History of Literature

William Shakespeare



William Shakespeare - Biography

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK illustration by Eugene Delacroix





William Shakespeare

English author
Shakespeare also spelled Shakspere, byname Bard of Avon or Swan of Avon

baptized April 26, 1564, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, England
died April 23, 1616, Stratford-upon-Avon

English poet and playwright, often considered the greatest writer in world literature.

He spent his early life in Stratford-upon-Avon, receiving at most a grammar-school education, and at age 18 he married a local woman, Anne Hathaway. By 1594 he was apparently a rising playwright in London and an actor in a leading theatre company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (later King’s Men); the company performed at the Globe Theatre from 1599. The order in which his plays were written and performed is highly uncertain. His earliest plays seem to date from the late 1580s to the mid-1590s and include the comedies Love’s Labour’s Lost, The Comedy of Errors, The Taming of the Shrew, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream; history plays based on the lives of the English kings, including Henry VI (parts 1, 2, and 3), Richard III, and Richard II; and the tragedy Romeo and Juliet. The plays apparently written between 1596 and 1600 are mostly comedies, including The Merchant of Venice, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Much Ado About Nothing, and As You Like It, and histories, including Henry IV (parts 1 and 2), Henry V, and Julius Caesar. Approximately between 1600 and 1607 he wrote the comedies Twelfth Night, All’s Well That Ends Well, and Measure for Measure, as well as the great tragedies Hamlet (probably begun in 1599), Othello, Macbeth, and King Lear, which mark the summit of his art. Among his later works (about 1607 to 1614) are the tragedies Antony and Cleopatra, Coriolanus, and Timon of Athens, as well as the fantastical romances The Winter’s Tale and The Tempest. He probably also is responsible for some sections of the plays Edward III and The Two Noble Kinsmen.

Shakespeare’s plays, all of them written largely in iambic pentameter verse, are marked by extraordinary poetry; vivid, subtle, and complex characterizations; and a highly inventive use of English. His 154 sonnets, published in 1609 but apparently written mostly in the 1590s, often express strong feeling within an exquisitely controlled form. Shakespeare retired to Stratford before 1610 and lived as a country gentleman until his death. The first collected edition of his plays, or First Folio, was published in 1623. As with most writers of the time, little is known about his life and work, and other writers, particularly the 17th earl of Oxford, have frequently been proposed as the actual authors of his plays and poems.

Shakespeare occupies a position unique in world literature. Other poets, such as Homer and Dante, and novelists, such as Leo Tolstoy and Charles Dickens, have transcended national barriers; but no writer’s living reputation can compare to that of Shakespeare, whose plays, written in the late 16th and early 17th centuries for a small repertory theatre, are now performed and read more often and in more countries than ever before. The prophecy of his great contemporary, the poet and dramatist Ben Jonson, that Shakespeare “was not of an age, but for all time,” has been fulfilled.

It may be audacious even to attempt a definition of his greatness, but it is not so difficult to describe the gifts that enabled him to create imaginative visions of pathos and mirth that, whether read or witnessed in the theatre, fill the mind and linger there. He is a writer of great intellectual rapidity, perceptiveness, and poetic power. Other writers have had these qualities, but with Shakespeare the keenness of mind was applied not to abstruse or remote subjects but to human beings and their complete range of emotions and conflicts. Other writers have applied their keenness of mind in this way, but Shakespeare is astonishingly clever with words and images, so that his mental energy, when applied to intelligible human situations, finds full and memorable expression, convincing and imaginatively stimulating. As if this were not enough, the art form into which his creative energies went was not remote and bookish but involved the vivid stage impersonation of human beings, commanding sympathy and inviting vicarious participation. Thus Shakespeare’s merits can survive translation into other languages and into cultures remote from that of Elizabethan England.

Shakespeare the man » Life
Although the amount of factual knowledge available about Shakespeare is surprisingly large for one of his station in life, many find it a little disappointing, for it is mostly gleaned from documents of an official character. Dates of baptisms, marriages, deaths, and burials; wills, conveyances, legal processes, and payments by the court—these are the dusty details. There are, however, many contemporary allusions to him as a writer, and these add a reasonable amount of flesh and blood to the biographical skeleton.

Shakespeare the man » Life » Early life in Stratford
The parish register of Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, shows that he was baptized there on April 26, 1564; his birthday is traditionally celebrated on April 23. His father, John Shakespeare, was a burgess of the borough, who in 1565 was chosen an alderman and in 1568 bailiff (the position corresponding to mayor, before the grant of a further charter to Stratford in 1664). He was engaged in various kinds of trade and appears to have suffered some fluctuations in prosperity. His wife, Mary Arden, of Wilmcote, Warwickshire, came from an ancient family and was the heiress to some land. (Given the somewhat rigid social distinctions of the 16th century, this marriage must have been a step up the social scale for John Shakespeare.)

