowe used violence or the threat of violence in the scenes involving Faustus and the Horse Courser or Rafe and Robin (vs. the moment of Faustus’ damnation in Scene 13)?

6) Restoration theater audiences were extremely well-to-do, and witty (or so they considered themselves). It was common for them to call out jests to each other and to taunt the actors while the play was being performed. Since the house lights were not dimmed for the performance, the play was less of a "sacred ceremony" and more of a social event, even a social contest between the actors and the audience. How might this shape your sense of the play's long-running theme of "public performance," with its women in masks, its reading of blushes and paleness, its ritualized use of comic speech, and its in-jokes about the complex language for popular fads? Note that Congreve's first great success in the theater (The Old Bachelor, 1693) was considered unusual for running as long as fourteen days in performance. How does that fit into the newly emerging codes of middle-class consumerism which you see in the play's content, and how might that affect the play, itself, as something audiences "consumed You'll note that the audience in the well-lit box seats are easily as "on stage" as the actors and far more numerous.

7. Congreve sets The Way of the World's acts in places of iconic importance to London society, especially with respect to the new social mores and minor (and major) vices which had become more acceptable in Restoration English culture. Though the countryside remained largely committed to values and ways of living that had changed little since Medieval times, city- dwellers sought new sights, sounds, sensations, and modes of social contact in the chocolate houses, St. James's Park, and the "salons" of wealthy women. Chocolate and coffee drinking were marginally acceptable aristocratic sources of intoxication, pursued by males alone (except for female servants), and often accompanied by gambling. These institutions later were transformed into the "gentlemen's clubs" of London, fraternities which formed the hidden inner circle of the power structure for politics, business, science, and the arts. In the late 1600s, however, these were much less tame places. What does it mean when the elite males of a nation

428 The Pilgrim’s Progress find these activities a major part of their daily activities? St. James's Park's "Mall," allowed men and women to mingle in socially acceptable circumstances, though it also made possible socially risky behavior. The "Mall"'s familiarity to English readers was such that, when Behn wants to tell her readers how big her citrus garden was in Guyana, she says it was "about half the length of the Mall here" (2199). The Mall was the canvas upon which aristocratic Londoners showed off new fashions and new relationships, traded gossip and rumor, and plotted with/against each other. The "salon" or private room in a house devoted to social engagements offered women a chance to rule a social space that could compete against the male domains of the chocolate and coffee houses. A rural visitor, like Sir Wilful Witwoud, might find these three domains as strange as an alien planet, but to insiders they are "the World" of Congreve's title. Think about the way that centralizes all importance within a few square miles of the imperial capital, and what it does to the rest of the planet, especially England's colonial possessions. Keep in mind that, while Congreve's characters are pursuing their intrigues, the Triangular Trade continues to supply slaves to the American colonies, who trade tobacco and sugar cane for manufactured goods and imports, like tea, from the rest of England's colonial possessions. That trade is what underpins the lavish spending and the personal fortunes which the play's characters fight to control.

William Congreve ,The Way of the World

Audire est operae pretium, prcedere recte Qui maechis non vultis.--HOR. Sat. i. 2, 37. - Metuat doti deprensa.--Ibid.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE RALPH, EARL OF MOUNTAGUE, ETC.

My Lord,--Whether the world will arraign me of vanity or not, that I have presumed to dedicate this comedy to your lordship, I am yet in doubt; though, it may be, it is some degree of vanity even to doubt of it. One who has at any time had the honour of your lordship's conversation, cannot be supposed to think very meanly of that which he would prefer to your perusal. Yet it were to incur the imputation of too much sufficiency to pretend to such a merit as might abide the test of your lordship's censure. Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it is mine, will be sufficiently made up to it when it is once become your lordship's; and it is my security, that I cannot have overrated it more by my dedication than your lordship will dignify it by your patronage. That it succeeded on the stage was almost beyond my expectation; for but little of it was prepared for that general taste which seems now to be predominant in the palates of our audience. Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most of our comedies are of fools so gross, that in my humble opinion they should rather disturb than divert the well-natured and reflecting part of an audience; they are rather objects of charity than contempt, and instead of moving our mirth, they ought very often to excite our compassion. This reflection moved me to design some characters which should appear ridiculous not so much through a natural folly (which is

429 The Pilgrim’s Progress incorrigible, and therefore not proper for the stage) as through an affected wit: a wit which, at the same time that it is affected, is also false. As there is some difficulty in the formation of a character of this nature, so there is some hazard which attends the progress of its success upon the stage: for many come to a play so overcharged with criticism, that they very often let fly their censure, when through their rashness they have mistaken their aim. This I had occasion lately to observe: for this play had been acted two or three days before some of these hasty judges could find the leisure to distinguish betwixt the character of a Witwoud and a Truewit. I must beg your lordship's pardon for this digression from the true course of this epistle; but that it may not seem altogether impertinent, I beg that I may plead the occasion of it, in part of that excuse of which I stand in need, for recommending this comedy to your protection. It is only by the countenance of your lordship, and the FEW so qualified, that such who write with care and pains can hope to be distinguished: for the prostituted name of poet promiscuously levels all that bear it. Terence, the most correct writer in the world, had a Scipio and a Lelius, if not to assist him, at least to support him in his reputation. And notwithstanding his extraordinary merit, it may be their countenance was not more than necessary. The purity of his style, the delicacy of his turns, and the justness of his characters, were all of them beauties which the greater part of his audience were incapable of tasting. Some of the coarsest strokes of Plautus, so severely censured by Horace, were more likely to affect the multitude; such, who come with expectation to laugh at the last act of a play, and are better entertained with two or three unseasonable jests than with the artful solution of the fable. As Terence excelled in his performances, so had he great advantages to encourage his undertakings, for he built most on the foundations of Menander: his plots were generally modelled, and his characters ready drawn to his hand. He copied Menander; and Menander had no less light in the formation of his characters from the observations of Theophrastus, of whom he was a disciple; and Theophrastus, it is known, was not only the disciple, but the immediate successor of Aristotle, the first and greatest judge of poetry. These were great models to design by; and the further advantage which Terence possessed towards giving his plays the due ornaments of purity of style, and justness of manners, was not less considerable from the freedom of conversation which was permitted him with Lelius and Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his age. And, indeed, the privilege of such a conversation is the only certain means of attaining to the perfection of dialogue. If it has happened in any part of this comedy that I have gained a turn of style or expression more correct, or at least more corrigible, than in those which I have formerly written, I must, with equal pride and gratitude, ascribe it to the honour of your lordship's admitting me into your conversation, and that of a society where everybody else was so well worthy of you, in your retirement last summer from the town: for it was immediately after,

430 The Pilgrim’s Progress that this comedy was written. If I have failed in my performance, it is only to be regretted, where there were so many not inferior either to a Scipio or a Lelius, that there should be one wanting equal in capacity to a Terence. If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art which has not yet laid claim to your lordship's patronage. Architecture and painting, to the great honour of our country, have flourished under your influence and protection. In the meantime, poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and parent of most, seems to have resigned her birthright, by having neglected to pay her duty to your lordship, and by permitting others of a later extraction to prepossess that place in your esteem, to which none can pretend a better title. Poetry, in its nature, is sacred to the good and great: the relation between them is reciprocal, and they are ever propitious to it. It is the privilege of poetry to address them, and it is their prerogative alone to give it protection. This received maxim is a general apology for all writers who consecrate their labours to great men: but I could wish, at this time, that this address were exempted from the common pretence of all dedications; and that as I can distinguish your lordship even among the most deserving, so this offering might become remarkable by some particular instance of respect, which should assure your lordship that I am, with all due sense of your extreme worthiness and humanity, my lord, your lordship's most obedient and most obliged humble servant,

WILL. CONGREVE.

PROLOGUE--Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst, Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst: For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes, And, after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a diff'rent case, For Fortune favours all her idiot race. In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find, O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling kind: No portion for her own she has to spare, So much she dotes on her adopted care.

Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win: But what unequal hazards do they run! Each time they write they venture all they've won: The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone. This author, heretofore, has found your favour, But pleads no merit from his past behaviour. To build on that might prove a vain presumption, Should grants to poets made admit resumption, And in Parnassus he must lose his seat,

431 The Pilgrim’s Progress If that be found a forfeited estate.

He owns, with toil he wrought the following scenes, But if they're naught ne'er spare him for his pains: Damn him the more; have no commiseration For dulness on mature deliberation. He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene, Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. Some plot we think he has, and some new thought; Some humour too, no farce--but that's a fault. Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; For so reformed a town who dares correct? To please, this time, has been his sole pretence, He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. Should he by chance a knave or fool expose, That hurts none here, sure here are none of those. In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it) Give you one instance of a passive poet, Who to your judgments yields all resignation: So save or damn, after your own discretion.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

FAINALL, in love with Mrs. Marwood,--Mr. Betterton MIRABELL, in love with Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Verbruggen WITWOUD, follower of Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Bowen PETULANT, follower of Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Bowman SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, half brother to Witwoud, and nephew to Lady Wishfort,--Mr. Underhill WAITWELL, servant to Mirabell,--Mr. Bright

WOMEN.

LADY WISHFORT, enemy to Mirabell, for having falsely pretended love to her,--Mrs. Leigh MRS. MILLAMANT, a fine lady, niece to Lady Wishfort, and loves Mirabell,--Mrs. Bracegirdle MRS. MARWOOD, friend to Mr. Fainall, and likes Mirabell,--Mrs. Barry MRS. FAINALL, daughter to Lady Wishfort, and wife to Fainall, formerly friend to Mirabell,--Mrs. Bowman FOIBLE, woman to Lady Wishfort,--Mrs. Willis MINCING, woman to Mrs. Millamant,--Mrs. Prince DANCERS, FOOTMEN, ATTENDANTS.

SCENE: London.

The time equal to that of the presentation.

432 The Pilgrim’s Progress

ACT I.--SCENE I.

A Chocolate-house.

MIRABELL and FAINALL rising from cards. BETTY waiting.

MIRA. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall. FAIN. Have we done? MIRA. What you please. I'll play on to entertain you. FAIN. No, I'll give you your revenge another time, when you are not so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too negligently: the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation. MIRA. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on your pleasures. FAIN. Prithee, why so reserved? Something has put you out of humour. MIRA. Not at all: I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay; that's all. FAIN. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I left you; my fair cousin has some humours that would tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, some coxcomb came in, and was well received by her, while you were by? MIRA. Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, my evil genius--or to sum up all in her own name, my old Lady Wishfort came in. FAIN. Oh, there it is then: she has a lasting passion for you, and with reason.--What, then my wife was there? MIRA. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood and three or four more, whom I never saw before; seeing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered one another, then complained aloud of the vapours, and after fell into a profound silence. FAIN. They had a mind to be rid of you. MIRA. For which reason I resolved not to stir. At last the good old lady broke through her painful taciturnity with an invective against long visits. I would not have understood her, but Millamant joining in the argument, I rose and with a constrained smile told her, I thought nothing was so easy as to know when a visit began to be troublesome; she reddened and I withdrew, without expecting her reply. FAIN. You were to blame to resent what she spoke only in compliance with her aunt. MIRA. She is more mistress of herself than to be under the necessity of such a resignation. FAIN. What? though half her fortune depends upon her marrying with my lady's approbation? MIRA. I was then in such a humour, that I should have been better

433 The Pilgrim’s Progress pleased if she had been less discreet. FAIN. Now I remember, I wonder not they were weary of you; last night was one of their cabal-nights: they have 'em three times a week and meet by turns at one another's apartments, where they come together like the coroner's inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week. You and I are excluded, and it was once proposed that all the male sex should be excepted; but somebody moved that to avoid scandal there might be one man of the community, upon which motion Witwoud and Petulant were enrolled members. MIRA. And who may have been the foundress of this sect? My Lady Wishfort, I warrant, who publishes her detestation of mankind, and full of the vigour of fifty-five, declares for a friend and ratafia; and let posterity shift for itself, she'll breed no more. FAIN. The discovery of your sham addresses to her, to conceal your love to her niece, has provoked this separation. Had you dissembled better, things might have continued in the state of nature. MIRA. I did as much as man could, with any reasonable conscience; I proceeded to the very last act of flattery with her, and was guilty of a song in her commendation. Nay, I got a friend to put her into a lampoon, and compliment her with the imputation of an affair with a young fellow, which I carried so far, that I told her the malicious town took notice that she was grown fat of a sudden; and when she lay in of a dropsy, persuaded her she was reported to be in labour. The devil's in't, if an old woman is to be flattered further, unless a man should endeavour downright personally to debauch her: and that my virtue forbade me. But for the discovery of this amour, I am indebted to your friend, or your wife's friend, Mrs. Marwood. FAIN. What should provoke her to be your enemy, unless she has made you advances which you have slighted? Women do not easily forgive omissions of that nature. MIRA. She was always civil to me, till of late. I confess I am not one of those coxcombs who are apt to interpret a woman's good manners to her prejudice, and think that she who does not refuse 'em everything can refuse 'em nothing. FAIN. You are a gallant man, Mirabell; and though you may have cruelty enough not to satisfy a lady's longing, you have too much generosity not to be tender of her honour. Yet you speak with an indifference which seems to be affected, and confesses you are conscious of a negligence. MIRA. You pursue the argument with a distrust that seems to be unaffected, and confesses you are conscious of a concern for which the lady is more indebted to you than is your wife. FAIN. Fie, fie, friend, if you grow censorious I must leave you:- I'll look upon the gamesters in the next room. MIRA. Who are they? FAIN. Petulant and Witwoud.--Bring me some chocolate. MIRA. Betty, what says your clock? BET. Turned of the last canonical hour, sir. MIRA. How pertinently the jade answers me! Ha! almost one a' clock! [Looking on his watch.] Oh, y'are come!

434 The Pilgrim’s Progress SCENE II.

MIRABELL and FOOTMAN.

MIRA. Well, is the grand affair over? You have been something tedious. SERV. Sir, there's such coupling at Pancras that they stand behind one another, as 'twere in a country-dance. Ours was the last couple to lead up; and no hopes appearing of dispatch, besides, the parson growing hoarse, we were afraid his lungs would have failed before it came to our turn; so we drove round to Duke's Place, and there they were riveted in a trice. MIRA. So, so; you are sure they are married? SERV. Married and bedded, sir; I am witness. MIRA. Have you the certificate? SERV. Here it is, sir. MIRA. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's clothes home, and the new liveries? SERV. Yes, sir. MIRA. That's well. Do you go home again, d'ye hear, and adjourn the consummation till farther order; bid Waitwell shake his ears, and Dame Partlet rustle up her feathers, and meet me at one a' clock by Rosamond's pond, that I may see her before she returns to her lady. And, as you tender your ears, be secret.

SCENE III.

MIRABELL, FAINALL, BETTY.

FAIN. Joy of your success, Mirabell; you look pleased. MIRA. Ay; I have been engaged in a matter of some sort of mirth, which is not yet ripe for discovery. I am glad this is not a cabal- night. I wonder, Fainall, that you who are married, and of consequence should be discreet, will suffer your wife to be of such a party. FAIN. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, most who are engaged are women and relations; and for the men, they are of a kind too contemptible to give scandal. MIRA. I am of another opinion: the greater the coxcomb, always the more the scandal; for a woman who is not a fool can have but one reason for associating with a man who is one. FAIN. Are you jealous as often as you see Witwoud entertained by Millamant? MIRA. Of her understanding I am, if not of her person. FAIN. You do her wrong; for, to give her her due, she has wit. MIRA. She has beauty enough to make any man think so, and complaisance enough not to contradict him who shall tell her so. FAIN. For a passionate lover methinks you are a man somewhat too discerning in the failings of your mistress. MIRA. And for a discerning man somewhat too passionate a lover, for I like her with all her faults; nay, like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become her, and

435 The Pilgrim’s Progress those affectations which in another woman would be odious serve but to make her more agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fainall, she once used me with that insolence that in revenge I took her to pieces, sifted her, and separated her failings: I studied 'em and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was so large that I was not without hopes, one day or other, to hate her heartily. To which end I so used myself to think of 'em, that at length, contrary to my design and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance, till in a few days it became habitual to me to remember 'em without being displeased. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties, and in all probability in a little time longer I shall like 'em as well. FAIN. Marry her, marry her; be half as well acquainted with her charms as you are with her defects, and, my life on't, you are your own man again. MIRA. Say you so? FAIN. Ay, ay; I have experience. I have a wife, and so forth.

SCENE IV.

[To them] MESSENGER.

MESS. Is one Squire Witwoud here? BET. Yes; what's your business? MESS. I have a letter for him, from his brother Sir Wilfull, which I am charged to deliver into his own hands. BET. He's in the next room, friend. That way.

SCENE V.

MIRABELL, FAINALL, BETTY.

MIRA. What, is the chief of that noble family in town, Sir Wilfull Witwoud? FAIN. He is expected to-day. Do you know him? MIRA. I have seen him; he promises to be an extraordinary person. I think you have the honour to be related to him. FAIN. Yes; he is half-brother to this Witwoud by a former wife, who was sister to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. If you marry Millamant, you must call cousins too. MIRA. I had rather be his relation than his acquaintance. FAIN. He comes to town in order to equip himself for travel. MIRA. For travel! Why the man that I mean is above forty. FAIN. No matter for that; 'tis for the honour of England that all Europe should know we have blockheads of all ages. MIRA. I wonder there is not an act of parliament to save the credit of the nation and prohibit the exportation of fools. FAIN. By no means, 'tis better as 'tis; 'tis better to trade with a little loss, than to be quite eaten up with being overstocked. MIRA. Pray, are the follies of this knight-errant and those of the squire, his brother, anything related? FAIN. Not at all: Witwoud grows by the knight like a medlar grafted on a crab. One will melt in your mouth and t'other set your

436 The Pilgrim’s Progress teeth on edge; one is all pulp and the other all core. MIRA. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and the other will be rotten without ever being ripe at all. FAIN. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of bashfulness and obstinacy. But when he's drunk, he's as loving as the monster in The Tempest, and much after the same manner. To give bother his due, he has something of good-nature, and does not always want wit. MIRA. Not always: but as often as his memory fails him and his commonplace of comparisons. He is a fool with a good memory and some few scraps of other folks' wit. He is one whose conversation can never be approved, yet it is now and then to be endured. He has indeed one good quality: he is not exceptious, for he so passionately affects the reputation of understanding raillery that he will construe an affront into a jest, and call downright rudeness and ill language satire and fire. FAIN. If you have a mind to finish his picture, you have an opportunity to do it at full length. Behold the original.

SCENE VI.

[To them] WITWOUD.

WIT. Afford me your compassion, my dears; pity me, Fainall, Mirabell, pity me. MIRA. I do from my soul. FAIN. Why, what's the matter? WIT. No letters for me, Betty? BET. Did not a messenger bring you one but now, sir? WIT. Ay; but no other? BET. No, sir. WIT. That's hard, that's very hard. A messenger, a mule, a beast of burden, he has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, as heavy as a panegyric in a funeral sermon, or a copy of commendatory verses from one poet to another. And what's worse, 'tis as sure a forerunner of the author as an epistle dedicatory. MIRA. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud? WIT. Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half-brother he is, no nearer, upon honour. MIRA. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool. WIT. Good, good, Mirabell, LE DROLE! Good, good, hang him, don't let's talk of him.--Fainall, how does your lady? Gad, I say anything in the world to get this fellow out of my head. I beg pardon that I should ask a man of pleasure and the town a question at once so foreign and domestic. But I talk like an old maid at a marriage, I don't know what I say: but she's the best woman in the world. FAIN. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, or else your commendation would go near to make me either vain or jealous. WIT. No man in town lives well with a wife but Fainall. Your judgment, Mirabell? MIRA. You had better step and ask his wife, if you would be credibly informed.

437 The Pilgrim’s Progress WIT. Mirabell! MIRA. Ay. WIT. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons. Gad, I have forgot what I was going to say to you. MIRA. I thank you heartily, heartily. WIT. No, but prithee excuse me:- my memory is such a memory. MIRA. Have a care of such apologies, Witwoud; for I never knew a fool but he affected to complain either of the spleen or his memory. FAIN. What have you done with Petulant? WIT. He's reckoning his money; my money it was: I have no luck to- day. FAIN. You may allow him to win of you at play, for you are sure to be too hard for him at repartee: since you monopolise the wit that is between you, the fortune must be his of course. MIRA. I don't find that Petulant confesses the superiority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud. WIT. Come, come, you are malicious now, and would breed debates. Petulant's my friend, and a very honest fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has a smattering--faith and troth, a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small wit: nay, I'll do him justice. I'm his friend, I won't wrong him. And if he had any judgment in the world, he would not be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don't detract from the merits of my friend. FAIN. You don't take your friend to be over-nicely bred? WIT. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no manners at all, that I must own; no more breeding than a bum-baily, that I grant you:- 'tis pity; the fellow has fire and life. MIRA. What, courage? WIT. Hum, faith, I don't know as to that, I can't say as to that. Yes, faith, in a controversy he'll contradict anybody. MIRA. Though 'twere a man whom he feared or a woman whom he loved. WIT. Well, well, he does not always think before he speaks. We have all our failings; you are too hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him,--I can defend most of his faults, except one or two; one he has, that's the truth on't,--if he were my brother I could not acquit him--that indeed I could wish were otherwise. MIRA. Ay, marry, what's that, Witwoud? WIT. Oh, pardon me. Expose the infirmities of my friend? No, my dear, excuse me there. FAIN. What, I warrant he's unsincere, or 'tis some such trifle. WIT. No, no; what if he be? 'Tis no matter for that, his wit will excuse that. A wit should no more be sincere than a woman constant: one argues a decay of parts, as t'other of beauty. MIRA. Maybe you think him too positive? WIT. No, no; his being positive is an incentive to argument, and keeps up conversation. FAIN. Too illiterate? WIT. That? That's his happiness. His want of learning gives him the more opportunities to show his natural parts. MIRA. He wants words? WIT. Ay; but I like him for that now: for his want of words gives me the pleasure very often to explain his meaning.

