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TRIN. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.

SEB. Why, how now, Stephano!

STE. O, touch me not;-I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

PROS. You 'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah? STE. I should have been a sore one, then. ALON. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on. [Pointing to CALIBAN, PROS. He is as disproportion'd in his man

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As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CAL. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter,

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,
And worship this dull fool!

PROS.
Go to; away!
ALON. Hence, and bestow your luggage
where you found it.

SEB. Or stole it, rather.

[Exeunt CAL, STE., and TRIN. PROS. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train

300 To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste

EPILOGUE.*
Spoken by PROSPERO.

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got,
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.

BEN JONSON (1573?-1637)

10

20

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
AND WHAT HE HATH
LEFT US.†

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample1 to thy book and fame; 24 lack

* Probably not written by Shakespeare. 1 liberal

With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall Written after Shakespeare's death, which took

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place in April, 1616. Beaumont died in March and was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of Chaucer and Spenser, where twenty-one years later Jonson himself was to lie. Shakespeare, however, was buried at Stratford. (Eng. Lit., p. 411.) Lines 19-21 refer to the following "Epitaph on Shakespeare" which was written by William Basse: "Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and, rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser, to make room

For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold

tomb.

To lodge all four in one bed make a shift,
For until doomsday hardly will a fifth,
Betwixt this day and that, by fates be slain,
For whom your curtains need be drawn again.
But if precedency in death doth bar

A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre,
Under this sable marble of thine own,
Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare,

alone:

sleep

Thy unmolested peace, in an unshared cave,
Possess as lord, not tenant, of thy grave;
That unto us, and others, it may be
Honour hereafter to be laid by thee."

The tenor of Jonson's praise appears to be that other English poets, though great, are "disproportioned," that is, inferior to Shakespeare: his peers are to be found only among the ancients, though he himself knew little about them.

While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.2 But these ways

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.

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But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause! delight! the wonder of our
stage!

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My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses:
For if I thought my judgment were of years,3
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30
And though thou hadst small Latin and less
Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I will not seek+
For names: but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,5
To live again, to hear thy busking tread,
And shake a stage: or when thy socks? were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 41
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

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ancient tragic actors; figurative for "tragedy."

7 A low shoe worn by ancient comedians; hence "comedy."

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.

Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion: and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,
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And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made as well as born.

And such wert thou! Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly

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New tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: when bold,

Each tempts the other again, and all are sold. 8 captivate Queen Elizabeth *This Argument-which is in the form of an acrostic, the initial letters of the seven lines spelling the title-gives in condensed form the plot of the play. The purpose is to present instructively some of the worst passions of men, especially avarice. Volpō'ne, the rich, hypocritical old "fox," assisted by his parasite, Mosca ("fly"), amuses himself with deluding those who hope to become his heirs, namely, the advocate Voltore ("vulture"), Corbaccio ("old raven"), etc.; but all come to grief in the end. The selection here printed constitutes the major portion of Act T. On Jonson's use of "humours," see Eng. Lit., p. 122.

Аст І.

Scene I.-A Room in Volpone's House. Enter Volpone and Mosca.

What should I do,

But cocker up3 my genius, and live free To all delights my fortune calls me to? I have no wife, no parent, child, ally,

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Volpone. Good morning to the day; and To give my substance to; but whom I make

next, my gold!

Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. [Mosca withdraws the curtain, and discovers piles of gold, plate, jewels, etc.

Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad 10 than is

The teeming earth to see the longed-for sun
Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram1
Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his;
That lying here, amongst my other hoards,
Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day
Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled
Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol,
But brighter than thy father, let me kiss,
With adoration, thee, and every relic
Of sacred treasure in this blessed room.
Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name,
Title that age which they would have the best;
Thou being the best of things; and far tran-

scending

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all things;

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The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise

Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune

A greater good than wisdom is in nature.

Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory
More in the cunning purchase of my wealth,
Than in the glad possession, since I gain
No common way; I use no trade, no venture; 40
I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no
beasts

To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron,
Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder:
I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships
To threat'nings of the furrow-faced sea;
I turn no monies in the public bank,
Nor usure private.2.

