Arainst this man, (whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at,) Ye blew the fire that burns ye: Now have at ye. Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince; His royal self in judgment comes to hear, K. Hen. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not To hear such flattery now; and in my presence, Now let me see He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee: By all that 's holy, he had better starve, Than but once think his place becomes thee not. Sur. May it please your grace, K. Hen. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought, I had had men of some understanding And wisdom, of my council; but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man, (few of you deserve that title,) This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber-door? and one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a counsellor to try him, Not as a groom; There 's some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have, while I live. Chan. Thus far, K. Hen. Am, for his love and service, so to him. Be friends, for shame, my lords.-My lord of Canterbury, Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory K. Hen. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons; you shall have Two noble partners with you; the old duchess of Norfolk, And lady marquis Dorset: Will these please you? Once more, my lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace, and love this man. Gar. With a true heart, And let heaven Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. K. Hen. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus." Do my lord of Canterbury Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: Do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping." [Within.] Good master porter, I belong to the larder. Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you rogue: Is this a place to roar in?-Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to them. I'll scratch your heads: You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? Man. Pray, sir, be patient; 't is as much impossible Man. Alas, I know not; How gets the tide in? Port. You did nothing, sir. Man. I am not Samson, nor sir Guy, nor Colbrand, to mow them down before me: but, if I spare any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to see a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God save her. [Within.] Do you hear, master porter? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What should you do, but kuock them down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dogdays now reign in 's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: That firedrakeb did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out, clubs! when I might see from far some forty truncheoneers draw to her succour, which were the hope of the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff to me; I defied them still; when suddenly a file of boys behind them, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let them win the work: The devil was amongst them, I think, surely. Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play. house, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of them in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come. Enter the Lord Chamberlain. Cham. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves?--Ye have made a fine hand, fellows. There's a trim rabble let in: Are all these Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. Port. An 't please your honour We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done : An army cannot rule them. Cham. As I live, If the king blame me for 't, I'll lay ye all A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two months. Man. You great fellow, stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. Port. You i' the camblet, get up o' the rail; I'll pick you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-The Palace. Enter trumpets, sounding; then Two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, DUKE OF NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, DUKE OF SUFFOLK, Two Noblemen bearing great standing bowls for the christening gifts; then Four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, &c. Train borne by a Lady: then follows the MARCHIONESS OF DORSET, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks. Gart. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty princess of England, Elizabeth! Flourish. Enter KING and Train. Let me speak, sir Cran For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they 'll find them truth. This royal infant, (heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness) A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed: Saba was never More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue, Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces. That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her: She shall be lov'd, and fear'd: Her own shall bless he:: Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows with her: In her days, every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours: God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. Nor shall this peace sleep with her: But as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new create another heir, As great in admiration as herself; So shall she leave her blessedness to one, (When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness), Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd: Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour, and the greatness of his name, Shall be, and make new nations: He shall flourish And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches To all the plains about him :-Our children's children Shall see this, and bless heaven. K. Hen. Thou speakest wondes. Cran. [Kneeling.] And to your royal grace, and the She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin, good queen, My noble partners, and myself, thus pray ;All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, May hourly fall upon ye! K. Hen. Thank you, good lord archbishop, What is her name? A most unspotted lily shall she pass To the ground, and all the world shall mourn ber. K. Hen. O lord archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man; never, before ye K. Hen. My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal: She will be sick else. This day, no man think I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady, When she has so much English. He has business at his house; for all shall stay: This little one shall make it holiday. EPILOGUE. T is ten to one, this play can never please All that are here: Some come to take their ease, And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, We have frighted with our trumpets; so 't is clear, They'll say 't is naught: others, to hear the city Abus'd extremely, and to cry,-" that 's witty!" ■ Bumbards-ale-barre 8. Which we have not done neither: that, I fear, [Exeunt to Shakspere's skill as an artist, for he had thoroughly worked out his own idea. Coleridge has described the homogeneousness-the totality of interest—which is the great characteristic of this play, by one of those beautiful analogies which could only proceed from the pen of a true poet :— ROMEO AND JULIET' was first printed in the year 1597. | touches, the heart," she paid the