Stratford enjoyed a grammar school of good quality, and the education there was free, the schoolmaster’s salary being paid by the borough. No lists of the pupils who were at the school in the 16th century have survived, but it would be absurd to suppose the bailiff of the town did not send his son there. The boy’s education would consist mostly of Latin studies—learning to read, write, and speak the language fairly well and studying some of the Classical historians, moralists, and poets. Shakespeare did not go on to the university, and indeed it is unlikely that the scholarly round of logic, rhetoric, and other studies then followed there would have interested him.

Instead, at age 18 he married. Where and exactly when are not known, but the episcopal registry at Worcester preserves a bond dated November 28, 1582, and executed by two yeomen of Stratford, named Sandells and Richardson, as a security to the bishop for the issue of a license for the marriage of William Shakespeare and “Anne Hathaway of Stratford,” upon the consent of her friends and upon once asking of the banns. (Anne died in 1623, seven years after Shakespeare. There is good evidence to associate her with a family of Hathaways who inhabited a beautiful farmhouse, now much visited, 2 miles [3.2 km] from Stratford.) The next date of interest is found in the records of the Stratford church, where a daughter, named Susanna, born to William Shakespeare, was baptized on May 26, 1583. On February 2, 1585, twins were baptized, Hamnet and Judith. (Hamnet, Shakespeare’s only son, died 11 years later.)

How Shakespeare spent the next eight years or so, until his name begins to appear in London theatre records, is not known. There are stories—given currency long after his death—of stealing deer and getting into trouble with a local magnate, Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote, near Stratford; of earning his living as a schoolmaster in the country; of going to London and gaining entry to the world of theatre by minding the horses of theatregoers. It has also been conjectured that Shakespeare spent some time as a member of a great household and that he was a soldier, perhaps in the Low Countries. In lieu of external evidence, such extrapolations about Shakespeare’s life have often been made from the internal “evidence” of his writings. But this method is unsatisfactory: one cannot conclude, for example, from his allusions to the law that Shakespeare was a lawyer, for he was clearly a writer who without difficulty could get whatever knowledge he needed for the composition of his plays.

Shakespeare the man » Life » Career in the theatre
The first reference to Shakespeare in the literary world of London comes in 1592, when a fellow dramatist, Robert Greene, declared in a pamphlet written on his deathbed:

There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and, being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.

What these words mean is difficult to determine, but clearly they are insulting, and clearly Shakespeare is the object of the sarcasms. When the book in which they appear (Greenes, groats-worth of witte, bought with a million of Repentance, 1592) was published after Greene’s death, a mutual acquaintance wrote a preface offering an apology to Shakespeare and testifying to his worth. This preface also indicates that Shakespeare was by then making important friends. For, although the puritanical city of London was generally hostile to the theatre, many of the nobility were good patrons of the drama and friends of the actors. Shakespeare seems to have attracted the attention of the young Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd earl of Southampton, and to this nobleman were dedicated his first published poems, Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece.

One striking piece of evidence that Shakespeare began to prosper early and tried to retrieve the family’s fortunes and establish its gentility is the fact that a coat of arms was granted to John Shakespeare in 1596. Rough drafts of this grant have been preserved in the College of Arms, London, though the final document, which must have been handed to the Shakespeares, has not survived. Almost certainly William himself took the initiative and paid the fees. The coat of arms appears on Shakespeare’s monument (constructed before 1623) in the Stratford church. Equally interesting as evidence of Shakespeare’s worldly success was his purchase in 1597 of New Place, a large house in Stratford, which he as a boy must have passed every day in walking to school.

How his career in the theatre began is unclear, but from roughly 1594 onward he was an important member of the Lord Chamberlain’s company of players (called the King’s Men after the accession of James I in 1603). They had the best actor, Richard Burbage; they had the best theatre, the Globe (finished by the autumn of 1599); they had the best dramatist, Shakespeare. It is no wonder that the company prospered. Shakespeare became a full-time professional man of his own theatre, sharing in a cooperative enterprise and intimately concerned with the financial success of the plays he wrote.

Unfortunately, written records give little indication of the way in which Shakespeare’s professional life molded his marvelous artistry. All that can be deduced is that for 20 years Shakespeare devoted himself assiduously to his art, writing more than a million words of poetic drama of the highest quality.

Shakespeare the man » Life » Private life
Shakespeare had little contact with officialdom, apart from walking—dressed in the royal livery as a member of the King’s Men—at the coronation of King James I in 1604. He continued to look after his financial interests. He bought properties in London and in Stratford. In 1605 he purchased a share (about one-fifth) of the Stratford tithes—a fact that explains why he was eventually buried in the chancel of its parish church. For some time he lodged with a French Huguenot family called Mountjoy, who lived near St. Olave’s Church in Cripplegate, London. The records of a lawsuit in May 1612, resulting from a Mountjoy family quarrel, show Shakespeare as giving evidence in a genial way (though unable to remember certain important facts that would have decided the case) and as interesting himself generally in the family’s affairs.