438 The Pilgrim’s Progress FAIN. He's impudent? WIT. No that's not it. MIRA. Vain? WIT. No. MIRA. What, he speaks unseasonable truths sometimes, because he has not wit enough to invent an evasion? WIT. Truths? Ha, ha, ha! No, no, since you will have it, I mean he never speaks truth at all, that's all. He will lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of quality's porter. Now that is a fault.

SCENE VII.

[To them] COACHMAN.

COACH. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? BET. Yes. COACH. Three gentlewomen in a coach would speak with him. FAIN. O brave Petulant! Three! BET. I'll tell him. COACH. You must bring two dishes of chocolate and a glass of cinnamon water.

SCENE VIII.

MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD.

WIT. That should be for two fasting strumpets, and a bawd troubled with wind. Now you may know what the three are. MIRA. You are very free with your friend's acquaintance. WIT. Ay, ay; friendship without freedom is as dull as love without enjoyment or wine without toasting: but to tell you a secret, these are trulls whom he allows coach-hire, and something more by the week, to call on him once a day at public places. MIRA. How! WIT. You shall see he won't go to 'em because there's no more company here to take notice of him. Why, this is nothing to what he used to do:- before he found out this way, I have known him call for himself - FAIN. Call for himself? What dost thou mean? WIT. Mean? Why he would slip you out of this chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to him. As soon as your back was turned-- whip he was gone; then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice; where he would send in for himself; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself, nay, and what's more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself. MIRA. I confess this is something extraordinary. I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a coming; oh, I ask his pardon.

SCENE IX.

PETULANT, MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD, BETTY.

439 The Pilgrim’s Progress

BET. Sir, the coach stays. PET. Well, well, I come. 'Sbud, a man had as good be a professed midwife as a professed whoremaster, at this rate; to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on 'em, I won't come. D'ye hear, tell 'em I won't come. Let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. FAIN. You are very cruel, Petulant. PET. All's one, let it pass. I have a humour to be cruel. MIRA. I hope they are not persons of condition that you use at this rate. PET. Condition? Condition's a dried fig, if I am not in humour. By this hand, if they were your--a--a--your what-d'ee-call-'ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite. MIRA. What-d'ee-call-'ems! What are they, Witwoud? WIT. Empresses, my dear. By your what-d'ee-call-'ems he means Sultana Queens. PET. Ay, Roxolanas. MIRA. Cry you mercy. FAIN. Witwoud says they are - PET. What does he say th'are? WIT. I? Fine ladies, I say. PET. Pass on, Witwoud. Harkee, by this light, his relations--two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, who loves cater-wauling better than a conventicle. WIT. Ha, ha, ha! I had a mind to see how the rogue would come off. Ha, ha, ha! Gad, I can't be angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and my sisters. MIRA. No? WIT. No; the rogue's wit and readiness of invention charm me, dear Petulant. BET. They are gone, sir, in great anger. PET. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger helps complexion, saves paint. FAIN. This continence is all dissembled; this is in order to have something to brag of the next time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned the whole sex for her sake. MIRA. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions there yet? I shall cut your throat, sometime or other, Petulant, about that business. PET. Ay, ay, let that pass. There are other throats to be cut. MIRA. Meaning mine, sir? PET. Not I--I mean nobody--I know nothing. But there are uncles and nephews in the world--and they may be rivals. What then? All's one for that. MIRA. How? Harkee, Petulant, come hither. Explain, or I shall call your interpreter. PET. Explain? I know nothing. Why, you have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by my Lady Wishfort's? MIRA. True. PET. Why, that's enough. You and he are not friends; and if he should marry and have a child, yon may be disinherited, ha! MIRA. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth?

440 The Pilgrim’s Progress PET. All's one for that; why, then, say I know something. MIRA. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and shalt make love to my mistress, thou shalt, faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle? PET. I? Nothing, I. If throats are to be cut, let swords clash. Snug's the word; I shrug and am silent. MIRA. Oh, raillery, raillery! Come, I know thou art in the women's secrets. What, you're a cabalist; I know you stayed at Millamant's last night after I went. Was there any mention made of my uncle or me? Tell me; if thou hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would show as dim by thee as a dead whiting's eye by a pearl of orient; he would no more be seen by thee than Mercury is by the sun: come, I'm sure thou wo't tell me. PET. If I do, will you grant me common sense, then, for the future? MIRA. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, and I'll pray that heav'n may grant it thee in the meantime. PET. Well, harkee. FAIN. Petulant and you both will find Mirabell as warm a rival as a lover. WIT. Pshaw, pshaw, that she laughs at Petulant is plain. And for my part, but that it is almost a fashion to admire her, I should-- harkee--to tell you a secret, but let it go no further between friends, I shall never break my heart for her. FAIN. How? WIT. She's handsome; but she's a sort of an uncertain woman. FAIN. I thought you had died for her. WIT. Umh--no - FAIN. She has wit. WIT. 'Tis what she will hardly allow anybody else. Now, demme, I should hate that, if she were as handsome as Cleopatra. Mirabell is not so sure of her as he thinks for. FAIN. Why do you think so? WIT. We stayed pretty late there last night, and heard something of an uncle to Mirabell, who is lately come to town, and is between him and the best part of his estate. Mirabell and he are at some distance, as my Lady Wishfort has been told; and you know she hates Mirabell worse than a quaker hates a parrot, or than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Millamant or not, I cannot say; but there were items of such a treaty being in embryo; and if it should come to life, poor Mirabell would be in some sort unfortunately fobbed, i'faith. FAIN. 'Tis impossible Millamant should hearken to it. WIT. Faith, my dear, I can't tell; she's a woman and a kind of a humorist. MIRA. And this is the sum of what you could collect last night? PET. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud knows more; he stayed longer. Besides, they never mind him; they say anything before him. MIRA. I thought you had been the greatest favourite. PET. Ay, tete-e-tete; but not in public, because I make remarks. MIRA. You do? PET. Ay, ay, pox, I'm malicious, man. Now he's soft, you know,

441 The Pilgrim’s Progress they are not in awe of him. The fellow's well bred, he's what you call a--what d'ye-call-'em--a fine gentleman, but he's silly withal. MIRA. I thank you, I know as much as my curiosity requires. Fainall, are you for the Mall? FAIN. Ay, I'll take a turn before dinner. WIT. Ay, we'll all walk in the park; the ladies talked of being there. MIRA. I thought you were obliged to watch for your brother Sir Wilfull's arrival. WIT. No, no, he comes to his aunt's, my Lady Wishfort; pox on him, I shall be troubled with him too; what shall I do with the fool? PET. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you afterwards, and so have but one trouble with you both. WIT. O rare Petulant, thou art as quick as fire in a frosty morning; thou shalt to the Mall with us, and we'll be very severe. PET. Enough; I'm in a humour to be severe. MIRA. Are you? Pray then walk by yourselves. Let not us be accessory to your putting the ladies out of countenance with your senseless ribaldry, which you roar out aloud as often as they pass by you, and when you have made a handsome woman blush, then you think you have been severe. PET. What, what? Then let 'em either show their innocence by not understanding what they hear, or else show their discretion by not hearing what they would not be thought to understand. MIRA. But hast not thou then sense enough to know that thou ought'st to be most ashamed thyself when thou hast put another out of countenance? PET. Not I, by this hand: I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt or ill-breeding. MIRA. I confess you ought to think so. You are in the right, that you may plead the error of your judgment in defence of your practice.

Where modesty's ill manners, 'tis but fit That impudence and malice pass for wit.

ACT II.--SCENE I.

St. James's Park. MRS. FAINALL and MRS. MARWOOD.

MRS. FAIN. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we will be happy, we must find the means in ourselves, and among ourselves. Men are ever in extremes; either doting or averse. While they are lovers, if they have fire and sense, their jealousies are insupportable: and when they cease to love (we ought to think at least) they loathe, they look upon us with horror and distaste, they meet us like the ghosts of what we were, and as from such, fly from us. MRS. MAR. True, 'tis an unhappy circumstance of life that love should ever die before us, and that the man so often should outlive the lover. But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to

442 The Pilgrim’s Progress refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old. For my part, my youth may wear and waste, but it shall never rust in my possession. MRS. FAIN. Then it seems you dissemble an aversion to mankind only in compliance to my mother's humour. MRS. MAR. Certainly. To be free, I have no taste of those insipid dry discourses with which our sex of force must entertain themselves apart from men. We may affect endearments to each other, profess eternal friendships, and seem to dote like lovers; but 'tis not in our natures long to persevere. Love will resume his empire in our breasts, and every heart, or soon or late, receive and readmit him as its lawful tyrant. MRS. FAIN. Bless me, how have I been deceived! Why, you profess a libertine. MRS. MAR. You see my friendship by my freedom. Come, be as sincere, acknowledge that your sentiments agree with mine. MRS. FAIN. Never. MRS. MAR. You hate mankind? MRS. FAIN. Heartily, inveterately. MRS. MAR. Your husband? MRS. FAIN. Most transcendently; ay, though I say it, meritoriously. MRS. MAR. Give me your hand upon it. MRS. FAIN. There. MRS. MAR. I join with you; what I have said has been to try you. MRS. FAIN. Is it possible? Dost thou hate those vipers, men? MRS. MAR. I have done hating 'em, and am now come to despise 'em; the next thing I have to do is eternally to forget 'em. MRS. FAIN. There spoke the spirit of an Amazon, a Penthesilea. MRS. MAR. And yet I am thinking sometimes to carry my aversion further. MRS. FAIN. How? MRS. MAR. Faith, by marrying; if I could but find one that loved me very well, and would be throughly sensible of ill usage, I think I should do myself the violence of undergoing the ceremony. MRS. FAIN. You would not make him a cuckold? MRS. MAR. No; but I'd make him believe I did, and that's as bad. MRS. FAIN. Why had not you as good do it? MRS. MAR. Oh, if he should ever discover it, he would then know the worst, and be out of his pain; but I would have him ever to continue upon the rack of fear and jealousy. MRS. FAIN. Ingenious mischief! Would thou wert married to Mirabell. MRS. MAR. Would I were. MRS. FAIN. You change colour. MRS. MAR. Because I hate him. MRS. FAIN. So do I; but I can hear him named. But what reason have you to hate him in particular? MRS. MAR. I never loved him; he is, and always was, insufferably proud. MRS. FAIN. By the reason you give for your aversion, one would think it dissembled; for you have laid a fault to his charge, of

443 The Pilgrim’s Progress which his enemies must acquit him. MRS. MAR. Oh, then it seems you are one of his favourable enemies. Methinks you look a little pale, and now you flush again. MRS. FAIN. Do I? I think I am a little sick o' the sudden. MRS. MAR. What ails you? MRS. FAIN. My husband. Don't you see him? He turned short upon me unawares, and has almost overcome me.

SCENE II.

[To them] FAINALL and MIRABELL.

MRS. MAR. Ha, ha, ha! he comes opportunely for you. MRS. FAIN. For you, for he has brought Mirabell with him. FAIN. My dear. MRS. FAIN. My soul. FAIN. You don't look well to-day, child. MRS. FAIN. D'ye think so? MIRA. He is the only man that does, madam. MRS. FAIN. The only man that would tell me so at least, and the only man from whom I could hear it without mortification. FAIN. Oh, my dear, I am satisfied of your tenderness; I know you cannot resent anything from me; especially what is an effect of my concern. MRS. FAIN. Mr. Mirabell, my mother interrupted you in a pleasant relation last night: I would fain hear it out. MIRA. The persons concerned in that affair have yet a tolerable reputation. I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be censorious. MRS. FAIN. He has a humour more prevailing than his curiosity, and will willingly dispense with the hearing of one scandalous story, to avoid giving an occasion to make another by being seen to walk with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, and I dare promise you will oblige us both.

SCENE III.

FAINALL, MRS. MARWOOD.

FAIN. Excellent creature! Well, sure, if I should live to be rid of my wife, I should be a miserable man. MRS. MAR. Ay? FAIN. For having only that one hope, the accomplishment of it of consequence must put an end to all my hopes, and what a wretch is he who must survive his hopes! Nothing remains when that day comes but to sit down and weep like Alexander when he wanted other worlds to conquer. MRS. MAR. Will you not follow 'em? FAIN. Faith, I think not, MRS. MAR. Pray let us; I have a reason. FAIN. You are not jealous? MRS. MAR. Of whom? FAIN. Of Mirabell.

444 The Pilgrim’s Progress MRS. MAR. If I am, is it inconsistent with my love to you that I am tender of your honour? FAIN. You would intimate then, as if there were a fellow-feeling between my wife and him? MRS. MAR. I think she does not hate him to that degree she would be thought. FAIN. But he, I fear, is too insensible. MRS. MAR. It may be you are deceived. FAIN. It may be so. I do not now begin to apprehend it. MRS. MAR. What? FAIN. That I have been deceived, madam, and you are false. MRS. MAR. That I am false? What mean you? FAIN. To let you know I see through all your little arts.--Come, you both love him, and both have equally dissembled your aversion. Your mutual jealousies of one another have made you clash till you have both struck fire. I have seen the warm confession red'ning on your cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. MRS. MAR. You do me wrong. FAIN. I do not. 'Twas for my ease to oversee and wilfully neglect the gross advances made him by my wife, that by permitting her to be engaged, I might continue unsuspected in my pleasures, and take you oftener to my arms in full security. But could you think, because the nodding husband would not wake, that e'er the watchful lover slept? MRS. MAR. And wherewithal can you reproach me? FAIN. With infidelity, with loving another, with love of Mirabell. MRS. MAR. 'Tis false. I challenge you to show an instance that can confirm your groundless accusation. I hate him. FAIN. And wherefore do you hate him? He is insensible, and your resentment follows his neglect. An instance? The injuries you have done him are a proof: your interposing in his love. What cause had you to make discoveries of his pretended passion? To undeceive the credulous aunt, and be the officious obstacle of his match with Millamant? MRS. MAR. My obligations to my lady urged me: I had professed a friendship to her, and could not see her easy nature so abused by that dissembler. FAIN. What, was it conscience then? Professed a friendship! Oh, the pious friendships of the female sex! MRS. MAR. More tender, more sincere, and more enduring, than all the vain and empty vows of men, whether professing love to us or mutual faith to one another. FAIN. Ha, ha, ha! you are my wife's friend too. MRS. MAR. Shame and ingratitude! Do you reproach me? You, you upbraid me? Have I been false to her, through strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my friendship to keep my love inviolate? And have you the baseness to charge me with the guilt, unmindful of the merit? To you it should be meritorious that I have been vicious. And do you reflect that guilt upon me which should lie buried in your bosom? FAIN. You misinterpret my reproof. I meant but to remind you of the slight account you once could make of strictest ties when set in

445 The Pilgrim’s Progress competition with your love to me. MRS. MAR. 'Tis false, you urged it with deliberate malice. 'Twas spoke in scorn, and I never will forgive it. FAIN. Your guilt, not your resentment, begets your rage. If yet you loved, you could forgive a jealousy: but you are stung to find you are discovered. MRS. MAR. It shall be all discovered. You too shall be discovered; be sure you shall. I can but be exposed. If I do it myself I shall prevent your baseness. FAIN. Why, what will you do? MRS. MAR. Disclose it to your wife; own what has past between us. FAIN. Frenzy! MRS. MAR. By all my wrongs I'll do't. I'll publish to the world the injuries you have done me, both in my fame and fortune: with both I trusted you, you bankrupt in honour, as indigent of wealth. FAIN. Your fame I have preserved. Your fortune has been bestowed as the prodigality of your love would have it, in pleasures which we both have shared. Yet, had not you been false I had e'er this repaid it. 'Tis true--had you permitted Mirabell with Millamant to have stolen their marriage, my lady had been incensed beyond all means of reconcilement: Millamant had forfeited the moiety of her fortune, which then would have descended to my wife. And wherefore did I marry but to make lawful prize of a rich widow's wealth, and squander it on love and you? MRS. MAR. Deceit and frivolous pretence! FAIN. Death, am I not married? What's pretence? Am I not imprisoned, fettered? Have I not a wife? Nay, a wife that was a widow, a young widow, a handsome widow, and would be again a widow, but that I have a heart of proof, and something of a constitution to bustle through the ways of wedlock and this world. Will you yet be reconciled to truth and me? MRS. MAR. Impossible. Truth and you are inconsistent.--I hate you, and shall for ever. FAIN. For loving you? MRS. MAR. I loathe the name of love after such usage; and next to the guilt with which you would asperse me, I scorn you most. Farewell. FAIN. Nay, we must not part thus. MRS. MAR. Let me go. FAIN. Come, I'm sorry. MRS. MAR. I care not. Let me go. Break my hands, do--I'd leave 'em to get loose. FAIN. I would not hurt you for the world. Have I no other hold to keep you here? MRS. MAR. Well, I have deserved it all. FAIN. You know I love you. MRS. MAR. Poor dissembling! Oh, that--well, it is not yet - FAIN. What? What is it not? What is it not yet? It is not yet too late - MRS. MAR. No, it is not yet too late--I have that comfort. FAIN. It is, to love another. MRS. MAR. But not to loathe, detest, abhor mankind, myself, and the

446 The Pilgrim’s Progress whole treacherous world. FAIN. Nay, this is extravagance. Come, I ask your pardon. No tears--I was to blame, I could not love you and be easy in my doubts. Pray forbear--I believe you; I'm convinced I've done you wrong; and any way, every way will make amends: I'll hate my wife yet more, damn her, I'll part with her, rob her of all she's worth, and we'll retire somewhere, anywhere, to another world; I'll marry thee--be pacified.--'Sdeath, they come: hide your face, your tears. You have a mask: wear it a moment. This way, this way: be persuaded.

SCENE IV.

MIRABELL and MRS. FAINALL.

MRS. FAIN. They are here yet. MIRA. They are turning into the other walk. MRS. FAIN. While I only hated my husband, I could bear to see him; but since I have despised him, he's too offensive. MIRA. Oh, you should hate with prudence. MRS. FAIN. Yes, for I have loved with indiscretion. MIRA. You should have just so much disgust for your husband as may be sufficient to make you relish your lover. MRS. FAIN. You have been the cause that I have loved without bounds, and would you set limits to that aversion of which you have been the occasion? Why did you make me marry this man? MIRA. Why do we daily commit disagreeable and dangerous actions? To save that idol, reputation. If the familiarities of our loves had produced that consequence of which you were apprehensive, where could you have fixed a father's name with credit but on a husband? I knew Fainall to be a man lavish of his morals, an interested and professing friend, a false and a designing lover, yet one whose wit and outward fair behaviour have gained a reputation with the town, enough to make that woman stand excused who has suffered herself to be won by his addresses. A better man ought not to have been sacrificed to the occasion; a worse had not answered to the purpose. When you are weary of him you know your remedy. MRS. FAIN. I ought to stand in some degree of credit with you, Mirabell. MIRA. In justice to you, I have made you privy to my whole design, and put it in your power to ruin or advance my fortune. MRS. FAIN. Whom have you instructed to represent your pretended uncle? MIRA. Waitwell, my servant. MRS. FAIN. He is an humble servant to Foible, my mother's woman, and may win her to your interest. MIRA. Care is taken for that. She is won and worn by this time. They were married this morning. MRS. FAIN. Who? MIRA. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt my servant to betray me by trusting him too far. If your mother, in hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry my pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca in

447 The Pilgrim’s Progress the FOX, stand upon terms; so I made him sure beforehand. MRS. FAIN. So, if my poor mother is caught in a contract, you will discover the imposture betimes, and release her by producing a certificate of her gallant's former marriage. MIRA. Yes, upon condition that she consent to my marriage with her niece, and surrender the moiety of her fortune in her possession. MRS. FAIN. She talked last night of endeavouring at a match between Millamant and your uncle. MIRA. That was by Foible's direction and my instruction, that she might seem to carry it more privately. MRS. FAIN. Well, I have an opinion of your success, for I believe my lady will do anything to get an husband; and when she has this, which you have provided for her, I suppose she will submit to anything to get rid of him. MIRA. Yes, I think the good lady would marry anything that resembled a man, though 'twere no more than what a butler could pinch out of a napkin. MRS. FAIN. Female frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite when the true is decayed. MIRA. An old woman's appetite is depraved like that of a girl. 'Tis the green-sickness of a second childhood, and, like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to usher in the fall, and withers in an affected bloom. MRS. FAIN. Here's your mistress.

SCENE V.

[To them] MRS. MILLAMANT, WITWOUD, MINCING.

MIRA. Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders.--Ha, no, I cry her mercy. MRS. FAIN. I see but one poor empty sculler, and he tows her woman after him. MIRA. You seem to be unattended, madam. You used to have the BEAU MONDE throng after you, and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you. WIT. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath. MILLA. Oh, I have denied myself airs to-day. I have walked as fast through the crowd - WIT. As a favourite just disgraced, and with as few followers. MILLA. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes, for I am as sick of 'em - WIT. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, madam, though 'tis against myself. MILLA. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit. WIT. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day; I am too bright. MRS. FAIN. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long? MILLA. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have asked

448 The Pilgrim’s Progress every living thing I met for you; I have enquired after you, as after a new fashion. WIT. Madam, truce with your similitudes.--No, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her. MIRA. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion to ask a husband for his wife. WIT. Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit; I confess it. MRS. FAIN. You were dressed before I came abroad. MILLA. Ay, that's true. Oh, but then I had--Mincing, what had I? Why was I so long? MINC. O mem, your laship stayed to peruse a packet of letters. MILLA. Oh, ay, letters--I had letters--I am persecuted with letters--I hate letters. Nobody knows how to write letters; and yet one has 'em, one does not know why. They serve one to pin up one's hair. WIT. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies. MILLA. Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud. I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I tried once, Mincing. MINC. O mem, I shall never forget it. MILLA. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning. MINC. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll vow, mem. And all to no purpose. But when your laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips. WIT. Indeed, so crips? MINC. You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. MILLA. Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night? Oh, ay, and went away. Now I think on't I'm angry--no, now I think on't I'm pleased:- for I believe I gave you some pain. MIRA. Does that please you? MILLA. Infinitely; I love to give pain. MIRA. You would affect a cruelty which is not in your nature; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing. MILLA. Oh, I ask your pardon for that. One's cruelty is one's power, and when one parts with one's cruelty one parts with one's power, and when one has parted with that, I fancy one's old and ugly. MIRA. Ay, ay; suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your power, to destroy your lover--and then how vain, how lost a thing you'll be! Nay, 'tis true; you are no longer handsome when you've lost your lover: your beauty dies upon the instant. For beauty is the lover's gift: 'tis he bestows your charms:- your glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after commendation can be flattered by it, and discover beauties in it: for that reflects our praises rather than your face. MILLA. Oh, the vanity of these men! Fainall, d'ye hear him? If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! Now you must know they could not commend one if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover's gift! Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases; and then, if one pleases, one makes more.