highest compliment The second edition was printed in 1599. The title of that edition declares it to be "Newly corrected, augmented, and amended." There can be no doubt whatever that the corrections, augmentations, and emendations were those of the author. We know of nothing in literary history more curious or more instructive than the example of minute attention, as well as consummate skill, exhibited by Shakspere in correcting, augmenting, and amending the first copy of this play. "Of the truth of Juliet's story, they (the Veronese) seem ter.acious to a degree, insisting on the fact-giving a date (1303), and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their love." Byron thus described the tomb of Juliet to his friend Moore, as he saw it at the close of autumn, when withered leaves had dropped into the decayed sarcophagus, and the vines that are trailed above it had been stripped of their fruit. His letter to Moore, in which this passage occurs, is dated the 7th November. But this wild and desolate garden only struck Byron as appropriate to the legend-to that simple tale of fierce hatreds and fatal loves which tradition has still preserved, amongst those who may never have read Luigi da Porto or Bandello, the Italian romancers who give the tale, and who, perhaps, never heard the name of Shakspere. To the legend only is the blighted place appropriate. For who that has ever been thoroughly imbued with the story of Juliet, as told by Shakspere,-who that has heard his "glorious song of praise on that inexpressible feeling which ennobles the soul and gives to it its highest sublimity, and which elevates even the senses themselves into soul," who that, in our great poet's matchless delineation of Juliet's love, has perceived "whatever is most intoxicating in the odour of a southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous on the first opening of the rose," who, indeed, that looks upon the tomb of the Juliet of Shakspere, can see only a shapeless ruin amidst wildness and desolation? "Whence arises the harmony that strikes us in the wildest natural landscapes,—in the relative shapes of rocks, the narmony of colours in the heaths, ferns, and lichens, the leaves of the beech and the oak, the stems and rich brown branches of the birch and other mountain trees, varying from verging autumn to returning spring,-compared with the visual effect from the greater number of artificial plantations?—From this, that the natural landscape is effected, as it were, by a single energy modified ab intra in each compo nent part. And, as this is the particular excellence of the Shaksperian drama generally, so is it especially characteristic of the 'Romeo and Juliet.'”* 6 Schlegel carried out the proofs of this assertion in an Essay on Romeo and Juliet'; † in which, to use his own words, he "went through the whole of the scenes in their order, and demonstrated the inward necessity of each with reference to the whole; showed why such a particular circle of characters and relations was placed around the two lovers; explained the signification of the mirth here and there scattered; and justified the use of the occasional heightening given to the poetical colours." Schlegel wisely did this to exhibit what is more remarkable in Shakspere than in any other poet, "the thorough formation of a work, even in its minutest part, according to a leading idea-the dominiou of the animating spirit over all the means of execu tion." The general criticism of Schlegel upon 'Romeo and Juliet' is based upon a perfect comprehension of this great principle upon which Shakspere worked. The following is the close of a celebrated passage upon 'Romeo and Juliet,' which has often been quoted;—but it is altogether so true and so beautiful, that we cannot resist the pleasure of circulating it still more widely :— "Whatever is most intoxicating in the odour of a southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous on the first opening of the rose, is breathed into this poem. But, even more rapidly than the earliest blossoms of youth and beauty decay, it hurtheries on from the first timidly-bold declaration of love and modest return, to the most unlimited passion, to au irrevocable union; then, amidst alternating storms of rapture and despair, to the death of the two lovers, who still appear enviable as their love survives them, and as by their death they have obtained a triumph over every separating power. The sweetest and the bitterest, love and hatred, festivity and dark forebodings, tender embraces and sepulchres, the fulness of life and self-annihilation, are all here brought close to each other; and all these contrasts are so blended in the harmonious and wonderful work into a unity of impression, that the echo which the whole leaves behind in the mind resembles a single but endless sigh."|| In 'Romeo and Juliet' the principle of limiting pathetic according to the degree in which it is calculated to produce emotions of pleasure, is interwoven with the whole structure and conduct of the play. The tragical part of the story, from the first scene to the last, is held in subjection to the beautiful. It is not only that the beautiful comes to the relief of the tragic, as in Lear and 'Othello,' but here the tragic is only a mode of exhibiting the beautiful under its most striking aspects. Shakspere never intended that the story of Romeo and Juliet' should lacerate the heart. When Mrs. Inchbald, therefore, said, in her preface to the acted play, "Romeo and Juliet' is called a pathetic tragedy, but it is not so in reality-it charms the understanding and delights the imagination, without melting, though it Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 2; sc. 5. Act III. sc. 1; sc. 4; sc. b. An old Man, uncle to Capulet. ROMEO, son to Montague. Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 2; sc. 4; sc. 5. Act II. sc. 1; sc. 2; sc. 3; sc. 4; sc. 6. Act III. sc. 1; sc. 3; sc. 5. Act V. sc. 1; sc. 3. MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo. TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet. Appears, Act II. sc. 3; sc. 6. Act III. sc. 3. Act IV. sc. 1; Appears, Act V. sc. 2. Appears, Act I. sc. 1. GREGORY, servant to Capulet, ABRAM, servant to Montague. Appears, Act III. sc. 1. JULIET, daughter to Capulet. Appears, Act I. sc. 3; sc. 5. Act II. sc. 2; sc. 4; sc. 5. Act III. sc. 2; sc. 3; sc. 5. Act IV. sc. 2; sc. 3; sc. 4; sc. 5. Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants. SCENE, DURING THE GREATER Part of the Play, in Verona; once (IN THE FIFTH Act) at Mantua. - Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, armed with swords and bucklers. Sam. Gregory, o' my word, we 'll not carry coals." Gre. To move is to stir; and to be valiant, is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand : I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. Gre. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. Sam. True; and therefore women, being the weaker Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of the vessels, are ever thrust to the wall-therefore I will collar. Sam. I strike quickly, being moved. • To carry coals was to submit to servile offices. push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. Gre. The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men. Sam. 'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: |