No letters written by Shakespeare have survived, but a private letter to him happened to get caught up with some official transactions of the town of Stratford and so has been preserved in the borough archives. It was written by one Richard Quiney and addressed by him from the Bell Inn in Carter Lane, London, whither he had gone from Stratford on business. On one side of the paper is inscribed: “To my loving good friend and countryman, Mr. Wm. Shakespeare, deliver these.” Apparently Quiney thought his fellow Stratfordian a person to whom he could apply for the loan of £30—a large sum in Elizabethan times. Nothing further is known about the transaction, but, because so few opportunities of seeing into Shakespeare’s private life present themselves, this begging letter becomes a touching document. It is of some interest, moreover, that 18 years later Quiney’s son Thomas became the husband of Judith, Shakespeare’s second daughter.

Shakespeare’s will (made on March 25, 1616) is a long and detailed document. It entailed his quite ample property on the male heirs of his elder daughter, Susanna. (Both his daughters were then married, one to the aforementioned Thomas Quiney and the other to John Hall, a respected physician of Stratford.) As an afterthought, he bequeathed his “second-best bed” to his wife; no one can be certain what this notorious legacy means. The testator’s signatures to the will are apparently in a shaky hand. Perhaps Shakespeare was already ill. He died on April 23, 1616. No name was inscribed on his gravestone in the chancel of the parish church of Stratford-upon-Avon. Instead these lines, possibly his own, appeared:

Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.

John Russell Brown
Terence John Bew Spencer

Shakespeare the man » Life » Sexuality
Like so many circumstances of Shakespeare’s personal life, the question of his sexual nature is shrouded in uncertainty. At age 18, in 1582, he married Anne Hathaway, a woman who was eight years older than he. Their first child, Susanna, was born on May 26, 1583, about six months after the marriage ceremony. A license had been issued for the marriage on November 27, 1582, with only one reading (instead of the usual three) of the banns, or announcement of the intent to marry in order to give any party the opportunity to raise any potential legal objections. This procedure and the swift arrival of the couple’s first child suggest that the pregnancy was unplanned, as it was certainly premarital. The marriage thus appears to have been a “shotgun” wedding. Anne gave birth some 21 months after the arrival of Susanna to twins, named Hamnet and Judith, who were christened on February 2, 1585. Thereafter William and Anne had no more children. They remained married until his death in 1616.

Were they compatible, or did William prefer to live apart from Anne for most of this time? When he moved to London at some point between 1585 and 1592, he did not take his family with him. Divorce was nearly impossible in this era. Were there medical or other reasons for the absence of any more children? Was he present in Stratford when Hamnet, his only son, died in 1596 at age 11? He bought a fine house for his family in Stratford and acquired real estate in the vicinity. He was eventually buried in Holy Trinity Church in Stratford, where Anne joined him in 1623. He seems to have retired to Stratford from London about 1612. He had lived apart from his wife and children, except presumably for occasional visits in the course of a very busy professional life, for at least two decades. His bequeathing in his last will and testament of his “second best bed” to Anne, with no further mention of her name in that document, has suggested to many scholars that the marriage was a disappointment necessitated by an unplanned pregnancy.

What was Shakespeare’s love life like during those decades in London, apart from his family? Knowledge on this subject is uncertain at best. According to an entry dated March 13, 1602, in the commonplace book of a law student named John Manningham, Shakespeare had a brief affair after he happened to overhear a female citizen at a performance of Richard III making an assignation with Richard Burbage, the leading actor of the acting company to which Shakespeare also belonged. Taking advantage of having overheard their conversation, Shakespeare allegedly hastened to the place where the assignation had been arranged, was “entertained” by the woman, and was “at his game” when Burbage showed up. When a message was brought that “Richard the Third” had arrived, Shakespeare is supposed to have “caused return to be made that William the Conqueror was before Richard the Third. Shakespeare’s name William.” This diary entry of Manningham’s must be regarded with much skepticism, since it is verified by no other evidence and since it may simply speak to the timeless truth that actors are regarded as free spirits and bohemians. Indeed, the story was so amusing that it was retold, embellished, and printed in Thomas Likes’s A General View of the Stage (1759) well before Manningham’s diary was discovered. It does at least suggest, at any rate, that Manningham imagined it to be true that Shakespeare was heterosexual and not averse to an occasional infidelity to his marriage vows. The film Shakespeare in Love (1998) plays amusedly with this idea in its purely fictional presentation of Shakespeare’s torchy affair with a young woman named Viola De Lesseps, who was eager to become a player in a professional acting company and who inspired Shakespeare in his writing of Romeo and Juliet—indeed, giving him some of his best lines.