449 The Pilgrim’s Progress WIT. Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers, madam, than of making so many card-matches. MILLA. One no more owes one's beauty to a lover than one's wit to an echo. They can but reflect what we look and say: vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being. MIRA. Yet, to those two vain empty things, you owe two the greatest pleasures of your life. MILLA. How so? MIRA. To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves praised, and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. WIT. But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words. MILLA. Oh, fiction; Fainall, let us leave these men. MIRA. Draw off Witwoud. [Aside to MRS. FAINALL.] MRS. FAIN. Immediately; I have a word or two for Mr. Witwoud.

SCENE VI.

MRS. MILLAMANT, MIRABELL, MINCING.

MIRA. I would beg a little private audience too. You had the tyranny to deny me last night, though you knew I came to impart a secret to you that concerned my love. MILLA. You saw I was engaged. MIRA. Unkind! You had the leisure to entertain a herd of fools: things who visit you from their excessive idleness, bestowing on your easiness that time which is the incumbrance of their lives. How can you find delight in such society? It is impossible they should admire you; they are not capable; or, if they were, it should be to you as a mortification: for, sure, to please a fool is some degree of folly. MILLA. I please myself.--Besides, sometimes to converse with fools is for my health. MIRA. Your health! Is there a worse disease than the conversation of fools? MILLA. Yes, the vapours; fools are physic for it, next to assafoetida. MIRA. You are not in a course of fools? MILLA. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive freedom you'll displease me. I think I must resolve after all not to have you:- we shan't agree. MIRA. Not in our physic, it may be. MILLA. And yet our distemper in all likelihood will be the same; for we shall be sick of one another. I shan't endure to be reprimanded nor instructed; 'tis so dull to act always by advice, and so tedious to be told of one's faults, I can't bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mirabell--I'm resolved--I think--you may go--ha, ha, ha! What would you give that you could help loving me? MIRA. I would give something that you did not know I could not help it.

450 The Pilgrim’s Progress MILLA. Come, don't look grave then. Well, what do you say to me? MIRA. I say that a man may as soon make a friend by his wit, or a fortune by his honesty, as win a woman with plain-dealing and sincerity. MILLA. Sententious Mirabell! Prithee don't look with that violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry hanging! MIRA. You are merry, madam, but I would persuade you for a moment to be serious. MILLA. What, with that face? No, if you keep your countenance, 'tis impossible I should hold mine. Well, after all, there is something very moving in a lovesick face. Ha, ha, ha! Well I won't laugh; don't be peevish. Heigho! Now I'll be melancholy, as melancholy as a watch-light. Well, Mirabell, if ever you will win me, woo me now.--Nay, if you are so tedious, fare you well: I see they are walking away. MIRA. Can you not find in the variety of your disposition one moment - MILLA. To hear you tell me Foible's married, and your plot like to speed? No. MIRA. But how you came to know it - MILLA. Without the help of the devil, you can't imagine; unless she should tell me herself. Which of the two it may have been, I will leave you to consider; and when you have done thinking of that, think of me.

SCENE VII.

MIRABELL alone.

MIRA. I have something more.--Gone! Think of you? To think of a whirlwind, though 'twere in a whirlwind, were a case of more steady contemplation, a very tranquillity of mind and mansion. A fellow that lives in a windmill has not a more whimsical dwelling than the heart of a man that is lodged in a woman. There is no point of the compass to which they cannot turn, and by which they are not turned, and by one as well as another; for motion, not method, is their occupation. To know this, and yet continue to be in love, is to be made wise from the dictates of reason, and yet persevere to play the fool by the force of instinct.--Oh, here come my pair of turtles. What, billing so sweetly? Is not Valentine's day over with you yet?

SCENE VIII.

[To him] WAITWELL, FOIBLE.

MIRA. Sirrah, Waitwell, why, sure, you think you were married for your own recreation and not for my conveniency. WAIT. Your pardon, sir. With submission, we have indeed been solacing in lawful delights; but still with an eye to business, sir. I have instructed her as well as I could. If she can take your directions as readily as my instructions, sir, your affairs are in a

451 The Pilgrim’s Progress prosperous way. MIRA. Give you joy, Mrs. Foible. FOIB. O--las, sir, I'm so ashamed.--I'm afraid my lady has been in a thousand inquietudes for me. But I protest, sir, I made as much haste as I could. WAIT. That she did indeed, sir. It was my fault that she did not make more. MIRA. That I believe. FOIB. But I told my lady as you instructed me, sir, that I had a prospect of seeing Sir Rowland, your uncle, and that I would put her ladyship's picture in my pocket to show him, which I'll be sure to say has made him so enamoured of her beauty, that he burns with impatience to lie at her ladyship's feet and worship the original. MIRA. Excellent Foible! Matrimony has made you eloquent in love. WAIT. I think she has profited, sir. I think so. FOIB. You have seen Madam Millamant, sir? MIRA. Yes. FOIB. I told her, sir, because I did not know that you might find an opportunity; she had so much company last night. MIRA. Your diligence will merit more. In the meantime--[gives money] FOIB. O dear sir, your humble servant. WAIT. Spouse - MIRA. Stand off, sir, not a penny. Go on and prosper, Foible. The lease shall be made good and the farm stocked, if we succeed. FOIB. I don't question your generosity, sir, and you need not doubt of success. If you have no more commands, sir, I'll be gone; I'm sure my lady is at her toilet, and can't dress till I come. Oh dear, I'm sure that [looking out] was Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask; if she has seen me with you I m sure she'll tell my lady. I'll make haste home and prevent her. Your servant, Sir.--B'w'y, Waitwell.

SCENE IX.

MIRABELL, WAITWELL.

WAIT. Sir Rowland, if you please. The jade's so pert upon her preferment she forgets herself. MIRA. Come, sir, will you endeavour to forget yourself--and transform into Sir Rowland? WAIT. Why, sir, it will be impossible I should remember myself. Married, knighted, and attended all in one day! 'Tis enough to make any man forget himself. The difficulty will be how to recover my acquaintance and familiarity with my former self, and fall from my transformation to a reformation into Waitwell. Nay, I shan't be quite the same Waitwell neither--for now I remember me, I'm married, and can't be my own man again. Ay, there's my grief; that's the sad change of life: To lose my title, and yet keep my wife.

ACT III.--SCENE I.

452 The Pilgrim’s Progress

A room in Lady Wishfort's house. LADY WISHFORT at her toilet, PEG waiting.

LADY. Merciful! No news of Foible yet? PEG. No, madam. LADY. I have no more patience. If I have not fretted myself till I am pale again, there's no veracity in me. Fetch me the red--the red, do you hear, sweetheart? An errant ash colour, as I'm a person. Look you how this wench stirs! Why dost thou not fetch me a little red? Didst thou not hear me, Mopus? PEG. The red ratafia, does your ladyship mean, or the cherry brandy? LADY. Ratafia, fool? No, fool. Not the ratafia, fool--grant me patience!--I mean the Spanish paper, idiot; complexion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost thou understand that, changeling, dangling thy hands like bobbins before thee? Why dost thou not stir, puppet? Thou wooden thing upon wires! PEG. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so impatient.--I cannot come at the paint, madam: Mrs. Foible has locked it up, and carried the key with her. LADY. A pox take you both.--Fetch me the cherry brandy then.

SCENE II.

LADY WISHFORT.

I'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. Qualmsick, the curate's wife, that's always breeding. Wench, come, come, wench, what art thou doing? Sipping? Tasting? Save thee, dost thou not know the bottle?

SCENE III.

LADY WISHFORT, PEG with a bottle and china cup.

PEG. Madam, I was looking for a cup. LADY. A cup, save thee, and what a cup hast thou brought! Dost thou take me for a fairy, to drink out of an acorn? Why didst thou not bring thy thimble? Hast thou ne'er a brass thimble clinking in thy pocket with a bit of nutmeg? I warrant thee. Come, fill, fill. So, again. See who that is. [One knocks.] Set down the bottle first. Here, here, under the table:- what, wouldst thou go with the bottle in thy hand like a tapster? As I'm a person, this wench has lived in an inn upon the road, before she came to me, like Maritornes the Asturian in Don Quixote. No Foible yet? PEG. No, madam; Mrs. Marwood. LADY. Oh, Marwood: let her come in. Come in, good Marwood.

SCENE IV.

[To them] MRS MARWOOD.

453 The Pilgrim’s Progress

MRS. MAR. I'm surprised to find your ladyship in DESHABILLE at this time of day. LADY. Foible's a lost thing; has been abroad since morning, and never heard of since. MRS. MAR. I saw her but now, as I came masked through the park, in conference with Mirabell. LADY. With Mirabell? You call my blood into my face with mentioning that traitor. She durst not have the confidence. I sent her to negotiate an affair, in which if I'm detected I'm undone. If that wheedling villain has wrought upon Foible to detect me, I'm ruined. O my dear friend, I'm a wretch of wretches if I'm detected. MRS. MAR. O madam, you cannot suspect Mrs. Foible's integrity. LADY. Oh, he carries poison in his tongue that would corrupt integrity itself. If she has given him an opportunity, she has as good as put her integrity into his hands. Ah, dear Marwood, what's integrity to an opportunity? Hark! I hear her. Dear friend, retire into my closet, that I may examine her with more freedom-- you'll pardon me, dear friend, I can make bold with you--there are books over the chimney--Quarles and Pryn, and the SHORT VIEW OF THE STAGE, with Bunyan's works to entertain you.--Go, you thing, and send her in. [To PEG.]

SCENE V.

LADY WISHFORT, FOIBLE.

LADY. O Foible, where hast thou been? What hast thou been doing? FOIB. Madam, I have seen the party. LADY. But what hast thou done? FOIB. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, and are to do; I have only promised. But a man so enamoured--so transported! Well, if worshipping of pictures be a sin--poor Sir Rowland, I say. LADY. The miniature has been counted like. But hast thou not betrayed me, Foible? Hast thou not detected me to that faithless Mirabell? What hast thou to do with him in the park? Answer me, has he got nothing out of thee? FOIB. So, the devil has been beforehand with me; what shall I say?- -Alas, madam, could I help it, if I met that confident thing? Was I in fault? If you had heard how he used me, and all upon your ladyship's account, I'm sure you would not suspect my fidelity. Nay, if that had been the worst I could have borne: but he had a fling at your ladyship too, and then I could not hold; but, i'faith I gave him his own. LADY. Me? What did the filthy fellow say? FOIB. O madam, 'tis a shame to say what he said, with his taunts and his fleers, tossing up his nose. Humh, says he, what, you are a-hatching some plot, says he, you are so early abroad, or catering, says he, ferreting for some disbanded officer, I warrant. Half pay is but thin subsistence, says he. Well, what pension does your lady propose? Let me see, says he, what, she must come down pretty deep now, she's superannuated, says he, and -

454 The Pilgrim’s Progress LADY. Ods my life, I'll have him--I'll have him murdered. I'll have him poisoned. Where does he eat? I'll marry a drawer to have him poisoned in his wine. I'll send for Robin from Locket's-- immediately. FOIB. Poison him? Poisoning's too good for him. Starve him, madam, starve him; marry Sir Rowland, and get him disinherited. Oh, you would bless yourself to hear what he said. LADY. A villain; superannuated? FOIB. Humh, says he, I hear you are laying designs against me too, says he, and Mrs. Millamant is to marry my uncle (he does not suspect a word of your ladyship); but, says he, I'll fit you for that, I warrant you, says he, I'll hamper you for that, says he, you and your old frippery too, says he, I'll handle you - LADY. Audacious villain! Handle me? Would he durst? Frippery? Old frippery? Was there ever such a foul-mouthed fellow? I'll be married to-morrow, I'll be contracted to-night. FOIB. The sooner the better, madam. LADY. Will Sir Rowland be here, say'st thou? When, Foible? FOIB. Incontinently, madam. No new sheriff's wife expects the return of her husband after knighthood with that impatience in which Sir Rowland burns for the dear hour of kissing your ladyship's hand after dinner. LADY. Frippery? Superannuated frippery? I'll frippery the villain; I'll reduce him to frippery and rags, a tatterdemalion!--I hope to see him hung with tatters, like a Long Lane pent-house, or a gibbet thief. A slander-mouthed railer! I warrant the spendthrift prodigal's in debt as much as the million lottery, or the whole court upon a birthday. I'll spoil his credit with his tailor. Yes, he shall have my niece with her fortune, he shall. FOIB. He? I hope to see him lodge in Ludgate first, and angle into Blackfriars for brass farthings with an old mitten. LADY. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee for that, dear Foible. He has put me out of all patience. I shall never recompose my features to receive Sir Rowland with any economy of face. This wretch has fretted me that I am absolutely decayed. Look, Foible. FOIB. Your ladyship has frowned a little too rashly, indeed, madam. There are some cracks discernible in the white vernish. LADY. Let me see the glass. Cracks, say'st thou? Why, I am arrantly flayed: I look like an old peeled wall. Thou must repair me, Foible, before Sir Rowland comes, or I shall never keep up to my picture. FOIB. I warrant you, madam: a little art once made your picture like you, and now a little of the same art must make you like your picture. Your picture must sit for you, madam. LADY. But art thou sure Sir Rowland will not fail to come? Or will a not fail when he does come? Will he be importunate, Foible, and push? For if he should not be importunate I shall never break decorums. I shall die with confusion if I am forced to advance--oh no, I can never advance; I shall swoon if he should expect advances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred than to put a lady to the necessity of breaking her forms. I won't be too coy neither--I won't give him despair. But a little disdain is not amiss; a little

455 The Pilgrim’s Progress scorn is alluring. FOIB. A little scorn becomes your ladyship. LADY. Yes, but tenderness becomes me best--a sort of a dyingness. You see that picture has a sort of a--ha, Foible? A swimmingness in the eyes. Yes, I'll look so. My niece affects it; but she wants features. Is Sir Rowland handsome? Let my toilet be removed--I'll dress above. I'll receive Sir Rowland here. Is he handsome? Don't answer me. I won't know; I'll be surprised. I'll be taken by surprise. FOIB. By storm, madam. Sir Rowland's a brisk man. LADY. Is he? Oh, then, he'll importune, if he's a brisk man. I shall save decorums if Sir Rowland importunes. I have a mortal terror at the apprehension of offending against decorums. Oh, I'm glad he's a brisk man. Let my things be removed, good Foible.

SCENE VI.

MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE.

MRS. FAIN. O Foible, I have been in a fright, lest I should come too late. That devil, Marwood, saw you in the park with Mirabell, and I'm afraid will discover it to my lady. FOIB. Discover what, madam? MRS. FAIN. Nay, nay, put not on that strange face. I am privy to the whole design, and know that Waitwell, to whom thou wert this morning married, is to personate Mirabell's uncle, and, as such winning my lady, to involve her in those difficulties from which Mirabell only must release her, by his making his conditions to have my cousin and her fortune left to her own disposal. FOIB. O dear madam, I beg your pardon. It was not my confidence in your ladyship that was deficient; but I thought the former good correspondence between your ladyship and Mr. Mirabell might have hindered his communicating this secret. MRS. FAIN. Dear Foible, forget that. FOIB. O dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such a sweet winning gentleman. But your ladyship is the pattern of generosity. Sweet lady, to be so good! Mr. Mirabell cannot choose but be grateful. I find your ladyship has his heart still. Now, madam, I can safely tell your ladyship our success: Mrs. Marwood had told my lady, but I warrant I managed myself. I turned it all for the better. I told my lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her. I laid horrid things to his charge, I'll vow; and my lady is so incensed that she'll be contracted to Sir Rowland to-night, she says; I warrant I worked her up that he may have her for asking for, as they say of a Welsh maidenhead. MRS. FAIN. O rare Foible! FOIB. Madam, I beg your ladyship to acquaint Mr. Mirabell of his success. I would be seen as little as possible to speak to him-- besides, I believe Madam Marwood watches me. She has a month's mind; but I know Mr. Mirabell can't abide her. [Calls.] John, remove my lady's toilet. Madam, your servant. My lady is so impatient, I fear she'll come for me, if I stay.

456 The Pilgrim’s Progress MRS. FAIN. I'll go with you up the back stairs, lest I should meet her.

SCENE VII.

MRS. MARWOOD alone.

MRS. MAR. Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is it thus with you? Are you become a go-between of this importance? Yes, I shall watch you. Why this wench is the PASSE-PARTOUT, a very master-key to everybody's strong box. My friend Fainall, have you carried it so swimmingly? I thought there was something in it; but it seems it's over with you. Your loathing is not from a want of appetite then, but from a surfeit. Else you could never be so cool to fall from a principal to be an assistant, to procure for him! A pattern of generosity, that I confess. Well, Mr. Fainall, you have met with your match.--O man, man! Woman, woman! The devil's an ass: if I were a painter, I would draw him like an idiot, a driveller with a bib and bells. Man should have his head and horns, and woman the rest of him. Poor, simple fiend! 'Madam Marwood has a month's mind, but he can't abide her.' 'Twere better for him you had not been his confessor in that affair, without you could have kept his counsel closer. I shall not prove another pattern of generosity; he has not obliged me to that with those excesses of himself, and now I'll have none of him. Here comes the good lady, panting ripe, with a heart full of hope, and a head full of care, like any chymist upon the day of projection.

SCENE VIII.

[To her] LADY WISHFORT.

LADY. O dear Marwood, what shall I say for this rude forgetfulness? But my dear friend is all goodness. MRS. MAR. No apologies, dear madam. I have been very well entertained. LADY. As I'm a person, I am in a very chaos to think I should so forget myself. But I have such an olio of affairs, really I know not what to do. [Calls.] Foible!--I expect my nephew Sir Wilfull ev'ry moment too.--Why, Foible!--He means to travel for improvement. MRS. MAR. Methinks Sir Wilfull should rather think of marrying than travelling at his years. I hear he is turned of forty. LADY. Oh, he's in less danger of being spoiled by his travels. I am against my nephew's marrying too young. It will be time enough when he comes back, and has acquired discretion to choose for himself. MRS. MAR. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and he would make a very fit match. He may travel afterwards. 'Tis a thing very usual with young gentlemen. LADY. I promise you I have thought on't--and since 'tis your judgment, I'll think on't again. I assure you I will; I value your judgment extremely. On my word, I'll propose it.

457 The Pilgrim’s Progress

SCENE IX.

[To them] FOIBLE.

LADY. Come, come, Foible--I had forgot my nephew will be here before dinner--I must make haste. FOIB. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are come to dine with your ladyship. LADY. Oh dear, I can't appear till I am dressed. Dear Marwood, shall I be free with you again, and beg you to entertain em? I'll make all imaginable haste. Dear friend, excuse me.

SCENE X.

MRS. MARWOOD, MRS. MILLAMANT, MINCING.

MILLA. Sure, never anything was so unbred as that odious man. Marwood, your servant. MRS. MAR. You have a colour; what's the matter? MILLA. That horrid fellow Petulant has provoked me into a flame--I have broke my fan--Mincing, lend me yours.--Is not all the powder out of my hair? MRS. MAR. No. What has he done? MILLA. Nay, he has done nothing; he has only talked. Nay, he has said nothing neither; but he has contradicted everything that has been said. For my part, I thought Witwoud and he would have quarrelled. MINC. I vow, mem, I thought once they would have fit. MILLA. Well, 'tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that one has not the liberty of choosing one's acquaintance as one does one's clothes. MRS. MAR. If we had that liberty, we should be as weary of one set of acquaintance, though never so good, as we are of one suit, though never so fine. A fool and a doily stuff would now and then find days of grace, and be worn for variety. MILLA. I could consent to wear 'em, if they would wear alike; but fools never wear out. They are such DRAP DE BERRI things! Without one could give 'em to one's chambermaid after a day or two. MRS. MAR. 'Twere better so indeed. Or what think you of the playhouse? A fine gay glossy fool should be given there, like a new masking habit, after the masquerade is over, and we have done with the disguise. For a fool's visit is always a disguise, and never admitted by a woman of wit, but to blind her affair with a lover of sense. If you would but appear barefaced now, and own Mirabell, you might as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud as your hood and scarf. And indeed 'tis time, for the town has found it, the secret is grown too big for the pretence. 'Tis like Mrs. Primly's great belly: she may lace it down before, but it burnishes on her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can no more conceal it than my Lady Strammel can her face, that goodly face, which in defiance of her Rhenish-wine tea will not be comprehended in a mask. MILLA. I'll take my death, Marwood, you are more censorious than a

458 The Pilgrim’s Progress decayed beauty, or a discarded toast:- Mincing, tell the men they may come up. My aunt is not dressing here; their folly is less provoking than your malice.

SCENE XI.

MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. MARWOOD.

