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Sur. May it please your grace,—
King.
No, sir, it does not please me.
I had thought I had had men of some under-
standing

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 ?
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Why, what a shame was this! Did my com-
mission

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,

My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace

To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed

Concerning his imprisonment, was rather, 150 If there be faith in men, meant for his trial, And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I'm sure, in me.

King. Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.

I will say thus much for him, if a prince
May be beholding to a subject, I
Am, for his love and service, so to him.
Make me no more ado, but all embrace him :
Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of
Canterbury,
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I have a suit which you must not deny me; That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,

You must be godfather, and answer for her. Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may

glory

In such an honor; how may I deserve it,

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SCENE IV. The palace yard. 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, ye rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch your heads you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

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Man. Pray, sir, be patient: 'tis as much impossible

Unless we sweep 'em from the door with can

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[Within] Do you hear, master porter ? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrali. 30 Man. What would you have me do?

Port. What should you do, but knock 'em 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.

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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 dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortarpiece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman; who cried out 'Clubs !' when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succor, which were the hope o' the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place at length they came to the broom-staff to me; I defied 'em still : when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honor in, and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.

Port. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the tribulation of Towerhill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em 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 LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

Cham. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here ! [coming, They grow still too; from all parts they are 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

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If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
By the heels, and suddenly and on your

heads

Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;

And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;

They're come already from the christening: Go, break among the press, and find a way

out

To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find

A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. 90

Port. Make way there for the princess. Man. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. Port. You the camlet, get up o' the rail; I'll peck you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. 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 christeninggifts; 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 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 Guard. Cran. [Kneeling] And to your royal grace, and the 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!

King. Thank you, good lord archbishop : What is her name? Elizabeth.

Cran. King.

Stand up, lord. 10 [The King kisses the child. With this kiss take my blessing: God protect

thee !

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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 neighbors: God shall be truly known; and those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honor, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her but as when 40

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 honor
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she

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To all the plains about him: our children's children

Shall see this, and bless heaven.

King.
Thou speakest wonders.
Cran. She shall be, to the happiness of Eng-
land,

An aged princess; many days shall see her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.
Would I had known no more! but she must
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die,

She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,

A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn

her.

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They'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'
Which we have not done neither that, I fear,
All the expected good we're like to hear
For this play at this time, is only in
The merciful construction of good women; 10
For such a one we show'd'em: if they smile,
And say 'twill do, I know, within a while
All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,
If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.

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"was

Venus and Adonis was entered in the Stationers' register on April 18, 1593, and was published the same year. The poem became popular at once, and before the close of 1602 it had been reprinted no fewer than six times. "As the soul of Euphorbus," wrote Meres in his Wit's Treasury (1598), thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honytongued Shakespeare; witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his private friends, &c." Ovid has told the story of the love of Venus for Adonis and the death of the beautiful hunter by a wild boar's tusk; the coldness of Adonis, his boyish disdain of love, was an invention of later times. It is in this later form that Shakespeare imagines the subject; and in his treatment of it he has less in common with Ovid than with a short poem by a contemporary writer of sonnets and lyrical poems, Henry Constable, which appeared in a collection of verse published in 1600, under the name of England's Helicon. It is uncertain which of the two poems, Constable's or Shakespeare's, was the earlier written. When Venus and Adonis appeared Shakespeare was twentynine years of age; the Earl of Southampton, to whom it was dedicated, was not yet twenty. In the dedication the poet speaks of these "unpolisht lines" as "the first heire of my invention." Did he mean by this that Venus and Adonis was written before any of his plays, or before any plays that were strictly original-his own "invention?" or does he, setting plays altogether apart, which were not looked upon as literature, in a high sense of the word, call it his first poem because he had written no earlier narrative or lyrical verse? We cannot be sure. It is possible, but not likely, that he may have written this poem before he left Stratford, and have brought it up with him to London. More probably it was written in London, and perhaps not long before its publication. The year 1593, in which the poem appeared, was a year of plague; the London theatres were closed: it may be that Shakespeare, idle in London, or having returned for a while to Stratford, then wrote the poem. Whenever written, it was elaborated with peculiar care. The subject of the poem is sensual, but with Shakespeare it becomes rather a study or analysis of passion and the objects of passion, than in itself passionate. Without being dramatic, the poem contains the materials for dramatic poetry, set forth at large. The descriptions of English landscape and country life are numerous, and give a spirit of breezy life and health to portions of the poem which could ill afford to lose anything that is fresh and healthful.

'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'

TO THE

RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

RIGHT HONORABLE,

I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden: only, if your honor seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honored you with some graver labor. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honorable survey, and your honor to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your honor's in all duty,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

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