Apart from these intriguing circumstances, little evidence survives other than the poems and plays that Shakespeare wrote. Can anything be learned from them? The sonnets, written perhaps over an extended period from the early 1590s into the 1600s, chronicle a deeply loving relationship between the speaker of the sonnets and a well-born young man. At times the poet-speaker is greatly sustained and comforted by a love that seems reciprocal. More often, the relationship is one that is troubled by painful absences, by jealousies, by the poet’s perception that other writers are winning the young man’s affection, and finally by the deep unhappiness of an outright desertion in which the young man takes away from the poet-speaker the dark-haired beauty whose sexual favours the poet-speaker has enjoyed (though not without some revulsion at his own unbridled lust; see Sonnet 129). This narrative would seem to posit heterosexual desire in the poet-speaker, even if of a troubled and guilty sort; but do the earlier sonnets suggest also a desire for the young man? The relationship is portrayed as indeed deeply emotional and dependent; the poet-speaker cannot live without his friend and that friend’s returning the love that the poet-speaker so ardently feels. Yet readers today cannot easily tell whether that love is aimed at physical completion. Indeed, Sonnet 20 seems to deny that possibility by insisting that Nature’s having equipped the friend with “one thing to my purpose nothing”—that is, a penis—means that physical sex must be regarded as solely in the province of the friend’s relationship with women: “But since she [Nature] pricked thee out for women’s pleasure, / Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.” The bawdy pun on “pricked” underscores the sexual meaning of the sonnet’s concluding couplet. Critic Joseph Pequigney has argued at length that the sonnets nonetheless do commemorate a consummated physical relationship between the poet-speaker and the friend, but most commentators have backed away from such a bold assertion.

A significant difficulty is that one cannot be sure that the sonnets are autobiographical. Shakespeare is such a masterful dramatist that one can easily imagine him creating such an intriguing story line as the basis for his sonnet sequence. Then, too, are the sonnets printed in the order that Shakespeare would have intended? He seems not to have been involved in their publication in 1609, long after most of them had been written. Even so, one can perhaps ask why such a story would have appealed to Shakespeare. Is there a level at which fantasy and dreamwork may be involved?

The plays and other poems lend themselves uncertainly to such speculation. Loving relationships between two men are sometimes portrayed as extraordinarily deep. Antonio in Twelfth Night protests to Sebastian that he needs to accompany Sebastian on his adventures even at great personal risk: “If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant” (Act II, scene 1, lines 33–34). That is to say, I will die if you leave me behind. Another Antonio, in The Merchant of Venice, risks his life for his loving friend Bassanio. Actors in today’s theatre regularly portray these relationships as homosexual, and indeed actors are often incredulous toward anyone who doubts that to be the case. In Troilus and Cressida, Patroclus is rumoured to be Achilles’ “masculine whore” (V, 1, line 17), as is suggested in Homer, and certainly the two are very close in friendship, though Patroclus does admonish Achilles to engage in battle by saying,

A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loathed than an effeminate man
In time of action

Again, on the modern stage this relationship is often portrayed as obviously, even flagrantly, sexual; but whether Shakespeare saw it as such, or the play valorizes homosexuality or bisexuality, is another matter.

Certainly his plays contain many warmly positive depictions of heterosexuality, in the loves of Romeo and Juliet, Orlando and Rosalind, and Henry V and Katharine of France, among many others. At the same time, Shakespeare is astute in his representations of sexual ambiguity. Viola—in disguise as a young man, Cesario, in Twelfth Night—wins the love of Duke Orsino in such a delicate way that what appears to be the love between two men morphs into the heterosexual mating of Orsino and Viola. The ambiguity is reinforced by the audience’s knowledge that in Shakespeare’s theatre Viola/Cesario was portrayed by a boy actor of perhaps 16. All the cross-dressing situations in the comedies, involving Portia in The Merchant of Venice, Rosalind/Ganymede in As You Like It, Imogen in Cymbeline, and many others, playfully explore the uncertain boundaries between the genders. Rosalind’s male disguise name in As You Like It, Ganymede, is that of the cupbearer to Zeus with whom the god was enamoured; the ancient legends assume that Ganymede was Zeus’s catamite. Shakespeare is characteristically delicate on that score, but he does seem to delight in the frisson of sexual suggestion.

David Bevington

Shakespeare the man » Early posthumous documentation
Shakespeare’s family or friends, however, were not content with a simple gravestone, and, within a few years, a monument was erected on the chancel wall. It seems to have existed by 1623. Its epitaph, written in Latin and inscribed immediately below the bust, attributes to Shakespeare the worldly wisdom of Nestor, the genius of Socrates, and the poetic art of Virgil. This apparently was how his contemporaries in Stratford-upon-Avon wished their fellow citizen to be remembered.

Shakespeare the man » Early posthumous documentation » The tributes of his colleagues
The memory of Shakespeare survived long in theatrical circles, for his plays remained a major part of the repertory of the King’s Men until the closing of the theatres in 1642. The greatest of Shakespeare’s great contemporaries in the theatre, Ben Jonson, had a good deal to say about him. To William Drummond of Hawthornden in 1619 he said that Shakespeare “wanted art.” But, when Jonson came to write his splendid poem prefixed to the Folio edition of Shakespeare’s plays in 1623, he rose to the occasion with stirring words of praise:

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!

Besides almost retracting his earlier gibe about Shakespeare’s lack of art, he gives testimony that Shakespeare’s personality was to be felt, by those who knew him, in his poetry—that the style was the man. Jonson also reminded his readers of the strong impression the plays had made upon Queen Elizabeth I and King James I at court performances:

Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James!