MILLA. The town has found it? What has it found? That Mirabell loves me is no more a secret than it is a secret that you discovered it to my aunt, or than the reason why you discovered it is a secret. MRS. MAR. You are nettled. MILLA. You're mistaken. Ridiculous! MRS. MAR. Indeed, my dear, you'll tear another fan, if you don't mitigate those violent airs. MILLA. O silly! Ha, ha, ha! I could laugh immoderately. Poor Mirabell! His constancy to me has quite destroyed his complaisance for all the world beside. I swear I never enjoined it him to be so coy. If I had the vanity to think he would obey me, I would command him to show more gallantry: 'tis hardly well-bred to be so particular on one hand and so insensible on the other. But I despair to prevail, and so let him follow his own way. Ha, ha, ha! Pardon me, dear creature, I must laugh; ha, ha, ha! Though I grant you 'tis a little barbarous; ha, ha, ha! MRS. MAR. What pity 'tis so much fine raillery, and delivered with so significant gesture, should be so unhappily directed to miscarry. MILLA. Heh? Dear creature, I ask your pardon. I swear I did not mind you. MRS. MAR. Mr. Mirabell and you both may think it a thing impossible, when I shall tell him by telling you - MILLA. Oh dear, what? For it is the same thing, if I hear it. Ha, ha, ha! MRS. MAR. That I detest him, hate him, madam. MILLA. O madam, why, so do I. And yet the creature loves me, ha, ha, ha! How can one forbear laughing to think of it? I am a sibyl if I am not amazed to think what he can see in me. I'll take my death, I think you are handsomer, and within a year or two as young. If you could but stay for me, I should overtake you--but that cannot be. Well, that thought makes me melancholic.--Now I'll be sad. MRS. MAR. Your merry note may be changed sooner than you think. MILLA. D'ye say so? Then I'm resolved I'll have a song to keep up my spirits.

SCENE XII.

[To them] MINCING.

MINC. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, and will wait on you. MILLA. Desire Mrs.--that is in the next room, to sing the song I would have learnt yesterday. You shall hear it, madam. Not that there's any great matter in it--but 'tis agreeable to my humour.

459 The Pilgrim’s Progress SONG. Set by Mr. John Eccles. I Love's but the frailty of the mind When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which if not fed expires, And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires. II 'Tis not to wound a wanton boy Or am'rous youth, that gives the joy; But 'tis the glory to have pierced a swain For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. III Then I alone the conquest prize, When I insult a rival's eyes; If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.

SCENE XIII.

[To them] PETULANT, WITWOUD.

MILLA. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen? WIT. Raillery, raillery, madam; we have no animosity. We hit off a little wit now and then, but no animosity. The falling out of wits is like the falling out of lovers:- we agree in the main, like treble and bass. Ha, Petulant? PET. Ay, in the main. But when I have a humour to contradict - WIT. Ay, when he has a humour to contradict, then I contradict too. What, I know my cue. Then we contradict one another like two battledores; for contradictions beget one another like Jews. PET. If he says black's black--if I have a humour to say 'tis blue- -let that pass--all's one for that. If I have a humour to prove it, it must be granted. WIT. Not positively must. But it may; it may. PET. Yes, it positively must, upon proof positive. WIT. Ay, upon proof positive it must; but upon proof presumptive it only may. That's a logical distinction now, madam. MRS. MAR. I perceive your debates are of importance, and very learnedly handled. PET. Importance is one thing and learning's another; but a debate's a debate, that I assert. WIT. Petulant's an enemy to learning; he relies altogether on his parts. PET. No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me. MRS. MAR. That's a sign, indeed, it's no enemy to you. PET. No, no, it's no enemy to anybody but them that have it. MILLA. Well, an illiterate man's my aversion; I wonder at the impudence of any illiterate man to offer to make love. WIT. That I confess I wonder at, too. MILLA. Ah, to marry an ignorant that can hardly read or write! PET. Why should a man be any further from being married, though he

460 The Pilgrim’s Progress can't read, than he is from being hanged? The ordinary's paid for setting the psalm, and the parish priest for reading the ceremony. And for the rest which is to follow in both cases, a man may do it without book. So all's one for that. MILLA. D'ye hear the creature? Lord, here's company; I'll begone.

SCENE XIV.

SIR WILFULL WITWOUD in a riding dress, MRS. MARWOOD, PETULANT, WITWOUD, FOOTMAN.

WIT. In the name of Bartlemew and his Fair, what have we here? MRS. MAR. 'Tis your brother, I fancy. Don't you know him? WIT. Not I:- yes, I think it is he. I've almost forgot him; I have not seen him since the revolution. FOOT. Sir, my lady's dressing. Here's company, if you please to walk in, in the meantime. SIR WIL. Dressing! What, it's but morning here, I warrant, with you in London; we should count it towards afternoon in our parts down in Shropshire:- why, then, belike my aunt han't dined yet. Ha, friend? FOOT. Your aunt, sir? SIR WIL. My aunt, sir? Yes my aunt, sir, and your lady, sir; your lady is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not know me, friend? Why, then, send somebody hither that does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha? FOOT. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, except my lady's woman. SIR WIL. Why, then, belike thou dost not know thy lady, if thou seest her. Ha, friend? FOOT. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face in a morning, before she is dressed. 'Tis like I may give a shrewd guess at her by this time. SIR WIL. Well, prithee try what thou canst do; if thou canst not guess, enquire her out, dost hear, fellow? And tell her her nephew, Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the house. FOOT. I shall, sir. SIR WIL. Hold ye, hear me, friend, a word with you in your ear: prithee who are these gallants? FOOT. Really, sir, I can't tell; here come so many here, 'tis hard to know 'em all.

SCENE XV.

SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, PETULANT, WITWOUD, MRS. MARWOOD.

SIR WIL. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling: I don't think a knows his own name. MRS. MAR. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behindhand in forgetfulness. I fancy he has forgot you too. WIT. I hope so. The devil take him that remembers first, I say. SIR WIL. Save you, gentlemen and lady.

461 The Pilgrim’s Progress MRS. MAR. For shame, Mr. Witwoud; why won't you speak to him?--And you, sir. WIT. Petulant, speak. PET. And you, sir. SIR WIL. No offence, I hope? [Salutes MARWOOD.] MRS. MAR. No, sure, sir. WIT. This is a vile dog, I see that already. No offence? Ha, ha, ha. To him, to him, Petulant, smoke him. PET. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, hem. [Surveying him round.] SIR WIL. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so. PET. No offence, I hope, sir? WIT. Smoke the boots, the boots, Petulant, the boots; ha, ha, ha! SIR WILL. Maybe not, sir; thereafter as 'tis meant, sir. PET. Sir, I presume upon the information of your boots. SIR WIL. Why, 'tis like you may, sir: if you are not satisfied with the information of my boots, sir, if you will step to the stable, you may enquire further of my horse, sir. PET. Your horse, sir! Your horse is an ass, sir! SIR WIL. Do you speak by way of offence, sir? MRS. MAR. The gentleman's merry, that's all, sir. 'Slife, we shall have a quarrel betwixt an horse and an ass, before they find one another out.--You must not take anything amiss from your friends, sir. You are among your friends here, though it--may be you don't know it. If I am not mistaken, you are Sir Wilfull Witwoud? SIR WIL. Right, lady; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence to anybody, I hope? and nephew to the Lady Wishfort of this mansion. MRS. MAR. Don't you know this gentleman, sir? SIR WIL. Hum! What, sure 'tis not--yea by'r lady but 'tis-- 'sheart, I know not whether 'tis or no. Yea, but 'tis, by the Wrekin. Brother Antony! What, Tony, i'faith! What, dost thou not know me? By'r lady, nor I thee, thou art so becravated and so beperiwigged. 'Sheart, why dost not speak? Art thou o'erjoyed? WIT. Odso, brother, is it you? Your servant, brother. SIR WIL. Your servant? Why, yours, sir. Your servant again-- 'sheart, and your friend and servant to that--and a--[puff] and a flap-dragon for your service, sir, and a hare's foot and a hare's scut for your service, sir, an you be so cold and so courtly! WIT. No offence, I hope, brother? SIR WIL. 'Sheart, sir, but there is, and much offence. A pox, is this your inns o' court breeding, not to know your friends and your relations, your elders, and your betters? WIT. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a Shrewsbury cake, if you please. But I tell you 'tis not modish to know relations in town. You think you're in the country, where great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of sergeants. 'Tis not the fashion here; 'tis not, indeed, dear brother. SIR WIL. The fashion's a fool and you're a fop, dear brother. 'Sheart, I've suspected this--by'r lady I conjectured you were a fop, since you began to change the style of your letters, and write

462 The Pilgrim’s Progress in a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena. I might expect this when you left off 'Honoured brother,' and 'Hoping you are in good health,' and so forth, to begin with a 'Rat me, knight, I'm so sick of a last night's debauch.' Ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so conclude. You could write news before you were out of your time, when you lived with honest Pumple-Nose, the attorney of Furnival's Inn. You could intreat to be remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin. We could have Gazettes then, and Dawks's Letter, and the Weekly Bill, till of late days. PET. 'Slife, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney's clerk? Of the family of the Furnivals? Ha, ha, ha! WIT. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while. Not long, not long; pshaw, I was not in my own power then. An orphan, and this fellow was my guardian; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that man to come to London. He had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might have been bound prentice to a feltmaker in Shrewsbury: this fellow would have bound me to a maker of felts. SIR WIL. 'Sheart, and better than to be bound to a maker of fops, where, I suppose, you have served your time, and now you may set up for yourself. MRS. MAR. You intend to travel, sir, as I'm informed? SIR WIL. Belike I may, madam. I may chance to sail upon the salt seas, if my mind hold. PET. And the wind serve. SIR WIL. Serve or not serve, I shan't ask license of you, sir, nor the weathercock your companion. I direct my discourse to the lady, sir. 'Tis like my aunt may have told you, madam? Yes, I have settled my concerns, I may say now, and am minded to see foreign parts. If an how that the peace holds, whereby, that is, taxes abate. MRS. MAR. I thought you had designed for France at all adventures. SIR WIL. I can't tell that; 'tis like I may, and 'tis like I may not. I am somewhat dainty in making a resolution, because when I make it I keep it. I don't stand shill I, shall I, then; if I say't, I'll do't. But I have thoughts to tarry a small matter in town, to learn somewhat of your lingo first, before I cross the seas. I'd gladly have a spice of your French as they say, whereby to hold discourse in foreign countries. MRS. MAR. Here's an academy in town for that use. SIR WIL. There is? 'Tis like there may. MRS. MAR. No doubt you will return very much improved. WIT. Yes, refined like a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing.

SCENE XVI.

[To them] LADY WISHFORT and FAINALL.

LADY. Nephew, you are welcome. SIR WIL. Aunt, your servant. FAIN. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful servant. SIR WIL. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand.

463 The Pilgrim’s Progress LADY. Cousin Witwoud, your servant; Mr. Petulant, your servant. Nephew, you are welcome again. Will you drink anything after your journey, nephew, before you eat? Dinner's almost ready. SIR WIL. I'm very well, I thank you, aunt. However, I thank you for your courteous offer. 'Sheart, I was afraid you would have been in the fashion too, and have remembered to have forgot your relations. Here's your cousin Tony, belike, I mayn't call him brother for fear of offence. LADY. Oh, he's a rallier, nephew. My cousin's a wit: and your great wits always rally their best friends to choose. When you have been abroad, nephew, you'll understand raillery better. [FAINALL and MRS. MARWOOD talk apart.] SIR WIL. Why, then, let him hold his tongue in the meantime, and rail when that day comes.

SCENE XVII.

[To them] MINCING.

MINC. Mem, I come to acquaint your laship that dinner is impatient. SIR WIL. Impatient? Why, then, belike it won't stay till I pull off my boots. Sweetheart, can you help me to a pair of slippers? My man's with his horses, I warrant. LADY. Fie, fie, nephew, you would not pull off your boots here? Go down into the hall:- dinner shall stay for you. My nephew's a little unbred: you'll pardon him, madam. Gentlemen, will you walk? Marwood? MRS. MAR. I'll follow you, madam,--before Sir Wilfull is ready.

SCENE XVIII.

MRS. MARWOOD, FAINALL.

FAIN. Why, then, Foible's a bawd, an errant, rank match-making bawd. And I, it seems, am a husband, a rank husband, and my wife a very errant, rank wife,--all in the way of the world. 'Sdeath, to be a cuckold by anticipation, a cuckold in embryo! Sure I was born with budding antlers like a young satyr, or a citizen's child, 'sdeath, to be out-witted, to be out-jilted, out-matrimonied. If I had kept my speed like a stag, 'twere somewhat, but to crawl after, with my horns like a snail, and be outstripped by my wife--'tis scurvy wedlock. MRS. MAR. Then shake it off: you have often wished for an opportunity to part, and now you have it. But first prevent their plot:- the half of Millamant's fortune is too considerable to be parted with to a foe, to Mirabell. FAIN. Damn him, that had been mine--had you not made that fond discovery. That had been forfeited, had they been married. My wife had added lustre to my horns by that increase of fortune: I could have worn 'em tipt with gold, though my forehead had been furnished like a deputy-lieutenant's hall. MRS. MAR. They may prove a cap of maintenance to you still, if you

464 The Pilgrim’s Progress can away with your wife. And she's no worse than when you had her:- I dare swear she had given up her game before she was married. FAIN. Hum! That may be - MRS. MAR. You married her to keep you; and if you can contrive to have her keep you better than you expected, why should you not keep her longer than you intended? FAIN. The means, the means? MRS. MAR. Discover to my lady your wife's conduct; threaten to part with her. My lady loves her, and will come to any composition to save her reputation. Take the opportunity of breaking it just upon the discovery of this imposture. My lady will be enraged beyond bounds, and sacrifice niece, and fortune and all at that conjuncture. And let me alone to keep her warm: if she should flag in her part, I will not fail to prompt her. FAIN. Faith, this has an appearance. MRS. MAR. I'm sorry I hinted to my lady to endeavour a match between Millamant and Sir Wilfull; that may be an obstacle. FAIN. Oh, for that matter, leave me to manage him; I'll disable him for that, he will drink like a Dane. After dinner I'll set his hand in. MRS. MAR. Well, how do you stand affected towards your lady? FAIN. Why, faith, I'm thinking of it. Let me see. I am married already; so that's over. My wife has played the jade with me; well, that's over too. I never loved her, or if I had, why that would have been over too by this time. Jealous of her I cannot be, for I am certain; so there's an end of jealousy. Weary of her I am and shall be. No, there's no end of that; no, no, that were too much to hope. Thus far concerning my repose. Now for my reputation: as to my own, I married not for it; so that's out of the question. And as to my part in my wife's--why, she had parted with hers before; so, bringing none to me, she can take none from me: 'tis against all rule of play that I should lose to one who has not wherewithal to stake. MRS. MAR. Besides you forget, marriage is honourable. FAIN. Hum! Faith, and that's well thought on: marriage is honourable, as you say; and if so, wherefore should cuckoldom be a discredit, being derived from so honourable a root? MRS. MAR. Nay, I know not; if the root be honourable, why not the branches? FAIN. So, so; why this point's clear. Well, how do we proceed? MRS. MAR. I will contrive a letter which shall be delivered to my lady at the time when that rascal who is to act Sir Rowland is with her. It shall come as from an unknown hand--for the less I appear to know of the truth the better I can play the incendiary. Besides, I would not have Foible provoked if I could help it, because, you know, she knows some passages. Nay, I expect all will come out. But let the mine be sprung first, and then I care not if I am discovered. FAIN. If the worst come to the worst, I'll turn my wife to grass. I have already a deed of settlement of the best part of her estate, which I wheedled out of her, and that you shall partake at least. MRS. MAR. I hope you are convinced that I hate Mirabell now?

465 The Pilgrim’s Progress You'll be no more jealous? FAIN. Jealous? No, by this kiss. Let husbands be jealous, but let the lover still believe: or if he doubt, let it be only to endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy that follows, when he proves his mistress true. But let husbands' doubts convert to endless jealousy; or if they have belief, let it corrupt to superstition and blind credulity. I am single and will herd no more with 'em. True, I wear the badge, but I'll disown the order. And since I take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 'em a common motto to their common crest.

All husbands must or pain or shame endure; The wise too jealous are, fools too secure.

ACT IV.--SCENE I.

Scene Continues. LADY WISHFORT and FOIBLE.

LADY. Is Sir Rowland coming, say'st thou, Foible? And are things in order? FOIB. Yes, madam. I have put wax-lights in the sconces, and placed the footmen in a row in the hall, in their best liveries, with the coachman and postillion to fill up the equipage. LADY. Have you pulvilled the coachman and postillion, that they may not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland comes by? FOIB. Yes, madam. LADY. And are the dancers and the music ready, that he may be entertained in all points with correspondence to his passion? FOIB. All is ready, madam. LADY. And--well--and how do I look, Foible? FOIB. Most killing well, madam. LADY. Well, and how shall I receive him? In what figure shall I give his heart the first impression? There is a great deal in the first impression. Shall I sit? No, I won't sit, I'll walk,--ay, I'll walk from the door upon his entrance, and then turn full upon him. No, that will be too sudden. I'll lie,--ay, I'll lie down. I'll receive him in my little dressing-room; there's a couch--yes, yes, I'll give the first impression on a couch. I won't lie neither, but loll and lean upon one elbow, with one foot a little dangling off, jogging in a thoughtful way. Yes; and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, start and be surprised, and rise to meet him in a pretty disorder. Yes; oh, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion. It shows the foot to advantage, and furnishes with blushes and re-composing airs beyond comparison. Hark! There's a coach. FOIB. 'Tis he, madam. LADY. Oh dear, has my nephew made his addresses to Millamant? I ordered him. FOIB. Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, madam, in the parlour. LADY. Ods my life, I'll send him to her. Call her down, Foible; bring her hither. I'll send him as I go. When they are together,

466 The Pilgrim’s Progress then come to me, Foible, that I may not be too long alone with Sir Rowland.

SCENE II. MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE.

FOIB. Madam, I stayed here to tell your ladyship that Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour for an opportunity to talk with you; though my lady's orders were to leave you and Sir Wilfull together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at leisure? MILLA. No. What would the dear man have? I am thoughtful and would amuse myself; bid him come another time.

There never yet was woman made, Nor shall, but to be cursed. [Repeating and walking about.] That's hard! MRS. FAIN. You are very fond of Sir John Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the poets. MILLA. He? Ay, and filthy verses. So I am. FOIB. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away? MILLA. Ay, if you please, Foible, send him away, or send him hither, just as you will, dear Foible. I think I'll see him. Shall I? Ay, let the wretch come.

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train. [Repeating]

Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull:- thou hast philosophy to undergo a fool; thou art married and hast patience. I would confer with my own thoughts. MRS. FAIN. I am obliged to you that you would make me your proxy in this affair, but I have business of my own.

SCENE III. [To them] SIR WILFULL.

MRS. FAIN. O Sir Wilfull, you are come at the critical instant. There's your mistress up to the ears in love and contemplation; pursue your point, now or never. SIR WIL. Yes, my aunt will have it so. I would gladly have been encouraged with a bottle or two, because I'm somewhat wary at first, before I am acquainted. [This while MILLAMANT walks about repeating to herself.] But I hope, after a time, I shall break my mind--that is, upon further acquaintance.--So for the present, cousin, I'll take my leave. If so be you'll be so kind to make my excuse, I'll return to my company - MRS. FAIN. Oh, fie, Sir Wilfull! What, you must not be daunted. SIR WIL. Daunted? No, that's not it; it is not so much for that-- for if so be that I set on't I'll do't. But only for the present, 'tis sufficient till further acquaintance, that's all--your servant. MRS. FAIN. Nay, I'll swear you shall never lose so favourable an opportunity, if I can help it. I'll leave you together and lock the

467 The Pilgrim’s Progress door.

SCENE IV. SIR WILFULL, MILLAMANT.

SIR WIL. Nay, nay, cousin. I have forgot my gloves. What d'ye do? 'Sheart, a has locked the door indeed, I think.--Nay, cousin Fainall, open the door. Pshaw, what a vixen trick is this? Nay, now a has seen me too.--Cousin, I made bold to pass through as it were--I think this door's enchanted. MILLA. [repeating]:-

I prithee spare me, gentle boy, Press me no more for that slight toy. SIR WIL. Anan? Cousin, your servant. MILLA. That foolish trifle of a heart - Sir Wilfull! SIR WIL. Yes--your servant. No offence, I hope, cousin? MILLA. [repeating]:-

I swear it will not do its part, Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy power and art.

Natural, easy Suckling! SIR WIL. Anan? Suckling? No such suckling neither, cousin, nor stripling: I thank heaven I'm no minor. MILLA. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic. SIR WIL. Well, well, I shall understand your lingo one of these days, cousin; in the meanwhile I must answer in plain English. MILLA. Have you any business with me, Sir Wilfull? SIR WIL. Not at present, cousin. Yes, I made bold to see, to come and know if that how you were disposed to fetch a walk this evening; if so be that I might not be troublesome, I would have sought a walk with you. MILLA. A walk? What then? SIR WIL. Nay, nothing. Only for the walk's sake, that's all. MILLA. I nauseate walking: 'tis a country diversion; I loathe the country and everything that relates to it. SIR WIL. Indeed! Hah! Look ye, look ye, you do? Nay, 'tis like you may. Here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like, that must be confessed indeed - MILLA. Ah, L'ETOURDI! I hate the town too. SIR WIL. Dear heart, that's much. Hah! that you should hate 'em both! Hah! 'tis like you may! There are some can't relish the town, and others can't away with the country, 'tis like you may be one of those, cousin. MILLA. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, 'tis like I may. You have nothing further to say to me? SIR WIL. Not at present, cousin. 'Tis like when I have an opportunity to be more private--I may break my mind in some measure- -I conjecture you partly guess. However, that's as time shall try. But spare to speak and spare to speed, as they say.

468 The Pilgrim’s Progress MILLA. If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave me: I have just now a little business. SIR WIL. Enough, enough, cousin. Yes, yes, all a case. When you're disposed, when you're disposed. Now's as well as another time; and another time as well as now. All's one for that. Yes, yes; if your concerns call you, there's no haste: it will keep cold as they say. Cousin, your servant. I think this door's locked. MILLA. You may go this way, sir. SIR WIL. Your servant; then with your leave I'll return to my company. MILLA. Ay, ay; ha, ha, ha!

Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy.

SCENE V. MRS. MILLAMANT, MIRABELL.