1 The first sign of the zodiac, ascendant at the vernal equinox.

Must be my heir; and this makes men observe

me:

This draws new clients daily to my house,
Women and men of every sex and age,
That bring me presents, send me plate, coin,
jewels,

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With hope that when I die (which they expect
Each greedy minute) it shall then return
Tenfold upon them; whilst some, covetous
Above the rest, seek to engross me whole,
And counter-work the one unto the other,
Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love:
All which I suffer, playing with their hopes,
And am content to coin them into profit,
And look upon their kindness, and take more,
And look on that; still bearing them in hand,4
Letting the cherry knock against their lips,
And draw it by their mouths, and back again.
How now!

70

[Knocking without. Who's that? . . Look, Mosca. Mos. 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate; I know him by his knock. Volp. Fetch me my gown, My furs, and night-caps; say my couch is changing,

And let him entertain himself awhile
Without i' the gallery. [Exit Mosca.] Now,
Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite,
now my clients
Raven, and gorerow, all my birds of prey,
That think me turning carcase, now they come:
I am not for them yet.

Re-enter Mosca, with the gown, etc.

How now! the news?

Mos. A piece of plate, sir.

Volp. Of what bigness?

Mos. Huge,

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Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed,

And arms engraven.

Volp. Good! and not a fox

Stretched on the earth, with fine delusive sleights,

Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca!
Mos. Sharp, sir.

Volp. Give me my furs.

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[Puts on his sick dress. Why dost thou laugh so, man? Mos. I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend What thoughts he has without now, as he walks:

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That this might be the last gift he should give;
That this would fetch you; if you died to-day,
And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow;
What large return would come of all his
ventures;

How he should worshipped be, and reverenced;
Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on
By herds of fools and clients; have clear way 100
Made for his mule, as lettered as himself;
Be called the great and learned advocate:
And then concludes, there's nought impossible.
Volp. Yes, to be learned, Mosca.
Mos. O, no: rich

Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple,
So you can hide his two ambitious ears,
And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor.5

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Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in.

Mos. Stay, sir; your ointment for your eyes.

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Re-enter Mosca, introducing Voltore with a

piece of Plate.

I long to feel his hand.

Mos.

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Voip. I feel me going: Uh! uh! uh! uh! I'm sailing to my port, Uh! uh! uh! uh!

Mos. You still are what you were, sir. Only | And I am glad I am so near my haven.

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170

Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must all go

Volt. But, Mosca

Mos.

Age will conquer.

Volt. Pray thee, hear me;

Am I inscribed his heir for certain?
Mos. Are you!

I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe

8 The great square and mart of Venice.

180

To write me in your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship: I am lost
Except the rising sun do shine on me.
Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee,
Mosca.

Mos. Sir,

I am a man that hath not done your love
All the worst offices: here I wear your keys, 190
See all your coffers and your caskets locked,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,

Your plate, and monies; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.

Volt. But am I sole heir?

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Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate to the rest.] Now we shall see

Mos. Without a partner, sir: confirmed this A wretch who is indeed more impotent

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210

I oft have heard him say how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again. yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And return; make knots, and undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking11 gold
On either hand, and put it up12; these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplexed a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor

Scarce

Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin13! 220
[Knocking without.
Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you
seen, sir.

And yet pretend you came, and went in haste;
I'll fashion an excuse-and, gentle sir,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.
Tolt. Mosca!-

Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir?

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230

13 sequin; an Italian coin worth about 9s

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. Corb. What! mends he?

Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse.

Corb.

Mos.

That's well. Where is he?

250

Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep.

Corb. Does he sleep well?

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

Corb. Good! he should take

Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him

An opiate here, from mine own doctor.
Mos. He will not hear of drugs.
Corb. Why? I myself

Stood by while it was made, saw all the in

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Mos.

He has no faith in physic: he does think

Most of your doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest that your15 physician Should never be his heir.

Corb. Not I his heir?

Mos. Not your physician, sir.
Corb. O, no, no, no.

I do not mean it.

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says they flay a man

14 at once (addressed to the one knocking)

15 a

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