Shakespeare seems to have been on affectionate terms with his theatre colleagues. His fellow actors John Heminge and Henry Condell (who, with Burbage, were remembered in his will) dedicated the First Folio of 1623 to the earl of Pembroke and the earl of Montgomery, explaining that they had collected the plays “without ambition either of self-profit or fame; only to keep the memory of so worthy a friend and fellow alive as was our Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare the man » Early posthumous documentation » Anecdotes and documents
Seventeenth-century antiquaries began to collect anecdotes about Shakespeare, but no serious life was written until 1709, when Nicholas Rowe tried to assemble information from all available sources with the aim of producing a connected narrative. There were local traditions at Stratford: witticisms and lampoons of local characters; scandalous stories of drunkenness and sexual escapades. About 1661 the vicar of Stratford wrote in his diary: “Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merry meeting, and it seems drank too hard; for Shakespeare died of a fever there contracted.” On the other hand, the antiquary John Aubrey wrote in some notes about Shakespeare: “He was not a company keeper; lived in Shoreditch; wouldn’t be debauched, and, if invited to, writ he was in pain.” Richard Davies, archdeacon of Lichfield, reported, “He died a papist.” How much trust can be put in such a story is uncertain. In the early 18th century a story appeared that Queen Elizabeth had obliged Shakespeare “to write a play of Sir John Falstaff in love” and that he had performed the task (The Merry Wives of Windsor) in a fortnight. There are other stories, all of uncertain authenticity and some mere fabrications.

When serious scholarship began in the 18th century, it was too late to gain anything from traditions. But documents began to be discovered. Shakespeare’s will was found in 1747 and his marriage license in 1836. The documents relating to the Mountjoy lawsuit already mentioned were found and printed in 1910. It is conceivable that further documents of a legal nature may yet be discovered, but as time passes the hope becomes more remote. Modern scholarship is more concerned to study Shakespeare in relation to his social environment, both in Stratford and in London. This is not easy, because the author and actor lived a somewhat detached life: a respected tithe-owning country gentleman in Stratford, perhaps, but a rather rootless artist in London.

John Russell Brown
Terence John Bew Spencer

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » The intellectual background
Shakespeare lived at a time when ideas and social structures established in the Middle Ages still informed human thought and behaviour. Queen Elizabeth I was God’s deputy on earth, and lords and commoners had their due places in society under her, with responsibilities up through her to God and down to those of more humble rank. The order of things, however, did not go unquestioned. Atheism was still considered a challenge to the beliefs and way of life of a majority of Elizabethans, but the Christian faith was no longer single. Rome’s authority had been challenged by Martin Luther, John Calvin, a multitude of small religious sects, and, indeed, the English church itself. Royal prerogative was challenged in Parliament; the economic and social orders were disturbed by the rise of capitalism, by the redistribution of monastic lands under Henry VIII, by the expansion of education, and by the influx of new wealth from discovery of new lands.

An interplay of new and old ideas was typical of the time: official homilies exhorted the people to obedience; the Italian political theorist Niccolò Machiavelli was expounding a new, practical code of politics that caused Englishmen to fear the Italian “Machiavillain” and yet prompted them to ask what men do, rather than what they should do. In Hamlet, disquisitions—on man, belief, a “rotten” state, and times “out of joint”—clearly reflect a growing disquiet and skepticism. The translation of Montaigne’s Essays in 1603 gave further currency, range, and finesse to such thought, and Shakespeare was one of many who read them, making direct and significant quotations in The Tempest. In philosophical inquiry the question “How?” became the impulse for advance, rather than the traditional “Why?” of Aristotle. Shakespeare’s plays written between 1603 and 1606 unmistakably reflect a new, Jacobean distrust. James I, who, like Elizabeth, claimed divine authority, was far less able than she to maintain the authority of the throne. The so-called Gunpowder Plot (1605) showed a determined challenge by a small minority in the state; James’s struggles with the House of Commons in successive Parliaments, in addition to indicating the strength of the “new men,” also revealed the inadequacies of the administration.

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » Poetic conventions and dramatic traditions
The Latin comedies of Plautus and Terence were familiar in Elizabethan schools and universities, and English translations or adaptations of them were occasionally performed by students. Seneca’s rhetorical and sensational tragedies, too, had been translated and often imitated. But there was also a strong native dramatic tradition deriving from the medieval miracle plays, which had continued to be performed in various towns until forbidden during Elizabeth’s reign. This native drama had been able to assimilate French popular farce, clerically inspired morality plays on abstract themes, and interludes or short entertainments that made use of the “turns” of individual clowns and actors. Although Shakespeare’s immediate predecessors were known as University wits, their plays were seldom structured in the manner of those they had studied at Oxford or Cambridge; instead, they used and developed the more popular narrative forms.