MIRA. Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy. Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my search more curious? Or is this pretty artifice contrived, to signify that here the chase must end, and my pursuit be crowned, for you can fly no further? MILLA. Vanity! No--I'll fly and be followed to the last moment; though I am upon the very verge of matrimony, I expect you should solicit me as much as if I were wavering at the grate of a monastery, with one foot over the threshold. I'll be solicited to the very last; nay, and afterwards. MIRA. What, after the last? MILLA. Oh, I should think I was poor and had nothing to bestow if I were reduced to an inglorious ease, and freed from the agreeable fatigues of solicitation. MIRA. But do not you know that when favours are conferred upon instant and tedious solicitation, that they diminish in their value, and that both the giver loses the grace, and the receiver lessens his pleasure? MILLA. It may be in things of common application, but never, sure, in love. Oh, I hate a lover that can dare to think he draws a moment's air independent on the bounty of his mistress. There is not so impudent a thing in nature as the saucy look of an assured man confident of success: the pedantic arrogance of a very husband has not so pragmatical an air. Ah, I'll never marry, unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure. MIRA. Would you have 'em both before marriage? Or will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the other till after grace? MILLA. Ah, don't be impertinent. My dear liberty, shall I leave thee? My faithful solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid you then adieu? Ay-h, adieu. My morning thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slumbers, all ye DOUCEURS, ye SOMMEILS DU MATIN, adieu. I can't do't, 'tis more than impossible--positively, Mirabell, I'll lie a-bed in a morning as long as I please. MI RA. Then I'll get up in a morning as early as I please. MILLA. Ah! Idle creature, get up when you will. And d'ye hear, I

469 The Pilgrim’s Progress won't be called names after I'm married; positively I won't be called names. MIRA. Names? MILLA. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, love, sweet-heart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar--I shall never bear that. Good Mirabell, don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis; nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and then never be seen there together again, as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together, but let us be very strange and well-bred. Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all. MIRA. Have you any more conditions to offer? Hitherto your demands are pretty reasonable. MILLA. Trifles; as liberty to pay and receive visits to and from whom I please; to write and receive letters, without interrogatories or wry faces on your part; to wear what I please, and choose conversation with regard only to my own taste; to have no obligation upon me to converse with wits that I don't like, because they are your acquaintance, or to be intimate with fools, because they may be your relations. Come to dinner when I please, dine in my dressing- room when I'm out of humour, without giving a reason. To have my closet inviolate; to be sole empress of my tea-table, which you must never presume to approach without first asking leave. And lastly, wherever I am, you shall always knock at the door before you come in. These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into a wife. MIRA. Your bill of fare is something advanced in this latter account. Well, have I liberty to offer conditions:- that when you are dwindled into a wife, I may not be beyond measure enlarged into a husband? MILLA. You have free leave: propose your utmost, speak and spare not. MIRA. I thank you. IMPRIMIS, then, I covenant that your acquaintance be general; that you admit no sworn confidant or intimate of your own sex; no she friend to screen her affairs under your countenance, and tempt you to make trial of a mutual secrecy. No decoy-duck to wheedle you a FOP-SCRAMBLING to the play in a mask, then bring you home in a pretended fright, when you think you shall be found out, and rail at me for missing the play, and disappointing the frolic which you had to pick me up and prove my constancy. MILLA. Detestable IMPRIMIS! I go to the play in a mask! MIRA. ITEM, I article, that you continue to like your own face as long as I shall, and while it passes current with me, that you endeavour not to new coin it. To which end, together with all vizards for the day, I prohibit all masks for the night, made of oiled skins and I know not what--hog's bones, hare's gall, pig water, and the marrow of a roasted cat. In short, I forbid all commerce with the gentlewomen in what-d'ye-call-it court. ITEM, I

470 The Pilgrim’s Progress shut my doors against all bawds with baskets, and pennyworths of muslin, china, fans, atlases, etc. ITEM, when you shall be breeding - MILLA. Ah, name it not! MIRA. Which may be presumed, with a blessing on our endeavours - MILLA. Odious endeavours! MIRA. I denounce against all strait lacing, squeezing for a shape, till you mould my boy's head like a sugar-loaf, and instead of a man-child, make me father to a crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion of the tea-table I submit; but with proviso, that you exceed not in your province, but restrain yourself to native and simple tea-table drinks, as tea, chocolate, and coffee. As likewise to genuine and authorised tea-table talk, such as mending of fashions, spoiling reputations, railing at absent friends, and so forth. But that on no account you encroach upon the men's prerogative, and presume to drink healths, or toast fellows; for prevention of which, I banish all foreign forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, as orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, citron, and Barbadoes waters, together with ratafia and the most noble spirit of clary. But for cowslip-wine, poppy-water, and all dormitives, those I allow. These provisos admitted, in other things I may prove a tractable and complying husband. MILLA. Oh, horrid provisos! Filthy strong waters! I toast fellows, odious men! I hate your odious provisos. MIRA. Then we're agreed. Shall I kiss your hand upon the contract? And here comes one to be a witness to the sealing of the deed.

SCENE VI. [To them] MRS. FAINALL.

MILLA. Fainall, what shall I do? Shall I have him? I think I must have him. MRS. FAIN. Ay, ay, take him, take him, what should you do? MILLA. Well then--I'll take my death I'm in a horrid fright-- Fainall, I shall never say it. Well--I think--I'll endure you. MRS. FAIN. Fie, fie, have him, and tell him so in plain terms: for I am sure you have a mind to him. MILLA. Are you? I think I have; and the horrid man looks as if he thought so too. Well, you ridiculous thing you, I'll have you. I won't be kissed, nor I won't be thanked.--Here, kiss my hand though, so hold your tongue now; don't say a word. MRS. FAIN. Mirabell, there's a necessity for your obedience: you have neither time to talk nor stay. My mother is coming; and in my conscience if she should see you, would fall into fits, and maybe not recover time enough to return to Sir Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, is in a fair way to succeed. Therefore spare your ecstasies for another occasion, and slip down the back stairs, where Foible waits to consult you. MILLA. Ay, go, go. In the meantime I suppose you have said something to please me. MIRA. I am all obedience.

471 The Pilgrim’s Progress SCENE VII. MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. FAINALL.

MRS. FAIN. Yonder Sir Wilfull's drunk, and so noisy that my mother has been forced to leave Sir Rowland to appease him; but he answers her only with singing and drinking. What they may have done by this time I know not, but Petulant and he were upon quarrelling as I came by. MILLA. Well, if Mirabell should not make a good husband, I am a lost thing: for I find I love him violently. MRS. FAIN. So it seems; for you mind not what's said to you. If you doubt him, you had best take up with Sir Wilfull. MILLA. How can you name that superannuated lubber? foh!

SCENE VIII. [To them] WITWOUD from drinking.

MRS. FAIN. So, is the fray made up that you have left 'em? WIT. Left 'em? I could stay no longer. I have laughed like ten Christ'nings. I am tipsy with laughing--if I had stayed any longer I should have burst,--I must have been let out and pieced in the sides like an unsized camlet. Yes, yes, the fray is composed; my lady came in like a NOLI PROSEQUI, and stopt the proceedings. MILLA. What was the dispute? WIT. That's the jest: there was no dispute. They could neither of 'em speak for rage; and so fell a sputt'ring at one another like two roasting apples.

SCENE IX. [To them] PETULANT drunk.

WIT. Now, Petulant? All's over, all's well? Gad, my head begins to whim it about. Why dost thou not speak? Thou art both as drunk and as mute as a fish. PET. Look you, Mrs. Millamant, if you can love me, dear Nymph, say it, and that's the conclusion--pass on, or pass off--that's all. WIT. Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in less than decimo sexto, my dear Lacedemonian. Sirrah, Petulant, thou art an epitomiser of words. PET. Witwoud,--you are an annihilator of sense. WIT. Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushions; thou art in truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of shorthand. PET. Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy half-brother, is the rest. A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you. WIT. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed; kiss me for that. PET. Stand off--I'll kiss no more males--I have kissed your Twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation till he [hiccup] rises upon my stomach like a radish. MILLA. Eh! filthy creature; what was the quarrel? PET. There was no quarrel; there might have been a quarrel.

472 The Pilgrim’s Progress WIT. If there had been words enow between 'em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets. PET. You were the quarrel. MILLA. Me? PET. If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises. If you are not handsome, what then? If I have a humour to prove it? If I shall have my reward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourself--I'll go sleep. WIT. Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge. And, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge. I'll carry it for thee. PET. Carry your mistress's monkey a spider; go flea dogs and read romances. I'll go to bed to my maid. MRS. FAIN. He's horridly drunk--how came you all in this pickle? WIT. A plot, a plot, to get rid of the knight--your husband's advice; but he sneaked off.

SCENE X. SIR WILFULL, drunk, LADY WISHFORT, WITWOUD, MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. FAINALL.

LADY. Out upon't, out upon't, at years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! SIR WIL. No offence, aunt. LADY. Offence? As I'm a person, I'm ashamed of you. Fogh! How you stink of wine! D'ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio? You're an absolute Borachio. SIR WIL. Borachio? LADY. At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost - SIR WIL. 'Sheart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill.--Give me more drink, and take my purse. [Sings]:-

Prithee fill me the glass, Till it laugh in my face, With ale that is potent and mellow; He that whines for a lass Is an ignorant ass, For a bumper has not its fellow.

But if you would have me marry my cousin, say the word, and I'll do't. Wilfull will do't, that's the word. Wilfull will do't, that's my crest,--my motto I have forgot. LADY. My nephew's a little overtaken, cousin, but 'tis drinking your health. O' my word, you are obliged to him - SIR WIL. IN VINO VERITAS, aunt. If I drunk your health to-day, cousin,--I am a Borachio.--But if you have a mind to be married, say the word and send for the piper; Wilfull will do't. If not, dust it away, and let's have t'other round. Tony--ods-heart, where's Tony?- -Tony's an honest fellow, but he spits after a bumper, and that's a fault.

473 The Pilgrim’s Progress

We'll drink and we'll never ha' done, boys, Put the glass then around with the sun, boys, Let Apollo's example invite us; For he's drunk every night, And that makes him so bright, That he's able next morning to light us.

The sun's a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodes--your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I'd stand upon my head and drink a health to 'em. A match or no match, cousin with the hard name; aunt, Wilfull will do't. If she has her maidenhead let her look to 't; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months' end. MILLA. Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer. Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Egh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay. Come, cousin.

SCENE XI. LADY WISHFORT, SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, MR. WITWOUD, FOIBLE.

LADY. Smells? He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family. Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him. Travel, quotha; ay, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks--for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan. SIR WIL. Turks? No; no Turks, aunt. Your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Mahometan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkard. No offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian--I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox, whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and [hiccup] Greek for claret. [Sings]:-

To drink is a Christian diversion, Unknown to the Turk or the Persian. Let Mahometan fools Live by heathenish rules, And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. But let British lads sing, Crown a health to the King, And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.

Ah, Tony! [FOIBLE whispers LADY W.] LADY. Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril? Go lie down and sleep, you sot, or as I'm a person, I'll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. Call up the wenches with broomsticks. SIR WIL. Ahey! Wenches? Where are the wenches? LADY. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with

474 The Pilgrim’s Progress some precipitation.--You will oblige me to all futurity. WIT. Come, knight. Pox on him, I don't know what to say to him. Will you go to a cock-match? SIR WIL. With a wench, Tony? Is she a shake-bag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. WIT. Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe. Ay, ay; come, will you march, my Salopian? SIR WIL. Lead on, little Tony. I'll follow thee, my Anthony, my Tantony. Sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, and I'll be thy pig.

And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy. LADY. This will never do. It will never make a match,--at least before he has been abroad.

SCENE XII. LADY WISHFORT, WAITWELL disguised as for SIR ROWLAND.

LADY. Dear Sir Rowland, I am confounded with confusion at the retrospection of my own rudeness,--I have more pardons to ask than the pope distributes in the year of jubilee. But I hope where there is likely to be so near an alliance, we may unbend the severity of decorum, and dispense with a little ceremony. WAIT. My impatience, madam, is the effect of my transport; and till I have the possession of your adorable person, I am tantalised on the rack, and do but hang, madam, on the tenter of expectation. LADY. You have excess of gallantry, Sir Rowland, and press things to a conclusion with a most prevailing vehemence. But a day or two for decency of marriage - WAIT. For decency of funeral, madam! The delay will break my heart--or if that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My nephew will get an inkling of my designs and poison me--and I would willingly starve him before I die--I would gladly go out of the world with that satisfaction. That would be some comfort to me, if I could but live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural viper. LADY. Is he so unnatural, say you? Truly I would contribute much both to the saving of your life and the accomplishment of your revenge. Not that I respect myself; though he has been a perfidious wretch to me. WAIT. Perfidious to you? LADY. O Sir Rowland, the hours that he has died away at my feet, the tears that he has shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations that he has felt, the trances and the tremblings, the ardours and the ecstasies, the kneelings and the risings, the heart- heavings and the hand-gripings, the pangs and the pathetic regards of his protesting eyes!--Oh, no memory can register. WAIT. What, my rival? Is the rebel my rival? A dies. LADY. No, don't kill him at once, Sir Rowland: starve him gradually, inch by inch. WAIT. I'll do't. In three weeks he shall be barefoot; in a month out at knees with begging an alms; he shall starve upward and upward, 'till he has nothing living but his head, and then go out in a stink like a candle's end upon a save-all.

475 The Pilgrim’s Progress LADY. Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way,--you are no novice in the labyrinth of love,--you have the clue. But as I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any sinister appetite or indigestion of widowhood; nor impute my complacency to any lethargy of continence. I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials? WAIT. Far be it from me - LADY. If you do, I protest I must recede, or think that I have made a prostitution of decorums, but in the vehemence of compassion, and to save the life of a person of so much importance - WAIT. I esteem it so - LADY. Or else you wrong my condescension - WAIT. I do not, I do not - LADY. Indeed you do. WAIT. I do not, fair shrine of virtue. LADY. If you think the least scruple of causality was an ingredient - WAIT. Dear madam, no. You are all camphire and frankincense, all chastity and odour. LADY. Or that -

SCENE XIII. [To them] FOIBLE.

FOIB. Madam, the dancers are ready, and there's one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own hands. LADY. Sir Rowland, will you give me leave? Think favourably, judge candidly, and conclude you have found a person who would suffer racks in honour's cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you incessantly.

SCENE XIV. WAITWELL, FOIBLE.

WAIT. Fie, fie! What a slavery have I undergone; spouse, hast thou any cordial? I want spirits. FOIB. What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for a quarter of an hour's lying and swearing to a fine lady? WAIT. Oh, she is the antidote to desire. Spouse, thou wilt fare the worse for't. I shall have no appetite to iteration of nuptials- -this eight-and-forty hours. By this hand I'd rather be a chairman in the dog-days than act Sir Rowland till this time to-morrow.

SCENE XV. [To them] LADY with a letter.

LADY. Call in the dancers; Sir Rowland, we'll sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. [Dance.] Now, with your permission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse my letter. I would open it in your presence, because I would not make you uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I would burn it--speak if it does--but you may see, the superscription is like a woman's hand.

476 The Pilgrim’s Progress FOIB. By heaven! Mrs. Marwood's, I know it,--my heart aches--get it from her! [To him.] WAIT. A woman's hand? No madam, that's no woman's hand: I see that already. That's somebody whose throat must be cut. LADY. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you I'll make a return by a frank communication. You shall see it--we'll open it together. Look you here. [Reads.] MADAM, THOUGH UNKNOWN TO YOU (look you there, 'tis from nobody that I know.) I HAVE THAT HONOUR FOR YOUR CHARACTER, THAT I THINK MYSELF OBLIGED TO LET YOU KNOW YOU ARE ABUSED. HE WHO PRETENDS TO BE SIR ROWLAND IS A CHEAT AND A RASCAL. O heavens! what's this? FOIB. Unfortunate; all's ruined. WAIT. How, how, let me see, let me see. [Reading.] A RASCAL, AND DISGUISED AND SUBORNED FOR THAT IMPOSTURE--O villainy! O villainy!-- BY THE CONTRIVANCE OF - LADY. I shall faint, I shall die. Oh! FOIB. Say 'tis your nephew's hand. Quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! [To him.] WAIT. Here's a villain! Madam, don't you perceive it? Don't you see it? LADY. Too well, too well. I have seen too much. WAIT. I told you at first I knew the hand. A woman's hand? The rascal writes a sort of a large hand: your Roman hand.--I saw there was a throat to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is my nephew, I'd pistol him. FOIB. O treachery! But are you sure, Sir Rowland, it is his writing? WAIT. Sure? Am I here? Do I live? Do I love this pearl of India? I have twenty letters in my pocket from him in the same character. LADY. How? FOIB. Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were present at this juncture! This was the business that brought Mr. Mirabell disguised to Madam Millamant this afternoon. I thought something was contriving, when he stole by me and would have hid his face. LADY. How, how? I heard the villain was in the house indeed; and now I remember, my niece went away abruptly when Sir Wilfull was to have made his addresses. FOIB. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited for her in her chamber; but I would not tell your ladyship to discompose you when you were to receive Sir Rowland. WAIT. Enough, his date is short. FOIB. No, good Sir Rowland, don't incur the law. WAIT. Law? I care not for law. I can but die, and 'tis in a good cause. My lady shall be satisfied of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my life. LADY. No, dear Sir Rowland, don't fight: if you should be killed I must never show my face; or hanged,--oh, consider my reputation, Sir Rowland. No, you shan't fight: I'll go in and examine my niece; I'll make her confess. I conjure you, Sir Rowland, by all your love not to fight. WAIT. I am charmed, madam; I obey. But some proof you must let me

477 The Pilgrim’s Progress give you: I'll go for a black box, which contains the writings of my whole estate, and deliver that into your hands. LADY. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some comfort; bring the black box. WAIT. And may I presume to bring a contract to be signed this night? May I hope so far? LADY. Bring what you will; but come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is a happy discovery. WAIT. Dead or alive I'll come--and married we will be in spite of treachery; ay, and get an heir that shall defeat the last remaining glimpse of hope in my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxom widow:

E'er long you shall substantial proof receive That I'm an arrant knight - FOIB. Or arrant knave.

ACT V.--SCENE I. Scene continues. LADY WISHFORT and FOIBLE.

LADY. Out of my house, out of my house, thou viper, thou serpent that I have fostered, thou bosom traitress that I raised from nothing! Begone, begone, begone, go, go; that I took from washing of old gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a bleak blue nose, over a chafing-dish of starved embers, and dining behind a traver's rag, in a shop no bigger than a bird-cage. Go, go, starve again, do, do! FOIB. Dear madam, I'll beg pardon on my knees. LADY. Away, out, out, go set up for yourself again, do; drive a trade, do, with your threepennyworth of small ware, flaunting upon a packthread, under a brandy-seller's bulk, or against a dead wall by a balladmonger. Go, hang out an old frisoneer-gorget, with a yard of yellow colberteen again, do; an old gnawed mask, two rows of pins, and a child's fiddle; a glass necklace with the beads broken, and a quilted night-cap with one ear. Go, go, drive a trade. These were your commodities, you treacherous trull; this was the merchandise you dealt in, when I took you into my house, placed you next myself, and made you governant of my whole family. You have forgot this, have you, now you have feathered your nest? FOIB. No, no, dear madam. Do but hear me, have but a moment's patience--I'll confess all. Mr. Mirabell seduced me; I am not the first that he has wheedled with his dissembling tongue. Your ladyship's own wisdom has been deluded by him; then how should I, a poor ignorant, defend myself? O madam, if you knew but what he promised me, and how he assured me your ladyship should come to no damage, or else the wealth of the Indies should not have bribed me to conspire against so good, so sweet, so kind a lady as you have been to me. LADY. No damage? What, to betray me, to marry me to a cast serving-man; to make me a receptacle, an hospital for a decayed pimp? No damage? O thou frontless impudence, more than a big- bellied actress! FOIB. Pray do but hear me, madam; he could not marry your ladyship,

478 The Pilgrim’s Progress madam. No indeed, his marriage was to have been void in law; for he was married to me first, to secure your ladyship. He could not have bedded your ladyship, for if he had consummated with your ladyship, he must have run the risk of the law, and been put upon his clergy. Yes indeed, I enquired of the law in that case before I would meddle or make. LADY. What? Then I have been your property, have I? I have been convenient to you, it seems, while you were catering for Mirabell; I have been broker for you? What, have you made a passive bawd of me? This exceeds all precedent. I am brought to fine uses, to become a botcher of second-hand marriages between Abigails and Andrews! I'll couple you. Yes, I'll baste you together, you and your Philander. I'll Duke's Place you, as I'm a person. Your turtle is in custody already. You shall coo in the same cage, if there be constable or warrant in the parish. FOIB. Oh, that ever I was born! Oh, that I was ever married! A bride? Ay, I shall be a Bridewell bride. Oh!

SCENE II. MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE.

MRS. FAIN. Poor Foible, what's the matter? FOIB. O madam, my lady's gone for a constable; I shall be had to a justice, and put to Bridewell to beat hemp. Poor Waitwell's gone to prison already. MRS. FAIN. Have a good heart, Foible: Mirabell's gone to give security for him. This is all Marwood's and my husband's doing. FOIB. Yes, yes; I know it, madam: she was in my lady's closet, and overheard all that you said to me before dinner. She sent the letter to my lady, and that missing effect, Mr. Fainall laid this plot to arrest Waitwell, when he pretended to go for the papers; and in the meantime Mrs. Marwood declared all to my lady. MRS. FAIN. Was there no mention made of me in the letter? My mother does not suspect my being in the confederacy? I fancy Marwood has not told her, though she has told my husband. FOIB. Yes, madam; but my lady did not see that part. We stifled the letter before she read so far. Has that mischievous devil told Mr. Fainall of your ladyship then? MRS. FAIN. Ay, all's out: my affair with Mirabell, everything discovered. This is the last day of our living together; that's my comfort. FOIB. Indeed, madam, and so 'tis a comfort, if you knew all. He has been even with your ladyship; which I could have told you long enough since, but I love to keep peace and quietness by my good will. I had rather bring friends together than set 'em at distance. But Mrs. Marwood and he are nearer related than ever their parents thought for. MRS. FAIN. Say'st thou so, Foible? Canst thou prove this? FOIB. I can take my oath of it, madam; so can Mrs. Mincing. We have had many a fair word from Madam Marwood to conceal something that passed in our chamber one evening when you were at Hyde Park, and we were thought to have gone a-walking. But we went up

479 The Pilgrim’s Progress unawares--though we were sworn to secrecy too: Madam Marwood took a book and swore us upon it: but it was but a book of poems. So long as it was not a bible oath, we may break it with a safe conscience. MRS. FAIN. This discovery is the most opportune thing I could wish. Now, Mincing?

