# The Complete Works of William Shakespeare ## Part 218 Book page: https://www.cyberlibrary.org/en/books/the-complete-works-of-william-shakespeare-100/index.md The news, Rogero? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more. Enter a third Gentleman. How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries “O, thy mother, thy mother!” then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What became of his bark and his followers? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing. FIRST GENTLEMAN. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted. THIRD GENTLEMAN. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish) was, when at the relation of the queen’s death (with the manner how she came to it bravely confessed and lamented by the king) how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an “Alas,” I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Are they returned to the court? THIRD GENTLEMAN. No: the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. [_Exeunt Gentlemen._] AUTOLYCUS. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscover’d. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relish’d among my other discredits. Enter Shepherd and Clown. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune. SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. CLOWN. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born. AUTOLYCUS. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born. CLOWN. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. SHEPHERD. And so have I, boy! CLOWN. So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. SHEPHERD. We may live, son, to shed many more. CLOWN. Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are. AUTOLYCUS. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master. SHEPHERD. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen. CLOWN. Thou wilt amend thy life? AUTOLYCUS. Ay, an it like your good worship. CLOWN. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia. SHEPHERD. You may say it, but not swear it. CLOWN. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it. SHEPHERD. How if it be false, son? CLOWN. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. And I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands. AUTOLYCUS. I will prove so, sir, to my power. CLOWN. Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Room in Paulina’s house. Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords and Attendants. LEONTES. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee! PAULINA. What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home: but that you have vouchsaf’d, With your crown’d brother and these your contracted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My life may last to answer. LEONTES. O Paulina, We honour you with trouble. But we came To see the statue of our queen: your gallery Have we pass’d through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother. PAULINA. As she liv’d peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look’d upon Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death. Behold, and say ’tis well. Paulina undraws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing as a statue. I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder: but yet speak. First you, my liege. Comes it not something near? LEONTES. Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding; for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems. POLIXENES. O, not by much! PAULINA. So much the more our carver’s excellence, Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she liv’d now. LEONTES. As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! I am asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece, There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjur’d to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee. PERDITA. And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss. PAULINA. O, patience! The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s Not dry. CAMILLO. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry. Scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill’d itself much sooner. POLIXENES. Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself. PAULINA. Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you—for the stone is mine— I’d not have show’d it. LEONTES. Do not draw the curtain. PAULINA. No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves. LEONTES. Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that methinks already— What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breath’d? And that those veins Did verily bear blood? POLIXENES. Masterly done: The very life seems warm upon her lip. LEONTES. The fixture of her eye has motion in ’t, As we are mock’d with art. PAULINA. I’ll draw the curtain: My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives. LEONTES. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone. PAULINA. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but I could afflict you further. LEONTES. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still methinks There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her! PAULINA. Good my lord, forbear: The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain? LEONTES. No, not these twenty years. PERDITA. So long could I Stand by, a looker on. PAULINA. Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, And take you by the hand. But then you’ll think (Which I protest against) I am assisted By wicked powers. LEONTES. What you can make her do I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move. PAULINA. It is requir’d You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart. LEONTES. Proceed: No foot shall stir. PAULINA. Music, awake her: strike! [_Music._] ’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come; I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs. Hermione comes down from the pedestal. Start not; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo’d her; now in age Is she become the suitor? LEONTES. [_Embracing her._] O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating. POLIXENES. She embraces him. CAMILLO. She hangs about his neck. If she pertain to life, let her speak too. POLIXENES. Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv’d, Or how stol’n from the dead. PAULINA. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale; but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady, Our Perdita is found. [_Presenting Perdita who kneels to Hermione._] HERMIONE. You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how found Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d Myself to see the issue. PAULINA. There’s time enough for that; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to everyone. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost. LEONTES. O peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife: this is a match, And made between ’s by vows. Thou hast found mine; But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, As I thought, dead; and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind—to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted, and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law, And son unto the king, whom heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely Each one demand, and answer to his part Perform’d in this wide gap of time, since first We were dissever’d. Hastily lead away! [_Exeunt._] A LOVER’S COMPLAINT From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale, My spirits t’attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of a beauty spent and done; Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven’s fell rage Some beauty peeped through lattice of sear’d age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laund’ring the silken figures in the brine That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, As they did batt’ry to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th’orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and nowhere fix’d, The mind and sight distractedly commix’d. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride; For some untuck’d descended her sheav’d hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, And, true to bondage, would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew, Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set, Like usury applying wet to wet, Or monarchs’ hands, that lets not bounty fall Where want cries ‘some,’ but where excess begs ‘all’. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore and gave the flood; Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone, Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet mo letters sadly penn’d in blood, With sleided silk, feat and affectedly Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy. These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss’d, and often gave to tear; Cried, ‘O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seem’d more black and damned here!’ This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh, Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours observed as they flew, Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew; And, privileg’d by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely distant sits he by her side, When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide: If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, ’Tis promised in the charity of age. ‘Father,’ she says, ‘though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgement I am old, Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power. I might as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied Love to myself, and to no love beside. ‘But woe is me! Too early I attended A youthful suit; it was to gain my grace; O one by nature’s outwards so commended, That maiden’s eyes stuck over all his face, Love lack’d a dwelling and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodg’d and newly deified. ‘His browny locks did hang in crooked curls, And every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls, What’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find, Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind: For on his visage was in little drawn, What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn. ‘Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down began but to appear, Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin, Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seemed to wear. Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear, And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. ‘His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; Yet if men mov’d him, was he such a storm As oft ’twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. His rudeness so with his authoriz’d youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. ‘Well could he ride, and often men would say That horse his mettle from his rider takes, Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by th’ well-doing steed. ‘But quickly on this side the verdict went, His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case; All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions; yet their purpos’d trim Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him. ‘So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kind of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep, To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep: He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will. ‘That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted, Consent’s bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted, And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey. ‘Many there were that did his picture get To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind, Like fools that in th’ imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d, And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them, Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them. ‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand, Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart. My woeful self that did in freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple (not in part) What with his art in youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower. ‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded, Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded. Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. ‘But ah! Who ever shunn’d by precedent The destin’d ill she must herself assay, Or force’d examples ’gainst her own content, To put the by-pass’d perils in her way? Counsel may stop a while what will not stay: For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wills more keen. ‘Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others’ proof, To be forbode the sweets that seems so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgement stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though reason weep and cry, “It is thy last.” ‘For further I could say, “This man’s untrue”, And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. ‘And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he ’gan besiege me: “Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid: That’s to ye sworn, to none was ever said, For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo. ‘“All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind: Love made them not; with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true nor kind, They sought their shame that so their shame did find, And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains. ‘“Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed, Or my affection put to th’ smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charmed: Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign’d commanding in his monarchy. ‘“Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood, Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.