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » Poetic conventions and dramatic traditions » Changes in language
The English language at this time was changing and extending its range. The poet Edmund Spenser led with the restoration of old words, and schoolmasters, poets, sophisticated courtiers, and travelers all brought further contributions from France, Italy, and the Roman classics, as well as from farther afield. Helped by the growing availability of cheaper, printed books, the language began to become standardized in grammar and vocabulary and, more slowly, in spelling. Ambitious for a European and permanent reputation, the essayist and philosopher Francis Bacon wrote in Latin as well as in English; but, if he had lived only a few decades later, even he might have had total confidence in his own tongue.

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » Poetic conventions and dramatic traditions » Shakespeare’s literary debts
Shakespeare’s most obvious debt was to Raphael Holinshed, whose Chronicles (the second edition, published in 1587) furnished story material for several plays, including Macbeth and King Lear. In Shakespeare’s earlier works other debts stand out clearly: to Plautus for the structure of The Comedy of Errors; to the poet Ovid and to Seneca for rhetoric and incident in Titus Andronicus; to morality drama for a scene in which a father mourns his dead son and a son his father, in Henry VI, Part 3; to Christopher Marlowe for sentiments and characterization in Richard III and The Merchant of Venice; to the Italian popular tradition of commedia dell’arte for characterization and dramatic style in The Taming of the Shrew; and so on. Soon, however, there was no line between their effects and his. In The Tempest (perhaps the most original of all his plays in form, theme, language, and setting) folk influences may also be traced, together with a newer and more obvious debt to a courtly diversion known as the masque, as developed by Ben Jonson and others at the court of King James.

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » Theatrical conditions
hereThe Globe and its predecessor, the Theatre, were public playhouses run by the Chamberlain’s Men, a leading theatre company of which Shakespeare was a member. Almost all classes of citizens, excepting many Puritans and like-minded Reformers, came to them for afternoon entertainment. The players were also summoned to court, to perform before the monarch and assembled nobility. In times of plague, usually in the summer, they might tour the provinces, and on occasion they performed at London’s Inns of Court (associations of law students), at universities, and in great houses. Popularity led to an insatiable demand for plays: early in 1613 the King’s Men—as the Chamberlain’s Men were then known—could present “fourteen several plays.” The theatre soon became fashionable, too, and in 1608–09 the King’s Men started to perform on a regular basis at the Blackfriars, a “private” indoor theatre where high admission charges assured the company a more select and sophisticated audience for their performances. (For more on theatre in Shakespeare’s day, see Sidebar: Shakespeare and the Liberties.)

Shakespeare’s first associations with the Chamberlain’s Men seem to have been as an actor. He is not known to have acted after 1603, and tradition gives him only secondary roles, such as the ghost in Hamlet and Adam in As You Like It, but his continuous association must have given him direct working knowledge of all aspects of theatre. Numerous passages in his plays show conscious concern for theatre arts and audience reactions. Hamlet gives expert advice to visiting actors in the art of playing. Prospero in The Tempest speaks of the whole of life as a kind of “revels,” or theatrical show, that, like a dream, will soon be over. The Duke of York in Richard II is conscious of how

…in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious.

(For more about Shakespeare and dramatic performance in his day, see Sidebar: Shakespeare on Theatre.)

In Shakespeare’s day there was little time for group rehearsals, and actors were given the words of only their own parts. The crucial scenes in Shakespeare’s plays, therefore, are between two or three characters only or else are played with one character dominating a crowded stage. Most female parts were written for young male actors or boys, so Shakespeare did not often write big roles for them or keep them actively engaged onstage for lengthy periods. Writing for the clowns of the company—who were important popular attractions in any play—presented the problem of allowing them to use their comic personalities and tricks and yet have them serve the immediate interests of theme and action. (For a discussion of music in Shakespeare’s plays, see Sidebar: Music in Shakespeare’s Plays.)

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » The chronology of Shakespeare’s plays
Despite much scholarly argument, it is often impossible to date a given play precisely. But there is a general consensus, especially for plays written in 1588–1601, in 1605–07, and from 1609 onward. The following list of dates of composition is based on external and internal evidence, on general stylistic and thematic considerations, and on the observation that an output of no more than two plays a year seems to have been established in those periods when dating is rather clearer than others.

1588–97 Love’s Labour’s Lost 1589–92 Henry VI, Part 1; Titus Andronicus 1589–94 The Comedy of Errors 1590–92 Henry VI, Part 2 1590–93 Henry VI, Part 3 1590–94 The Taming of the Shrew, The Two Gentlemen of Verona 1590–95 Edward III 1592–94 Richard III 1594–96 King John, Romeo and Juliet 1595–96 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Richard II 1596–97 The Merchant of Venice; Henry IV, Part 1 1597–98 Henry IV, Part 2 1597–1601 The Merry Wives of Windsor 1598–99 Much Ado About Nothing 1598–1600 As You Like It 1599 Henry V 1599–1600 Julius Caesar 1599–1601 Hamlet 1600–02 Twelfth Night 1601–02 Troilus and Cressida 1601–05 All’s Well That Ends Well 1603–04 Measure for Measure, Othello 1605–06 King Lear 1605–08 Timon of Athens 1606–07 Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra 1606–08 Pericles 1608 Coriolanus 1608–10 Cymbeline 1609–11 The Winter’s Tale 1611 The Tempest 1612–14 The Two Noble Kinsmen 1613 Henry VIII
Shakespeare’s two narrative poems, Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece, can be dated with certainty to the years when the plague stopped dramatic performances in London, in 1592–93 and 1593–94, respectively, just before their publication. But the sonnets offer many and various problems; they cannot have been written all at one time, and most scholars set them within the period 1593–1600. The Phoenix and the Turtle can be dated 1600–01.