SCENE III. [To them] MINCING.

MINC. My lady would speak with Mrs. Foible, mem. Mr. Mirabell is with her; he has set your spouse at liberty, Mrs. Foible, and would have you hide yourself in my lady's closet till my old lady's anger is abated. Oh, my old lady is in a perilous passion at something Mr. Fainall has said; he swears, and my old lady cries. There's a fearful hurricane, I vow. He says, mem, how that he'll have my lady's fortune made over to him, or he'll be divorced. MRS. FAIN. Does your lady or Mirabell know that? MINC. Yes mem; they have sent me to see if Sir Wilfull be sober, and to bring him to them. My lady is resolved to have him, I think, rather than lose such a vast sum as six thousand pound. Oh, come, Mrs. Foible, I hear my old lady. MRS. FAIN. Foible, you must tell Mincing that she must prepare to vouch when I call her. FOIB. Yes, yes, madam. MINC. Oh, yes mem, I'll vouch anything for your ladyship's service, be what it will.

SCENE IV. MRS. FAINALL, LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MARWOOD.

LADY. O my dear friend, how can I enumerate the benefits that I have received from your goodness? To you I owe the timely discovery of the false vows of Mirabell; to you I owe the detection of the impostor Sir Rowland. And now you are become an intercessor with my son-in-law, to save the honour of my house and compound for the frailties of my daughter. Well, friend, you are enough to reconcile me to the bad world, or else I would retire to deserts and solitudes, and feed harmless sheep by groves and purling streams. Dear Marwood, let us leave the world, and retire by ourselves and be shepherdesses. MRS. MAR. Let us first dispatch the affair in hand, madam. We shall have leisure to think of retirement afterwards. Here is one who is concerned in the treaty. LADY. O daughter, daughter, is it possible thou shouldst be my child, bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and as I may say, another me, and yet transgress the most minute particle of severe virtue? Is it possible you should lean aside to iniquity, who have been cast in the direct mould of virtue? I have not only been a mould but a pattern for you, and a model for you, after you were brought into the world. MRS. FAIN. I don't understand your ladyship. LADY. Not understand? Why, have you not been naught? Have you not

480 The Pilgrim’s Progress been sophisticated? Not understand? Here I am ruined to compound for your caprices and your cuckoldoms. I must pawn my plate and my jewels, and ruin my niece, and all little enough - MRS. FAIN. I am wronged and abused, and so are you. 'Tis a false accusation, as false as hell, as false as your friend there; ay, or your friend's friend, my false husband. MRS. MAR. My friend, Mrs. Fainall? Your husband my friend, what do you mean? MRS. FAIN. I know what I mean, madam, and so do you; and so shall the world at a time convenient. MRS. MAR. I am sorry to see you so passionate, madam. More temper would look more like innocence. But I have done. I am sorry my zeal to serve your ladyship and family should admit of misconstruction, or make me liable to affronts. You will pardon me, madam, if I meddle no more with an affair in which I am not personally concerned. LADY. O dear friend, I am so ashamed that you should meet with such returns. You ought to ask pardon on your knees, ungrateful creature; she deserves more from you than all your life can accomplish. Oh, don't leave me destitute in this perplexity! No, stick to me, my good genius. MRS. FAIN. I tell you, madam, you're abused. Stick to you? Ay, like a leech, to suck your best blood; she'll drop off when she's full. Madam, you shan't pawn a bodkin, nor part with a brass counter, in composition for me. I defy 'em all. Let 'em prove their aspersions: I know my own innocence, and dare stand a trial.

SCENE V. LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MARWOOD.

LADY. Why, if she should be innocent, if she should be wronged after all, ha? I don't know what to think, and I promise you, her education has been unexceptionable. I may say it, for I chiefly made it my own care to initiate her very infancy in the rudiments of virtue, and to impress upon her tender years a young odium and aversion to the very sight of men; ay, friend, she would ha' shrieked if she had but seen a man till she was in her teens. As I'm a person, 'tis true. She was never suffered to play with a male child, though but in coats. Nay, her very babies were of the feminine gender. Oh, she never looked a man in the face but her own father or the chaplain, and him we made a shift to put upon her for a woman, by the help of his long garments, and his sleek face, till she was going in her fifteen. MRS. MAR. 'Twas much she should be deceived so long. LADY. I warrant you, or she would never have borne to have been catechised by him, and have heard his long lectures against singing and dancing and such debaucheries, and going to filthy plays, and profane music meetings, where the lewd trebles squeak nothing but bawdy, and the basses roar blasphemy. Oh, she would have swooned at the sight or name of an obscene play-book--and can I think after all this that my daughter can be naught? What, a whore? And thought it

481 The Pilgrim’s Progress excommunication to set her foot within the door of a playhouse. O dear friend, I can't believe it. No, no; as she says, let him prove it, let him prove it. MRS. MAR. Prove it, madam? What, and have your name prostituted in a public court; yours and your daughter's reputation worried at the bar by a pack of bawling lawyers? To be ushered in with an OH YES of scandal, and have your case opened by an old fumbling leacher in a quoif like a man midwife; to bring your daughter's infamy to light; to be a theme for legal punsters and quibblers by the statute; and become a jest, against a rule of court, where there is no precedent for a jest in any record, not even in Doomsday Book. To discompose the gravity of the bench, and provoke naughty interrogatories in more naughty law Latin; while the good judge, tickled with the proceeding, simpers under a grey beard, and fidges off and on his cushion as if he had swallowed cantharides, or sate upon cow-itch. LADY. Oh, 'tis very hard! MRS. MAR. And then to have my young revellers of the Temple take notes, like prentices at a conventicle; and after talk it over again in Commons, or before drawers in an eating-house. LADY. Worse and worse. MRS. MAR. Nay, this is nothing; if it would end here 'twere well. But it must after this be consigned by the shorthand writers to the public press; and from thence be transferred to the hands, nay, into the throats and lungs, of hawkers, with voices more licentious than the loud flounder-man's. And this you must hear till you are stunned; nay, you must hear nothing else for some days. LADY. Oh 'tis insupportable. No, no, dear friend, make it up, make it up; ay, ay, I'll compound. I'll give up all, myself and my all, my niece and her all, anything, everything, for composition. MRS. MAR. Nay, madam, I advise nothing, I only lay before you, as a friend, the inconveniences which perhaps you have overseen. Here comes Mr. Fainall; if he will be satisfied to huddle up all in silence, I shall be glad. You must think I would rather congratulate than condole with you.

SCENE VI. FAINALL, LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MARWOOD.

LADY. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, dear Marwood. No, no, I do not doubt it. FAIN. Well, madam, I have suffered myself to be overcome by the importunity of this lady, your friend, and am content you shall enjoy your own proper estate during life, on condition you oblige yourself never to marry, under such penalty as I think convenient. LADY. Never to marry? FAIN. No more Sir Rowlands,--the next imposture may not be so timely detected. MRS. MAR. That condition, I dare answer, my lady will consent to, without difficulty; she has already but too much experienced the perfidiousness of men. Besides, madam, when we retire to our

482 The Pilgrim’s Progress pastoral solitude, we shall bid adieu to all other thoughts. LADY. Ay, that's true; but in case of necessity, as of health, or some such emergency - FAIN. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, you shall be considered; I will only reserve to myself the power to choose for you. If your physic be wholesome, it matters not who is your apothecary. Next, my wife shall settle on me the remainder of her fortune, not made over already; and for her maintenance depend entirely on my discretion. LADY. This is most inhumanly savage: exceeding the barbarity of a Muscovite husband. FAIN. I learned it from his Czarish Majesty's retinue, in a winter evening's conference over brandy and pepper, amongst other secrets of matrimony and policy, as they are at present practised in the northern hemisphere. But this must be agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, I will be endowed, in right of my wife, with that six thousand pound, which is the moiety of Mrs. Millamant's fortune in your possession, and which she has forfeited (as will appear by the last will and testament of your deceased husband, Sir Jonathan Wishfort) by her disobedience in contracting herself against your consent or knowledge, and by refusing the offered match with Sir Wilfull Witwoud, which you, like a careful aunt, had provided for her. LADY. My nephew was NON COMPOS, and could not make his addresses. FAIN. I come to make demands--I'll hear no objections. LADY. You will grant me time to consider? FAIN. Yes, while the instrument is drawing, to which you must set your hand till more sufficient deeds can be perfected: which I will take care shall be done with all possible speed. In the meanwhile I will go for the said instrument, and till my return you may balance this matter in your own discretion.

SCENE VII. LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MARWOOD.

LADY. This insolence is beyond all precedent, all parallel. Must I be subject to this merciless villain? MRS. MAR. 'Tis severe indeed, madam, that you should smart for your daughter's wantonness. LADY. 'Twas against my consent that she married this barbarian, but she would have him, though her year was not out. Ah! her first husband, my son Languish, would not have carried it thus. Well, that was my choice, this is hers; she is matched now with a witness- -I shall be mad, dear friend; is there no comfort for me? Must I live to be confiscated at this rebel-rate? Here come two more of my Egyptian plagues too.

SCENE VIII. [To them] MRS. MILLAMANT, SIR WILFULL.

SIR WIL. Aunt, your servant. LADY. Out, caterpillar, call not me aunt; I know thee not.

483 The Pilgrim’s Progress SIR WIL. I confess I have been a little in disguise, as they say. 'Sheart! and I'm sorry for't. What would you have? I hope I committed no offence, aunt--and if I did I am willing to make satisfaction; and what can a man say fairer? If I have broke anything I'll pay for't, an it cost a pound. And so let that content for what's past, and make no more words. For what's to come, to pleasure you I'm willing to marry my cousin. So, pray, let's all be friends, she and I are agreed upon the matter before a witness. LADY. How's this, dear niece? Have I any comfort? Can this be true? MILLA. I am content to be a sacrifice to your repose, madam, and to convince you that I had no hand in the plot, as you were misinformed. I have laid my commands on Mirabell to come in person, and be a witness that I give my hand to this flower of knighthood; and for the contract that passed between Mirabell and me, I have obliged him to make a resignation of it in your ladyship's presence. He is without and waits your leave for admittance. LADY. Well, I'll swear I am something revived at this testimony of your obedience; but I cannot admit that traitor,--I fear I cannot fortify myself to support his appearance. He is as terrible to me as a Gorgon: if I see him I swear I shall turn to stone, petrify incessantly. MILLA. If you disoblige him he may resent your refusal, and insist upon the contract still. Then 'tis the last time he will be offensive to you. LADY. Are you sure it will be the last time? If I were sure of that--shall I never see him again? MILLA. Sir Wilfull, you and he are to travel together, are you not? SIR WIL. 'Sheart, the gentleman's a civil gentleman, aunt, let him come in; why, we are sworn brothers and fellow-travellers. We are to be Pylades and Orestes, he and I. He is to be my interpreter in foreign parts. He has been overseas once already; and with proviso that I marry my cousin, will cross 'em once again, only to bear me company. 'Sheart, I'll call him in,--an I set on't once, he shall come in; and see who'll hinder him. [Goes to the door and hems.] MRS. MAR. This is precious fooling, if it would pass; but I'll know the bottom of it. LADY. O dear Marwood, you are not going? MRS. MAR. Not far, madam; I'll return immediately.

SCENE IX. LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MILLAMANT, SIR WILFULL, MIRABELL.

SIR WIL. Look up, man, I'll stand by you; 'sbud, an she do frown, she can't kill you. Besides--harkee, she dare not frown desperately, because her face is none of her own. 'Sheart, an she should, her forehead would wrinkle like the coat of a cream cheese; but mum for that, fellow-traveller. MIRA. If a deep sense of the many injuries I have offered to so good a lady, with a sincere remorse and a hearty contrition, can but obtain the least glance of compassion. I am too happy. Ah, madam,

484 The Pilgrim’s Progress there was a time--but let it be forgotten. I confess I have deservedly forfeited the high place I once held, of sighing at your feet; nay, kill me not by turning from me in disdain, I come not to plead for favour. Nay, not for pardon: I am a suppliant only for pity:- I am going where I never shall behold you more. SIR WIL. How, fellow-traveller? You shall go by yourself then. MIRA. Let me be pitied first, and afterwards forgotten. I ask no more. SIR WIL. By'r lady, a very reasonable request, and will cost you nothing, aunt. Come, come, forgive and forget, aunt. Why you must an you are a Christian. MIRA. Consider, madam; in reality you could not receive much prejudice: it was an innocent device, though I confess it had a face of guiltiness--it was at most an artifice which love contrived- -and errors which love produces have ever been accounted venial. At least think it is punishment enough that I have lost what in my heart I hold most dear, that to your cruel indignation I have offered up this beauty, and with her my peace and quiet; nay, all my hopes of future comfort. SIR WIL. An he does not move me, would I may never be o' the quorum. An it were not as good a deed as to drink, to give her to him again, I would I might never take shipping. Aunt, if you don't forgive quickly, I shall melt, I can tell you that. My contract went no farther than a little mouth-glue, and that's hardly dry; one doleful sigh more from my fellow-traveller and 'tis dissolved. LADY. Well, nephew, upon your account. Ah, he has a false insinuating tongue. Well, sir, I will stifle my just resentment at my nephew's request. I will endeavour what I can to forget, but on proviso that you resign the contract with my niece immediately. MIRA. It is in writing and with papers of concern; but I have sent my servant for it, and will deliver it to you, with all acknowledgments for your transcendent goodness. LADY. Oh, he has witchcraft in his eyes and tongue; when I did not see him I could have bribed a villain to his assassination; but his appearance rakes the embers which have so long lain smothered in my breast. [Aside.]

SCENE X. [To them] FAINALL, MRS. MARWOOD.

FAIN. Your date of deliberation, madam, is expired. Here is the instrument; are you prepared to sign? LADY. If I were prepared, I am not impowered. My niece exerts a lawful claim, having matched herself by my direction to Sir Wilfull. FAIN. That sham is too gross to pass on me, though 'tis imposed on you, madam. MILLA. Sir, I have given my consent. MIRA. And, sir, I have resigned my pretensions. SIR WIL. And, sir, I assert my right; and will maintain it in defiance of you, sir, and of your instrument. 'Sheart, an you talk of an instrument sir, I have an old fox by my thigh shall hack your instrument of ram vellum to shreds, sir. It shall not be sufficient

485 The Pilgrim’s Progress for a Mittimus or a tailor's measure; therefore withdraw your instrument, sir, or, by'r lady, I shall draw mine. LADY. Hold, nephew, hold. MILLA. Good Sir Wilfull, respite your valour. FAIN. Indeed? Are you provided of your guard, with your single beef-eater there? But I'm prepared for you, and insist upon my first proposal. You shall submit your own estate to my management, and absolutely make over my wife's to my sole use, as pursuant to the purport and tenor of this other covenant. I suppose, madam, your consent is not requisite in this case; nor, Mr. Mirabell, your resignation; nor, Sir Wilfull, your right. You may draw your fox if you please, sir, and make a bear-garden flourish somewhere else; for here it will not avail. This, my Lady Wishfort, must be subscribed, or your darling daughter's turned adrift, like a leaky hulk to sink or swim, as she and the current of this lewd town can agree. LADY. Is there no means, no remedy, to stop my ruin? Ungrateful wretch! Dost thou not owe thy being, thy subsistance, to my daughter's fortune? FAIN. I'll answer you when I have the rest of it in my possession. MIRA. But that you would not accept of a remedy from my hands--I own I have not deserved you should owe any obligation to me; or else, perhaps, I could devise - LADY. Oh, what? what? To save me and my child from ruin, from want, I'll forgive all that's past; nay, I'll consent to anything to come, to be delivered from this tyranny. MIRA. Ay, madam; but that is too late, my reward is intercepted. You have disposed of her who only could have made me a compensation for all my services. But be it as it may, I am resolved I'll serve you; you shall not be wronged in this savage manner. LADY. How? Dear Mr. Mirabell, can you be so generous at last? But it is not possible. Harkee, I'll break my nephew's match; you shall have my niece yet, and all her fortune, if you can but save me from this imminent danger. MIRA. Will you? I take you at your word. I ask no more. I must have leave for two criminals to appear. LADY. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody. MIRA. Foible is one, and a penitent.

SCENE XI. [To them] MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE, MINCING.

MRS. MAR. O my shame! [MIRABELL and LADY go to MRS. FAINALL and FOIBLE.] These currupt things are brought hither to expose me. [To FAINALL.] FAIN. If it must all come out, why let 'em know it, 'tis but the way of the world. That shall not urge me to relinquish or abate one tittle of my terms; no, I will insist the more. FOIB. Yes, indeed, madam; I'll take my bible-oath of it. MINC. And so will I, mem. LADY. O Marwood, Marwood, art thou false? My friend deceive me? Hast thou been a wicked accomplice with that profligate man? MRS. MAR. Have you so much ingratitude and injustice to give

486 The Pilgrim’s Progress credit, against your friend, to the aspersions of two such mercenary trulls? MINC. Mercenary, mem? I scorn your words. 'Tis true we found you and Mr. Fainall in the blue garret; by the same token, you swore us to secrecy upon Messalinas's poems. Mercenary? No, if we would have been mercenary, we should have held our tongues; you would have bribed us sufficiently. FAIN. Go, you are an insignificant thing. Well, what are you the better for this? Is this Mr. Mirabell's expedient? I'll be put off no longer. You, thing, that was a wife, shall smart for this. I will not leave thee wherewithal to hide thy shame: your body shall be naked as your reputation. MRS. FAIN. I despise you and defy your malice. You have aspersed me wrongfully--I have proved your falsehood. Go, you and your treacherous--I will not name it, but starve together. Perish. FAIN. Not while you are worth a groat, indeed, my dear. Madam, I'll be fooled no longer. LADY. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small comfort, the detection of this affair. MIRA. Oh, in good time. Your leave for the other offender and penitent to appear, madam.

SCENE XII. [To them] WAITWELL with a box of writings.

LADY. O Sir Rowland! Well, rascal? WAIT. What your ladyship pleases. I have brought the black box at last, madam. MIRA. Give it me. Madam, you remember your promise. LADY. Ay, dear sir. MIRA. Where are the gentlemen? WAIT. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes,--just risen from sleep. FAIN. 'Sdeath, what's this to me? I'll not wait your private concerns.

SCENE XIII. [To them] PETULANT, WITWOUD.

PET. How now? What's the matter? Whose hand's out? WIT. Hey day! What, are you all got together, like players at the end of the last act? MIRA. You may remember, gentlemen, I once requested your hands as witnesses to a certain parchment. WIT. Ay, I do, my hand I remember--Petulant set his mark. MIRA. You wrong him; his name is fairly written, as shall appear. You do not remember, gentlemen, anything of what that parchment contained? [Undoing the box.] WIT. No. PET. Not I. I writ; I read nothing. MIRA. Very well, now you shall know. Madam, your promise. LADY. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honour. MIRA. Mr. Fainall, it is now time that you should know that your

487 The Pilgrim’s Progress lady, while she was at her own disposal, and before you had by your insinuations wheedled her out of a pretended settlement of the greatest part of her fortune - FAIN. Sir! Pretended? MIRA. Yes, sir. I say that this lady, while a widow, having, it seems, received some cautions respecting your inconstancy and tyranny of temper, which from her own partial opinion and fondness of you she could never have suspected--she did, I say, by the wholesome advice of friends and of sages learned in the laws of this land, deliver this same as her act and deed to me in trust, and to the uses within mentioned. You may read if you please [holding out the parchment], though perhaps what is written on the back may serve your occasions. FAIN. Very likely, sir. What's here? Damnation! [Reads] A DEED OF CONVEYANCE OF THE WHOLE ESTATE REAL OF ARABELLA LANGUISH, WIDOW, IN TRUST TO EDWARD MIRABELL. Confusion! MIRA. Even so, sir: 'tis the way of the world, sir; of the widows of the world. I suppose this deed may bear an elder date than what you have obtained from your lady. FAIN. Perfidious fiend! Then thus I'll be revenged. [Offers to run at MRS. FAINALL.] SIR WIL. Hold, sir; now you may make your bear-garden flourish somewhere else, sir. FAIN. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir; be sure you shall. Let me pass, oaf. MRS. FAIN. Madam, you seem to stifle your resentment. You had better give it vent. MRS. MAR. Yes, it shall have vent, and to your confusion, or I'll perish in the attempt.

SCENE the Last. LADY WISHFORT, MRS. MILLAMANT, MIRABELL, MRS. FAINALL, SIR WILFULL, PETULANT, WITWOUD, FOIBLE, MINCING, WAITWELL.

LADY. O daughter, daughter, 'tis plain thou hast inherited thy mother's prudence. MRS. FAIN. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cautious friend, to whose advice all is owing. LADY. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have kept your promise, and I must perform mine. First, I pardon for your sake Sir Rowland there and Foible. The next thing is to break the matter to my nephew, and how to do that - MIRA. For that, madam, give yourself no trouble; let me have your consent. Sir Wilfull is my friend: he has had compassion upon lovers, and generously engaged a volunteer in this action, for our service, and now designs to prosecute his travels. SIR WIL. 'Sheart, aunt, I have no mind to marry. My cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves her and she loves him, and they deserve one another; my resolution is to see foreign parts. I have set on't, and when I'm set on't I must do't. And if these two gentlemen would travel too, I think they may be spared.