Shakespeare the poet and dramatist » Publication
Acting companies in London during the Renaissance were perennially in search of new plays. They usually paid on a piecework basis, to freelance writers. Shakespeare was an important exception; as a member of Lord Chamberlain’s Men and then the King’s Men, he wrote for his company as a sharer in their capitalist enterprise.

The companies were not eager to sell their plays to publishers, especially when the plays were still popular and in the repertory. At certain times, however, the companies might be impelled to do so: when a company disbanded or when it was put into enforced inactivity by visitations of the plague or when the plays were no longer current. (The companies owned the plays; the individual authors had no intellectual property rights once the plays had been sold to the actors.)

Such plays were usually published in quarto form—that is, printed on both sides of large sheets of paper with four printed pages on each side. When the sheet was folded twice and bound, it yielded eight printed pages to each “gathering.” A few plays were printed in octavo, with the sheet being folded thrice and yielding 16 smaller printed pages to each gathering.

Half of Shakespeare’s plays were printed in quarto (at least one in octavo) during his lifetime. Occasionally a play was issued in a seemingly unauthorized volume—that is, not having been regularly sold by the company to the publisher. The acting company might then commission its own authorized version. The quarto title page of Romeo and Juliet (1599), known today as the second quarto, declares that it is “Newly corrected, augmented, and amended, as it hath been sundry times publicly acted by the Right Honorable the Lord Chamberlain His Servants.” The second quarto of Hamlet (1604–05) similarly advertises itself as “Newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much again as it was, according to the true and perfect copy.” Indeed, the first quarto of Hamlet (1603) is considerably shorter than the second, and the first quarto of Romeo and Juliet lacks some 800 lines found in its successor. Both contain what appear to be misprints or other errors that are then corrected in the second quarto. The first quarto of Love’s Labour’s Lost (1598) presents itself as “Newly corrected and augmented,” implying perhaps that it, too, corrects an earlier, unauthorized version of the play, though none today is known to exist.

The status of these and other seemingly unauthorized editions is much debated today. The older view of A.W. Pollard, W.W. Greg, Fredson Bowers, and other practitioners of the so-called New Bibliography generally regards these texts as suspect and perhaps pirated, either by unscrupulous visitors to the theatre or by minor actors who took part in performance and who then were paid to reconstruct the plays from memory. The unauthorized texts do contain elements that sound like the work of eyewitnesses or actors (and are valuable for that reason). In some instances, the unauthorized text is notably closer to the authorized text when certain minor actors are onstage than at other times, suggesting that these actors may have been involved in a memorial reconstruction. The plays Henry VI, Part 2 and Henry VI, Part 3 originally appeared in shorter versions that may have been memorially reconstructed by actors.

A revisionary school of textual criticism that gained favour in the latter part of the 20th century argued that these texts might have been earlier versions with their own theatrical rationale and that they should be regarded as part of a theatrical process by which the plays evolved onstage. Certainly the situation varies from quarto to quarto, and unquestionably the unauthorized quartos are valuable to the understanding of stage history.

Several years after Shakespeare died in 1616, colleagues of his in the King’s Men, John Heminge and Henry Condell, undertook the assembling of a collected edition. It appeared in 1623 as Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies, Published According to the True Original Copies. It did not contain the poems and left out Pericles as perhaps of uncertain authorship; nor did it include The Two Noble Kinsmen, Edward III, or the portion of The Book of Sir Thomas More that Shakespeare may have contributed. It did nonetheless include 36 plays, half of them appearing in print for the first time.

Heminge and Condell had the burdensome task of choosing what materials to present to the printer, for they had on hand a number of authorial manuscripts, other documents that had served as promptbooks for performance (these were especially valuable since they bore the license for performance), and some 18 plays that had appeared in print. Fourteen of these had been published in what the editors regarded as more or less reliable texts (though only two were used unaltered): Titus Andronicus; Romeo and Juliet (the second quarto); Richard II; Richard III; Love’s Labour’s Lost; Henry IV, Part 1; Henry IV, Part 2; A Midsummer Night’s Dream; The Merchant of Venice; Much Ado About Nothing; Hamlet; King Lear; Troilus and Cressida; and Othello. Henry VI, Part 1 and Henry VI, Part 2 had been published in quarto in shortened form and under different titles (The First Part of the Contention Betwixt the Two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster and The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York) but were not used in this form by Heminge and Condell for the 1623 Folio.