488 The Pilgrim’s Progress PET. For my part, I say little. I think things are best off or on. WIT. I'gad, I understand nothing of the matter: I'm in a maze yet, like a dog in a dancing school. LADY. Well, sir, take her, and with her all the joy I can give you. MILLA. Why does not the man take me? Would you have me give myself to you over again? MIRA. Ay, and over and over again. [Kisses her hand.] I would have you as often as possibly I can. Well, heav'n grant I love you not too well; that's all my fear. SIR WIL. 'Sheart, you'll have time enough to toy after you're married, or, if you will toy now, let us have a dance in the meantime; that we who are not lovers may have some other employment besides looking on. MIRA. With all my heart, dear Sir Wilfull. What shall we do for music? FOIB. Oh, sir, some that were provided for Sir Rowland's entertainment are yet within call. [A dance.] LADY. As I am a person, I can hold out no longer: I have wasted my spirits so to-day already that I am ready to sink under the fatigue; and I cannot but have some fears upon me yet, that my son Fainall will pursue some desperate course. MIRA. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that account: to my knowledge his circumstances are such he must of force comply. For my part I will contribute all that in me lies to a reunion. In the meantime, madam [to MRS. FAINALL], let me before these witnesses restore to you this deed of trust: it may be a means, well managed, to make you live easily together.

From hence let those be warned, who mean to wed, Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal-bed: For each deceiver to his cost may find That marriage frauds too oft are paid in kind.

[Exeunt Omnes.]

EPILOGUE--Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.

After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, I'm thinking how this play'll be pulled to pieces. But pray consider, e'er you doom its fall, How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all. There are some critics so with spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal skill Who pleases anyone against his will. Then, all bad poets we are sure are foes, And how their number's swelled the town well knows In shoals, I've marked 'em judging in the pit; Though they're on no pretence for judgment fit, But that they have been damned for want of wit. Since when, they, by their own offences taught, Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault.

489 The Pilgrim’s Progress Others there are whose malice we'd prevent: Such, who watch plays, with scurrilous intent To mark out who by characters are meant: And though no perfect likeness they can trace, Yet each pretends to know the copied face. These, with false glosses, feed their own ill-nature, And turn to libel what was meant a satire. May such malicious fops this fortune find, To think themselves alone the fools designed: If any are so arrogantly vain, To think they singly can support a scene, And furnish fool enough to entertain. For well the learned and the judicious know, That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low, As any one abstracted fop to show. For, as when painters form a matchless face, They from each fair one catch some diff'rent grace, And shining features in one portrait blend, To which no single beauty must pretend: So poets oft do in one piece expose Whole BELLES ASSEMBLEES of coquettes and beaux.

-the diarists and biographers (Evelyn Diary September - ) JOHN EVELYN (1620-1706)

The Diary of John Evelyn September 2 This fatal night about ten, began that deplorable fire, neere Fish-streete in London. I had pub: prayers at home: after dinner the fire continuing, with my Wife & Sonn took Coach & went to the bank side in Southwark, where we beheld that dismal speectaccle, the whole Citty in dreadfull flames neere the Water side, & had now consumed all the houses from the bridge all Thames Streete & up-wards towards Cheape side, downe to the three Cranes, & so returned exceedingly astonishd, what would become of the rest: The Fire having continud all this night (if I may call that night, which was as light as day for 10 miles round about after a dreadfull manner) when consping with a fierce Eastern Wind, in a very drie season, I went on foote to the same place, when I saw the whole South part of the Citty burning from Cheape side to the Thames, & all along Cornehill (for it likewise kindled back against the Wind, as well forward) Tower-Streete, Fen-church-streete, Gracious Streete, & so along to Bainard Castle, and was now taking hold of St. Paules-Church, to which the Scaffalds contributed exceedingly The Conflagration was so universal, & the people so astonish’d, that from the beginning (I know not by what desponding or fate), they hardly stirr’d to quench it, so as there was nothing heard or seene but crying out & lamentation, & running about like distracted creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods; such a strange consternation there was upon them, so as it burned both in breadth & length, The Churches, Publique Halls, Exchange, Hospitals, Monuments, & ornaments, leaping after a prodigious manner from house to house & streete to streete, at greate distance one from the other, for the heate (with a long set of faire & warme weather) had even ignited the aire, & prepared the materials to conceive the fire, which devoured after a incredible manner, houses, furniture, & everything: 490 The Pilgrim’s Progress Here we saw the Thames coverd with goods floating, all the barges & boates laden with what some had time & courage to save, as on the other, the Carts &c carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were strewed with moveables of all sorts, & Tents erecting to shelter both people & what goods they could get away: o the miserable & calamitous speectacle, such as happly the whole world had not seene the like since the foundation of it, nor to be out don, ’til the universal Conflagration of it, all the skie were of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning Oven, & the light seene above 40 miles round about for many nights: God grant mine eyes may never behold the like, who now saw above ten thousand houses all in one flame, the noise & crakling & thunder of the impetuous flames, the shreeking of Women & children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses & churches was like an hideous storme, & the aire all about so hot & inflam’d that at the last one was not able to approch it, so as they were force’d stand still, and let the flames consume on which they did for neere two whole mile in length and one in bredth: The Clowds also of Smoke were dismall, & reached upon computation neere 50 miles in length: Thus I left it this afternoone burning, a resemblance of Sodome, or the last day: It call’d to mind that of 4 Heb: non enim hic habemus stabilem Civitatem: the ruines resembling the picture of Troy: London was, but is no more: Thus I return’d: The burning still rages; I went now on horse back, & it was now gotten as far as the Inner Temple, all Fleetestreete, old baily, Ludgate Hill, Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paules Chaine, Wattling-streete now flaming & most of it reduc’d to ashes, the stones of Paules flew like granados, the Lead mealting down the streetes in a streame, & the very pavements of them glowing with a fiery rednesse, so as nor horse nor man was able to tread on them, & the demolitions had stopped all the passages, so as no help could be applied; the Easter Wind still more impetuously driving the flames forewards: Nothing but the almighty power of God was able to stop them, for vaine was the help of man: on the fift it crossed towards White-hall, but o the Confusion was then at that Court: It pleased his Majestie to command me among the rest to looke after the quenching of fetter-lane end, to preserve (if possible) that part of Holborn, whilst the rest of the Gent: tooke their several posts, some at one part, some at another, for now they began to bestirr themselves, & not ’til now, who ’til now had stood as men interdict, with their hands a crosse, & began to consider that nothing was like to put a stop, but the blowing up of so many houses, as might make a gap, than any had yet ben made by the ordinary method of pulling them downe with Engines: This some stout Seamen proposd early enought to have saved the whole Citty: but some tenacious & avaritious Men, Aldermen &c. would not permitt, because their houses must have ben the first: It was therefore now commanded to be practised, & my conerne being particularly for the Hospital of st. Bartholomeus neere Smithfield, where I had many wounded & sick men, made me the more diligent to promote it; nor was my care for the Savoy lesse: So as it pleased Almighty God by abating of the Wind, & the industrie of people, now when all was lost, infusing a new Spirit into them (& such as had if exerted in time undoubtedly preserved the whole) that the furie of it began sensibly to abate, about noone, so as it came no farther than the Temple West-ward, nor than the enterance of Smithfield North; but continued all this day & night so impetuous toward Cripple-Gate, & The Tower, as made us even all despaire; It also brake out againe in the Temple: but the courage of the multitude persisting, & innumerable houses blown up with Gunpowder, such gaps & desolations were soone made, as also by the former three days consumption, as the back fire did not so vehemently urge upon the rest, as formerly: There was yet no standing neere the burning & glowing ruines neere a furlongs Space; The Coale & Wood wharfes & magazines of Oyle, rozine, [chandler] &c: did infinite mischiefe; so as the invective I but a little before dedicated to his Majestie & publish’d, giving warning what might probably be the issue of suffering those shops to be in the Citty, was lookd on as prophetic: but there I left this smoking & sultry heape, which mounted up in dismall clowds night & day, the poore Inhabitans dispersd all about St. Georges, Moore filds, as far as higate, & severall miles in Circle, Some under tents, others under miserabe Hutts and Hovells, without

491 The Pilgrim’s Progress a rag, or any necessary utinsils, bed or board, who from delicatnesse, riches & easy accommodations in stately & well furnishd houses, were now reduc’d to extreamest misery & poverty: In this Calamitous Condition I returnd with a sad heart to my house, blessing & adoring the distinguishing mercy of God, to me & mine, who in the midst of all this ruine, was like Lot, in my little Zoar, safe and sound: Thursday, I represented to his Majestie the Case, of the French Prisoners at War in my Custodie, & besought him, there might be still the same care of Watching at all places contiguous to unseized houses: It is not indeede imaginable how extraordinary the vigilanc & activity of the King & Duke was, even labouring in person, & being present, to command, order, reward, and enourage Workemen; by which he shewed his affection to his people, & gained theirs: Having then disposed of some under Cure, at the Savoy, I return’d to white hall, where I dined at Mr. Offleys, Groome-porter, who was my relation, together with the Knight Martial, where I also lay that night. I went this morning on foote from White hall as far as London bridge, thro the Late fleete streete, Ludgate hill, by St. Paules, Cheape side, Exchange, Bishopsgate, Aldersgate, & out to Morefields, thence thro Cornehill, &c: with extraordinary difficulty, clambring over mountaines of yet smoking rubbish, & frequently mistaking where I was, the ground under my feete so hott, as made me not onely Sweate, but even burnt the soles of my shoes, & put me all over in Sweate: In the meane time his Majestie got to the Tower by Water, to demolish the houses about the Graft3, which being built intirely about it, had they taken fire, & attaq’d the white Towre, where the Magazines of Powder lay, would undobtedly have not onely beaten downe & destroyed all the bridge, but sunke & torne all the vessells in the river, & rendred the demolition beyond all expression for severall miles even about the Country at many miles distance: At my returne I was infinitly concern’d to find that goodly Churh St. Paules now a sad ruine, & that beautifull Portico (for structure comparable to any in Europ, as not long before repaird by the late King) now rent in pieces, flakes of vast Stone Split in sunder, & nothing remaining intire but the Inscription in the Architrave which shewing by whom it was built, had not one letter of it defac’d: which I could not but take notice of: It was astonishing to see what imense stones the heate had in a manner Calcin’d, so as all the ornaments, Columns, freezes, Capitels & projetures of massie Portland stone flew off, even to the very roofe, where a Sheete of Leade covering no lesse than 6 akers by measure, being totaly mealted, the ruines of the Vaulted roofe, falling brake into St. Faithes, which being filled with the magazines of bookes, belonging to the Stationer, & carried thither for safty, they were all consumed burning for a weeke following: It is also observable, that the lead over the Altar at the East end was untouch’d; and among the divers monuments, the body of one Bishop, remained intire. Thus lay in ashes that most venerabe Church, one of the Pieces of early Piety in the Christian world, beside neere 100 more; The lead, yronworke, bells, plate &c mealted; the exquisitely wrought Mercers Chapell, the Sumptuous Exchange, the august fabricque of Christ church, all the rest of the Companies Halls, sumptuous buildings, Arches, Enteries, all in dust. The fountaines dried up & ruind, whilst the very waters remained boiling; the Voragos of subterranean Cellars Wells & Dungeons, formerly Warehouses, still burning in stench & dark clowds of smoke like hell, so as in five or six miles traversing about, I did not see one load of timber unconsum’d, nor many stones but what were calcind white as snow, so as the people who now walked about the ruines, appeard like men in some dismal desart, or rather in some greate Citty, lay’d wast by an impetuous & cruel Enemy, to which was added the stench that came from some poore Creaturs bodys, beds & other combustible goods: Sir Tho: Gresshams Statue, though falln to the ground from its nich in the R: Exchange remain’d intire, when all those of the Kings since the Conquest were broken to pieces: also the Standard in Cornehill, & Q: Elizabeths Effigies, with some armes on Ludgate continud with but little detriment, whilst the vast yron Chaines of the Cittie streetes, vast hinges, barrs & gates of Prisons were many of them mealted, & reduc’d to cinders by the vehement heats: nor was I yet able to pass through any of the narrower streetes, but kept the widest, the ground & aire,

492 The Pilgrim’s Progress smoake & fiery vapour, continud so intense, my hair being almost seinged, & my feete unsufferably surbated: The bielanes & narrower streetes were quite fill’d up with rubbish, nor could one have possibly knowne where he was, but by the ruines of some church, or hall, that had some remarkable towre or pinacle remaining: I then went towards Islington, & high-gate, where one might have seene two hundred thousand people of all ranks & degrees, dispersed, & laying along by their heapes of what they could save from the Incendium, deploring their losse, & though ready to perish for hunger & destitution, yet not asking one penny for reliefe, which to me appeard a stranger sight, than any I had yet beheld: His Majestie & Council indeeade tooke all imaginable care for their reliefe, by Proclamation, for the Country to come in & refresh them with provisions: when in the middst of all this Calamity & confusion, there was (I know not how) an Alarme begun, that the French & Dutch (with whom we were now in hostility) were not onely landed, but even entring the Citty; there being in truth, greate suspicion some days before, of those two nations joyning, & even now, that they had ben the occasion of firing the Towne: This report did so terrifie, that on a suddaine there was such an uprore & tumult, that they ran from their goods, & taking what weapons they could come at, they could not be stop’d from falling on some of those nations whom they casualy met, without sense or reason, the clamor & perill growing so excessive, as made the whole Court amaz’d at it, & they did with infinite paines, & greate difficulty reduce & apease the people, sending Guards & troopes of souldiers, to cause them to retire into the fields againe, where they were watched all this night when I left them pretty quiet, & came home to my house, sufficiently weary & broken: Their spirits thus a little sedated, & the affright abated, they now began to repaire into the suburbs about the Citty, where such as had friends or opportunite got shelter & harbour for the Present; to which his Majesties Proclamation also invited them. Still the Plage, continuing in our parish, I could not without danger adventure to our Church. I went againe to the ruines, for it was now no longer a Citty:

- Pepys Diary September SAMUEL PEPYS. (1633-1703)

The Diary August & September, 1666

2nd (Lord's day). Some of our mayds sitting up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane called us up about three in the morning, to tell us of a great fire they saw in the City. So I rose and slipped on my nightgowne, and went to her window, and thought it to be on the backside of Marke-lane at the farthest; but, being unused to such fires as followed, I thought it far enough off; and so went to bed again and to sleep. About seven rose again to dress myself, and there looked out at the window, and saw the fire not so much as it was and further off. So to my closett to set things to rights after yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane comes and tells me that she hears that above 300 houses have been burned down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down all Fish-street, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower, and there got up upon one of the high places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going up with me; and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side the end of the bridge; which, among other people, did trouble me for poor little Michell and our Sarah on the bridge. So down, with my heart full of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, who tells me that it begun this morning in the King's baker's' house in Pudding-lane, and that it hath burned St. Magnus's Church and most part of Fish-street already. So I down to the water-side, and there got a boat and through bridge, and there saw a lamentable fire. Poor Michell's house, as far as the Old Swan, already 493 The Pilgrim’s Progress burned that way, and the fire running further, that in a very little time it got as far as the Steeleyard, while I was there. Everybody endeavouring to remove their goods, and flinging into the river or bringing them into lighters that layoff; poor people staying in their houses as long as till the very fire touched them, and then running into boats, or clambering from one pair of stairs by the water-side to another. And among other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconys till they were, some of them burned, their wings, and fell down. Having staid, and in an hour's time seen the fire: rage every way, and nobody, to my sight, endeavouring to quench it, but to remove their goods, and leave all to the fire, and having seen it get as far as the Steele-yard, and the wind mighty high and driving it into the City; and every thing, after so long a drought, proving combustible, even the very stones of churches, and among other things the poor steeple by which pretty Mrs.------lives, and whereof my old school-fellow Elborough is parson, taken fire in the very top, an there burned till it fell down: I to White Hall (with a gentleman with me who desired to go off from the Tower, to see the fire, in my boat); to White Hall, and there up to the Kings closett in the Chappell, where people come about me, and did give them an account dismayed them all, and word was carried in to the King. So I was called for, and did tell the King and Duke of Yorke what I saw, and that unless his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down nothing could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor--[Sir Thomas Bludworth. See June 30th, 1666.]-- from him, and command him to spare no houses, but to pull down before the fire every way. The Duke of York bid me tell him that if he would have any more soldiers he shall; and so did my Lord Arlington afterwards, as a great secret. [Sir William Coventry wrote to Lord Arlington on the evening of this day, "The Duke of York fears the want of workmen and tools to-morrow morning, and wishes the deputy lieutenants and justices of peace to summon the workmen with tools to be there by break of day. In some churches and chapels are great hooks for pulling down houses, which should be brought ready upon the place to-night against the morning" ("Calendar of State Papers," 1666-66, p. 95).] Here meeting, with Captain Cocke, I in his coach, which he lent me, and Creed with me to Paul's, and there walked along Watlingstreet, as well as I could, every creature coming away loaden with goods to save, and here and there sicke people carried away in beds. Extraordinary good goods carried in carts and on backs. At last met my Lord Mayor in Canningstreet, like a man spent, with a handkercher about his neck. To the King's message he cried, like a fainting woman, "Lord! what can I do? I am spent: people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses; but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it." That he needed no more soldiers; and that, for himself, he must go and refresh himself, having been up all night. So he left me, and I him, and walked home, seeing people all almost distracted, and no manner of means used to quench the fire. The houses, too, so very thick thereabouts, and full of matter for burning, as pitch and tarr, in Thames-street; and warehouses of oyle, and wines, and brandy, and other things. Here I saw Mr. Isaake Houblon, the handsome man, prettily dressed and dirty, at his door at Dowgate, receiving some of his brothers' things, whose houses were on fire; and, as he says, have been removed twice already; and he doubts (as it soon proved) that they must be in a little time removed from his house also, which was a sad consideration. And to see the churches all filling with goods by people who themselves should have been quietly there at this time. By this time it was about twelve o'clock; and so home, and there find my guests, which was Mr. Wood and his wife Barbary Sheldon, and also Mr. Moons: she mighty fine, and her husband; for aught I see, a likely man. But Mr. Moone's design and mine, which was to look over my closett and please him with the sight thereof, which he hath long desired, was wholly disappointed; for we were in great trouble and disturbance at this fire, not knowing what to think of it. However, we had an extraordinary good dinner, and as merry, as at this time we could be. While at dinner Mrs. Batelier come to enquire after Mr. Woolfe and Stanes (who, it seems, are related to them), whose houses in Fish-street are all burned; and they in a sad condition. She would not stay in the fright. Soon as dined, I and Moone away, and walked, through the City, the streets full of

494 The Pilgrim’s Progress nothing but people and horses and carts loaden with goods, ready to run over one another, and, removing goods from one burned house to another. They now removing out of Canning-streets (which received goods in the morning) into Lumbard-streets, and further; and among others I now saw my little goldsmith, Stokes, receiving some friend's goods, whose house itself was burned the day after. We parted at Paul's; he home, and I to Paul's Wharf, where I had appointed a boat to attend me, and took in Mr. Carcasse and his brother, whom I met in the streets and carried them below and above bridge to and again to see the fire, which was now got further, both below and above and no likelihood of stopping it. Met with the King and Duke of York in their barge, and with them to Queenhith and there called Sir Richard Browne to them. Their order was only to pull down houses apace, and so below bridge the water-side; but little was or could be done, the fire coming upon them so fast. Good hopes there was of stopping it at the Three Cranes above, and at Buttolph's Wharf below bridge, if care be used; but the wind carries it into the City so as we know not by the water-side what it do there. River full of lighters and boats taking in goods, and good goods swimming in the water, and only I observed that hardly one lighter or boat in three that had the goods of a house in, but there was a pair of Virginalls [The virginal differed from the spinet in being square instead of triangular in form. The word pair was used in the obsolete sense of a set, as we read also of a pair of organs. The instrument is supposed to have obtained its name from young women, playing upon it.] in it. Having seen as much as I could now, I away to White Hall by appointment, and there walked to St. James's Parks, and there met my wife and Creed and Wood and his wife, and walked to my boat; and there upon the water again, and to the fire up and down, it still encreasing, and the wind great. So near the fire as we could for smoke; and all over the Thames, with one's face in the wind, you were almost burned with a shower of firedrops. This is very true; so as houses were burned by these drops and flakes of fire, three or four, nay, five or six houses, one from another. When we could endure no more upon the water; we to a little ale-house on the Bankside, over against the 'Three Cranes, and there staid till it was dark almost, and saw the fire grow; and, as it grew darker, appeared more and more, and in corners and upon steeples, and between churches and houses, as far as we could see up the hill of the City, in a most horrid malicious bloody flame, not like the fine flame of an ordinary fire. Barbary and her husband away before us. We staid till, it being darkish, we saw the fire as only one entire arch of fire from this to the other side the bridge, and in a bow up the hill for an arch of above a mile long: it made me weep to see it. The churches, houses, and all on fire and flaming at once; and a horrid noise the flames made, and the cracking of houses at their ruins. So home with a sad heart, and there find every body discoursing and lamenting the fire; and poor Tom Hater come with some few of his goods saved out of his house, which is burned upon Fish-streets Hall. I invited him to lie at my house, and did receive his goods, but was deceived in his lying there, the newes coming every moment of the growth of the fire; so as we were forced to begin to pack up our owne goods; and prepare for their removal; and did by moonshine (it being brave dry, and moon: shine, and warm weather) carry much of my goods into the garden, and Mr. Hater and I did remove my money and iron chests into my cellar, as thinking that the safest place. And got my bags of gold into my office, ready to carry away, and my chief papers of accounts also there, and my tallys into a box by themselves. So great was our fear, as Sir W. Batten hath carts come out of the country to fetch away his goods this night. We did put Mr. Hater, poor man, to bed a little; but he got but very little rest, so much noise being in my house, taking down of goods. 3rd. About four o'clock in the morning, my Lady Batten sent me a cart to carry away all my money, and plate, and best things, to Sir W. Rider's at Bednall-greene. Which I did riding myself in my night-gowne in the cart; and, Lord! to see how the streets and the highways are crowded with people running and riding, and getting of carts at any rate to fetch away things. I find Sir W. Rider tired with being called up all night, and receiving things from several friends. His house full of goods, and much of Sir W. Batten's and Sir W. Pen's I am eased at my heart to have my treasure so well secured. Then home, with much ado to find a way, nor any sleep all this night to me nor my poor wife. But then and all this day she and I, and all my people

495 The Pilgrim’s Progress labouring to get away the rest of our things, and did get Mr. Tooker to get me a lighter to take them in, and we did carry them (myself some) over Tower Hill, which was by this time full of people's goods, bringing their goods thither; and down to the lighter, which lay at next quay, above the Tower Docke. And here was my neighbour's wife, Mrs. ------,with her pretty child, and some few of her things, which I did willingly give way to be saved with mine; but there was no passing with any thing through the postern, the crowd was so great. The Duke of Yorke of this day by the office, and spoke to us, and did ride with his guard up and down the City, to keep all quiet (he being now Generall, and having the care of all). This day, Mercer being not at home, but against her mistress's order gone to her mother's, and my wife going thither to speak with W. Hewer, met her there, and was angry; and her mother saying that she was not a 'prentice girl, to ask leave every time she goes abroad, my wife with good reason was angry, and, when she came home, bid her be gone again. And so she went away, which troubled me, but yet less than it would, because of the condition we are in, fear of coming into in a little time of being less able to keepe one in her quality. At night lay down a little upon a quilt of W. Hewer's in the office, all my owne things being packed up or gone; and after me my poor wife did the like, we having fed upon the remains of yesterday's dinner, having no fire nor dishes, nor any opportunity of dressing any thing. 4th. Up by break of day to get away the remainder of my things; which I did by a lighter at the Iron gate and my hands so few, that it was the afternoon before we could get them all away. Sir W. Pen and I to Tower- streete, and there met the fire burning three or four doors beyond Mr. Howell's, whose goods, poor man, his trayes, and dishes, shovells, &c., were flung all along Tower-street in the kennels, and people working therewith from one end to the other; the fire coming on in that narrow streete, on both sides, with infinite fury. Sir W. Batten not knowing how to remove his wine, did dig a pit in the garden, and laid it in there; and I took the opportunity of laying all the papers of my office that I could not otherwise dispose of. And in the evening Sir W. Pen and I did dig another, and put our wine in it; and I my Parmazan cheese, as well as my wine and some other things. The Duke of Yorke was at the office this day, at Sir W. Pen's; but I happened not to be within. This afternoon, sitting melancholy with Sir W. Pen in our garden, and thinking of the certain burning of this office, without extraordinary means, I did propose for the sending up of all our workmen from Woolwich and Deptford yards (none whereof yet appeared), and to write to Sir W. Coventry to have the Duke of Yorke's permission to pull down houses, rather than lose this office, which would, much hinder, the King's business. So Sir W. Pen he went down this night, in order to the sending them up to-morrow morning; and I wrote to Sir W. Coventry about the business, but received no answer. This night Mrs. Turner (who, poor woman, was removing her goods all this day, good goods into the garden, and knows not how to dispose of them), and her husband supped with my wife and I at night, in the office; upon a shoulder of mutton from the cook's, without any napkin or any thing, in a sad manner, but were merry. Only now and then walking into the garden, and saw how horridly the sky looks, all on a fire in the night, was enough to put us out of our wits; and, indeed, it was extremely dreadful, for it looks just as if it was at us; and the whole heaven on fire. I after supper walked in the darke down to Tower- streete, and there saw it all on fire, at the Trinity House on that side, and the Dolphin Taverne on this side, which was very near us; and the fire with extraordinary vehemence. Now begins the practice of blowing up of houses in Tower-streete, those next the Tower, which at first did frighten people more than anything, but it stopped the fire where it was done, it bringing down the houses to the ground in the same places they stood, and then it was easy to quench what little fire was in it, though it kindled nothing almost. W. Newer this day went to see how his mother did, and comes late home, telling us how he hath been forced to remove her to Islington, her house in Pye-corner being burned; so that the fire is got so far that way, and all the Old Bayly, and was running down to Fleete-streete; and Paul's is burned, and all Cheapside. I wrote to my father this night, but the post-house being burned, the letter could not go. [J. Hickes wrote to Williamson on September 3rd from the "Golden Lyon," Red Cross Street Posthouse. Sir Philip [Frowde] and his lady fled from the [letter] office at midnight for safety;

496 The Pilgrim’s Progress stayed himself till 1 am. till his wife and childrens' patience could stay, no longer, fearing lest they should be quite stopped up; the passage was so tedious they had much ado to get where they are. The Chester and Irish, mails have come-in; sends him his letters, knows not how to dispose of the business ("Calendar of State Papers," 1666-67, p. 95).] 5th. I lay down in the office again upon W. Hewer's, quilt, being mighty weary, and sore in my feet with going till I was hardly able to stand. About two in the morning my wife calls me up and tells me of new cryes of fire, it being come to Barkeing Church, which is the bottom of our lane. I up, and finding it so, resolved presently to take her away, and did, and took my gold, which was about L2350, W. Newer, and Jane, down by Proundy's boat to Woolwich; but, Lord! what sad sight it was by moone- light to see, the whole City almost on fire, that you might see it plain at Woolwich, as if you were by it. There, when I come, I find the gates shut, but no guard kept at all, which troubled me, because of discourse now begun, that there is plot in it, and that the French had done it. I got the gates open, and to Mr. Shelden's, where I locked up my gold, and charged, my wife and W. Newer never to leave the room without one of them in it, night, or day. So back again, by the way seeing my goods well in the lighters at Deptford, and watched well by people. Home; and whereas I expected to have seen our house on fire, it being now about seven o'clock, it was not. But to the fyre, and there find greater hopes than I expected; for my confidence of finding our Office on fire was such, that I durst not ask any body how it was with us, till I come and saw it not burned. But going to the fire, I find by the blowing up of houses, and the great helpe given by the workmen out of the King's yards, sent up by Sir W. Pen, there is a good stop given to it, as well as at Marke-lane end as ours; it having only burned the dyall of Barking Church, and part of the porch, and was there quenched. I up to the top of Barking steeple, and there saw the saddest sight of desolation that I ever saw; every where great fires, oyle-cellars, and brimstone, and other things burning. I became afeard to stay there long, and therefore down again as fast as I could, the fire being spread as far as I could see it; and to Sir W. Pen's, and there eat a piece of cold meat, having eaten nothing since Sunday, but the remains of Sunday's dinner. Here I met with Mr. Young and Whistler; and having removed all my things, and received good hopes that the fire at our end; is stopped, they and I walked into the town, and find Fanchurch-streete, Gracious-streete; and Lumbard-streete all in dust. The Exchange a sad sight, nothing standing there, of all the statues or pillars, but Sir Thomas Gresham's picture in the corner. Walked into Moorefields (our feet ready to burn, walking through the towne among the hot coles), and find that full of people, and poor wretches carrying their good there, and every body keeping his goods together by themselves (and a great blessing it is to them that it is fair weathe for them to keep abroad night and day); drank there, and paid two-pence for a plain penny loaf. Thence homeward, having passed through Cheapside and Newgate Market, all burned, and seen Anthony Joyce's House in fire. And took up (which I keep by me) a piece of glasse of Mercers' Chappell in the streete, where much more was, so melted and buckled with the heat of the fire like parchment. I also did see a poor cat taken out of a hole in the chimney, joyning to the wall of the Exchange; with, the hair all burned off the body, and yet alive. So home at night, and find there good hopes of saving our office; but great endeavours of watching all night, and having men ready; and so we lodged them in the office, and had drink and bread and cheese for them. And I lay down and slept a good night about midnight, though when I rose I heard that there had been a great alarme of French and Dutch being risen, which proved, nothing. But it is a strange thing to see how lon g this time did look since Sunday, having been always full of variety of actions, and little sleep, that it looked like a week or more, and I had forgot, almost the day of the week. 6th. Up about five o'clock, and where met Mr. Gawden at the gate of the office (I intending to go out, as I used, every now and then to-day, to see how the fire is) to call our men to Bishop's- gate, where no fire had yet been near, and there is now one broke out which did give great grounds to people, and to me too, to think that there is some kind of plot [The terrible disaster which overtook London was borne by the inhabitants of the city with great fortitude, but foreigners and Roman Catholics had a bad dime. As no cause for the outbreak of the fire could

497 The Pilgrim’s Progress be traced, a general cry was raised that it owed its origin to a plot. In a letter from Thomas Waade to Williamson (dated "Whitby, Sept. 14th") we read, "The destruction of London by fire is reported to be a hellish contrivance of the French, Hollanders, and fanatic party" ("Calendar of State Papers," 1666-67, p. 124).] in this (on which many by this time have been taken, and, it hath been dangerous for any stranger to walk in the streets), but I went with the men, and we did put it out in a little time; so that that was well again. It was pretty to see how hard the women did work in the cannells, sweeping of water; but then they would scold for drink, and be as drunk as devils. I saw good butts of sugar broke open in the street, and people go and take handsfull out, and put into beer, and drink it. And now all being pretty well, I took boat, and over to Southwarke, and took boat on the other side the bridge, and so to Westminster, thinking to shift myself, being all in dirt from top to bottom; but could not there find any place to buy a shirt or pair of gloves, Westminster Hall being full of people's goods, those in Westminster having removed all their goods, and the Exchequer money put into vessels to carry to Nonsuch; but to the Swan, and there was trimmed; and then to White Hall, but saw nobody; and so home. A sad sight to see how the River looks: no houses nor church near it, to the Temple, where it stopped. At home, did go with Sir W. Batten, and our neighbour, Knightly (who, with one more, was the only man of any fashion left in all the neighbourhood thereabouts, they all removing their goods and leaving their houses to the mercy of the fire), to Sir R. Ford's, and there dined in an earthen platter-- a fried breast of mutton; a great many of us, but very merry, and indeed as good a meal, though as ugly a one, as ever I had in my life. Thence down to Deptford, and there with great satisfaction landed all my goods at Sir G. Carteret's safe, and nothing missed I could see, or hurt. This being done to my great content, I home, and to Sir W. Batten's, and there with Sir R. Ford, Mr. Knightly, and one Withers, a professed lying rogue, supped well, and mighty merry, and our fears over. From them to the office, and there slept with the office full of labourers, who talked, and slept, and walked all night long there. But strange it was to see Cloathworkers' Hall on fire these three days and nights in one body of flame, it being the cellar full of oyle. 7th. Up by five o'clock; and, blessed be God! find all well, and by water to Paul's Wharfe. Walked thence, and saw, all the towne burned, and a miserable sight of Paul's church; with all the roofs fallen, and the body of the quire fallen into St. Fayth's; Paul's school also, Ludgate, and Fleet-street, my father's house, and the church, and a good part of the Temple the like. So to Creed's lodging, near the New Exchange, and there find him laid down upon a bed; the house all unfurnished, there being fears of the fire's coming to them. There borrowed a shirt of him, and washed. To Sir W. Coventry, at St. James's, who lay without curtains, having removed all his goods; as the King at White Hall, and every body had done, and was doing. He hopes we shall have no publique distractions upon this fire, which is what every body fears, because of the talke of the French having a hand in it. And it is a proper time for discontents; but all men's minds are full of care to protect themselves, and save their goods: the militia is in armes every where. Our fleetes, he tells me, have been in sight one of another, and most unhappily by fowle weather were parted, to our great losse, as in reason they do conclude; the Dutch being come out only to make a shew, and please their people; but in very bad condition as to stores; victuals, and men. They are at Bullen; and our fleete come to St. Ellen's. We have got nothing, but have lost one ship, but he knows not what. Thence to the Swan, and there drank: and so home, and find all well. My Lord Bruncker, at Sir W. Batten's, and tells us the Generall is sent for up, to come to advise with the King about business at this juncture, and to keep all quiet; which is great honour to him, but I am sure is but a piece of dissimulation. So home, and did give orders for my house to be made clean; and then down to Woolwich, and there find all well: Dined, and Mrs. Markham come to see my wife. So I up again, and calling at Deptford for some things of W. Hewer's, he being with me, and then home and spent the evening with Sir R. Ford, Mr. Knightly, and Sir W. Pen at Sir W. Batten's: This day our Merchants first met at Gresham College, which, by proclamation, is to be their Exchange. Strange to hear what is bid for houses all up and down here; a friend of Sir W. Rider's: having L150 for what he used to let for L40 per annum. Much dispute where the Custome-house shall be thereby the growth of the City again to be foreseen.

498 The Pilgrim’s Progress My Lord Treasurer, they say, and others; would have it at the other end of the towne. I home late to Sir W. Pen's, who did give me a bed; but without curtains or hangings, all being down. So here I went the first time into a naked bed, only my drawers on; and did sleep pretty well: but still hath sleeping and waking had a fear of fire in my heart, that I took little rest. People do all the world over cry out of the simplicity of my Lord Mayor in generall; and more particularly in this business of the fire, laying it all upon' him. A proclamation [On September 5th proclamation was made "ordering that for supply of the distressed people left destitute by the late dreadful and dismal fire.great proportions of bread be brought daily, not only to the former markets, but to those lately ordained; that all churches, chapels, schools, and public buildings are to be open to receive the goods of those who know not how to dispose of them." On September 6th, proclamation ordered "that as the markets are burned down, markets be held in Bishopsgate Street, Tower Hill, Smithfield, and Leadenhall Street" ("Calendar of State Papers," 1666-67, pp. 100, 104).] is come out for markets to be kept at Leadenhall and Mileendgreene, and several other places about the towne; and Tower-hill, and all churches to be set open to receive poor people. 8th. Up and with Sir W. Batten and Sir W. Pen by water to White Hall and they to St. James's. I stopped with Sir G. Carteret to desire him to go with us, and to enquire after money. But the first he cannot do, and the other as little, or says, "when we can get any, or what shall we do for it?" He, it seems, is employed in the correspondence between the City and the King every day, in settling of things. I find him full of trouble, to think how things will go. I left him, and to St. James's, where we met first at Sir W. Coventry's chamber, and there did what business we can, without any books. Our discourse, as every thing else, was confused. The fleete is at Portsmouth, there staying a wind to carry them to the Downes, or towards Bullen, where they say the Dutch fleete is gone, and stays. We concluded upon private meetings for a while, not having any money to satisfy any people that may come to us. I bought two eeles upon the Thames, cost me six shillings. Thence with Sir W. Batten to the Cock-pit, whither the Duke of Albemarle is come. It seems the King holds him so necessary at this time, that he hath sent for him, and will keep him here. Indeed, his interest in the City, being acquainted, and his care in keeping things quiet, is reckoned that wherein he will be very serviceable. We to him; he is courted in appearance by every body. He very kind to us; I perceive he lays by all business of the fleete at present, and minds the City, and is now hastening to Gresham College, to discourse with the Aldermen. Sir W. Batten and I home (where met by my brother John, come to town to see how things are with us), and then presently he with me to Gresham College; where infinity of people, partly through novelty to see the new place, and partly to find out and hear what is become one man of another. I met with many people undone, and more that have extraordinary great losses. People speaking their thoughts variously about the beginning of the fire, and the rebuilding; of the City. Then to Sir W. Batten's, and took my brothet with me, and there dined with a great company of neighbours; and much good discourse; among others, of the low spirits of some rich men in the City, in sparing any encouragement to the, poor people that wrought for the saving their houses. Among others, Alderman Starling, a very rich man, without; children, the fire at next door to him in our lane, after our men had saved his house, did give 2s. 6d. among thirty of them, and did quarrel with some that would remove the rubbish out of the way of the fire, saying that they come to steal. Sir W. Coventry told me of another this morning, in Holborne, which he shewed the King that when it was offered to stop the fire near his house for such a reward that came but to 2s. 6d. a man among the neighbours he would, give but 18d. Thence to Bednall Green by coach, my brother with me, and saw all well there, and fetched away my journall book to enter for five days past, and then back to the office where I find Bagwell's wife, and her husband come home. Agreed to come to their house to-morrow, I sending him away to his ship to-day. To the office and late writing letters, and then to Sir W. Pen's, my brother lying with me, and Sir W. Pen gone down to rest himself at Woolwich. But I was much frighted and kept awake in my bed, by some noise I heard a great while below stairs; and the boys not coming up

499 The Pilgrim’s Progress to me when I knocked. It was by their discovery of people stealing of some neighbours' wine that lay in vessels in the streets. So to sleep; and all well all night. 9th (Sunday). Up and was trimmed, and sent my brother to Woolwich to my wife, to dine with her. I to church, where our parson made a melancholy but good sermon; and many and most in the church cried, specially the women. The church mighty full; but few of fashion, and most strangers. I walked to Bednall Green, and there dined well, but a bad venison pasty at Sir W. Rider's. Good people they are, and good discourse; and his daughter, Middleton, a fine woman, discreet. Thence home, and to church again, and there preached Dean Harding; but, methinks, a bad, poor sermon, though proper for the time; nor eloquent, in saying at this time that the City is reduced from a large folio to a decimotertio. So to my office, there to write down my journall, and take leave of my brother, whom I sent back this afternoon, though rainy; which it hath not done a good while before. But I had no room or convenience for him here till my house is fitted; but I was very kind to him, and do take very well of him his journey. I did give him 40s. for his pocket, and so, he being gone, and, it presently rayning, I was troubled for him, though it is good for the fyre. Anon to Sir W. Pen's to bed, and made my boy Tom to read me asleep. 10th. All the morning clearing our cellars, and breaking in pieces all my old lumber, to make room, and to prevent fire. And then to Sir W. Batten's, and dined; and there hear that Sir W. Rider says that the towne is full of the report of the wealth that is in his house, and would be glad that his friends would provide for the safety of their goods there. This made me get a cart; and thither, and there brought my money all away. Took a hackney-coach myself (the hackney- coaches now standing at Allgate). Much wealth indeed there is at his house. Blessed be God, I got all mine well thence, and lodged it in my office; but vexed to have all the world see it. And with Sir W. Batten, who would have taken away my hands before they were stowed. But by and by comes brother Balty from sea, which I was glad of; and so got him, and Mr. Tooker, and the boy, to watch with them all in the office all night, while I upon Jane's coming went down to my wife, calling at Deptford, intending to see Bagwell, but did not 'ouvrir la porte comme je' did expect. So down late to Woolwich, and there find my wife out of humour and indifferent, as she uses upon her having much liberty abroad.

- Aubrey (Brief Lives Life of Andrew Marvell) JOHN AUBREY (1626-1697)

Lives of Eminent Men (Brief Lives) ANDREW MARVELL [Born 1621. Poet and satirist. He travelled on the Continent for four years. In 1653 he became tutor to Cromwell's ward, William Dutton, and in 1657 was made Milton's assistant in the Latin secretaryship to the Council. After the Restoration he entered Parliament and became a violent politician with strong Republican leanings and wrote satires and pamphlets, attacking first the ministers, but afterwards Charles II himself. Despite this he remained a favourite with the King, who offered him a place at Court and a present of £1000, which were both declined. From 1660 to 1678 he wrote a series of newsletters to his constituents at Hull, chronicling the debates in the House of Commons. But his fame rests upon his poems written in praise of gardens and country life. He died in 1678.]

HE was of middling stature, pretty strong sett, roundish faced, cherry cheek't, hazell eie, browne haire. He was in his conversation very modest, and of very few words : and though he loved wine he would never drinke hard in company, and was wont to say that, he would not play the good-fellow in any man's company in whose hands he would not trust his life. He had not a generall acquaintance. 500 The Pilgrim’s Progress In the time of Oliver the Protector he was Latin Secretarie. He was a great master of the Latin tongue ; an excellent poet in Latin or English: fot Latin verses there was no man could come into competition with him. I remember I have heard him say that the Earle of Rochester was the only man in England that had the true veine of Satyre. His native towne of Hull loved him so well that they elected him for their representative in Parliament, and gave him an honourable pension to maintaine him. He kept bottles of wine at his lodgeing, and many times he would drinke liberally by himselfe to refresh his spirits, and exalt his Muse. (I remember I have been told that the learned Goclenius (an High-German) was wont to keep bottells of good Rhenish-wine in his studie, and, when his spirits wasted, he would drinke a good Rummer of it.) Obiit Londini, Aug. 18. 1678 ; and is buried in St. Giles church in-the-fields about the middle of the south aisle. Some suspect that he was-poysoned.by the Jesuites, but I cannot be positive.

THOMAS MAY [Born 1595. Poet and historian. The son of Sir Thomas May, he went to Cambridge and thence to Gray's Inn, but soon discarded law for literature. In 1622 he produced his first comedy, The Heir, and also a translation of Virgil's Georgics. Six years later appeared his translation of Lucan, which gained him the favour of Charles I, at whose command he wrote two poems, each in seven books, The Reigne of King Henry II and The Victorious Reigne of King Edward III. But when the Civil War broke out, May took the side of the Parliament and was made Secretary to the Long Parliament, the historian of which he became. Tbe History of the Parliament of England, which began Nov. 3, 1640, was published in 1647: the narrative closes with the Battle of Newbury (1643) and is prefaced with a short review of the preceding reigns from that of Elizabeth. May was also the author of several tragedies, which exhibit either featureless mediocrity or pretentious extravagance. He died in 1650.] As to Tom May, Mr. Edmund Wyld told me that he was acquainted with him when he was young, and then he was as other young men of this Towne are, seil. he was debaucht ad omnia: but doe not by any meanes take notice of it; for we have all been young. But Mr. Marvel in his Poems upon Tom May's death falls very severe upon him. A great acquaintance of Tom Chaloner. Would, when inter pocula, speake slightingly of the Trinity. He stood Candidate for the Laurell after B. Jonson ; but Sir William Davenant caried it. Amicus: Sir Richard Fanshawe. Mr. Emanuel Decretz (Serjeant Painter to King Charles Ist) was present at the debate at their parting before Sir Richard went to the King, where both Camps were most rigorously banded. His translation of Lucan's excellent Poeme made him in love with the Republique, which Tang stuck by him. Came of his death after drinking with his chin tyed with his cap (being fatt); suffocated.

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