Much was discovered by textual scholarship after Heminge and Condell did their original work, and the result was a considerable revision in what came to be regarded as the best choice of original text from which an editor ought to work. In plays published both in folio and quarto (or octavo) format, the task of choosing was immensely complicated. King Lear especially became a critical battleground in which editors argued for the superiority of various features of the 1608 quarto or the folio text. The two differ substantially and must indeed represent different stages of composition and of staging, so that both are germane to an understanding of the play’s textual and theatrical history. The same is true of Hamlet, with its unauthorized quarto of 1603, its corrected quarto of 1604–05, and the folio text, all significantly at variance with one another. Other plays in which the textual relationship of quarto to folio is highly problematic include Troilus and Cressida; Othello; Henry IV, Part 2; Henry VI, Part 1 and Henry VI, Part 2; The Merry Wives of Windsor; Henry V; and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Most of the cases where there are both quarto and folio originals are problematic in some interesting way. Individual situations are too complex to be described here, but information is readily available in critical editions of Shakespeare’s plays and poems, especially in The Oxford Shakespeare, in a collected edition and in individual critical editions; The New Cambridge Shakespeare; and the third series of The Arden Shakespeare.

John Russell Brown
Terence John Bew Spencer
David Bevington

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » The early plays
Shakespeare arrived in London probably sometime in the late 1580s. He was in his mid-20s. It is not known how he got started in the theatre or for what acting companies he wrote his early plays, which are not easy to date. Indicating a time of apprenticeship, these plays show a more direct debt to London dramatists of the 1580s and to Classical examples than do his later works. He learned a great deal about writing plays by imitating the successes of the London theatre, as any young poet and budding dramatist might do.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » The early plays » Titus Andronicus
Titus Andronicus (c. 1589–92) is a case in point. As Shakespeare’s first full-length tragedy, it owes much of its theme, structure, and language to Thomas Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy, which was a huge success in the late 1580s. Kyd had hit on the formula of adopting the dramaturgy of Seneca (the younger), the great Stoic philosopher and statesman, to the needs of a burgeoning new London theatre. The result was the revenge tragedy, an astonishingly successful genre that was to be refigured in Hamlet and many other revenge plays. Shakespeare also borrowed a leaf from his great contemporary Christopher Marlowe. The Vice-like protagonist of Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta, Barabas, may have inspired Shakespeare in his depiction of the villainous Aaron the Moor in Titus Andronicus, though other Vice figures were available to him as well.

The Senecan model offered Kyd, and then Shakespeare, a story of bloody revenge, occasioned originally by the murder or rape of a person whose near relatives (fathers, sons, brothers) are bound by sacred oath to revenge the atrocity. The avenger must proceed with caution, since his opponent is canny, secretive, and ruthless. The avenger becomes mad or feigns madness to cover his intent. He becomes more and more ruthless himself as he moves toward his goal of vengeance. At the same time he is hesitant, being deeply distressed by ethical considerations. An ethos of revenge is opposed to one of Christian forbearance. The avenger may see the spirit of the person whose wrongful death he must avenge. He employs the device of a play within the play in order to accomplish his aims. The play ends in a bloodbath and a vindication of the avenger. Evident in this model is the story of Titus Andronicus, whose sons are butchered and whose daughter is raped and mutilated, as well as the story of Hamlet and still others.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » The early plays » The early romantic comedies
Other than Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare did not experiment with formal tragedy in his early years. (Though his English history plays from this period portrayed tragic events, their theme was focused elsewhere.) The young playwright was drawn more quickly into comedy, and with more immediate success. For this his models include the dramatists Robert Greene and John Lyly, along with Thomas Nashe. The result is a genre recognizably and distinctively Shakespearean, even if he learned a lot from Greene and Lyly: the romantic comedy. As in the work of his models, Shakespeare’s early comedies revel in stories of amorous courtship in which a plucky and admirable young woman (played by a boy actor) is paired off against her male wooer. Julia, one of two young heroines in The Two Gentlemen of Verona (c. 1590–94), disguises herself as a man in order to follow her lover, Proteus, when he is sent from Verona to Milan. Proteus (appropriately named for the changeable Proteus of Greek myth), she discovers, is paying far too much attention to Sylvia, the beloved of Proteus’s best friend, Valentine. Love and friendship thus do battle for the divided loyalties of the erring male until the generosity of his friend and, most of all, the enduring chaste loyalty of the two women bring Proteus to his senses. The motif of the young woman disguised as a male was to prove invaluable to Shakespeare in subsequent romantic comedies, including The Merchant of Venice, As You Like It, and Twelfth Night. As is generally true of Shakespeare, he derived the essentials of his plot from a narrative source, in this case a long Spanish prose romance, the Diana of Jorge de Montemayor.

Shakespeare’s most classically inspired early comedy is The Comedy of Errors (c. 1589–94). Here he turned particularly to Plautus’s farcical play called the Menaechmi (Twins). The story of one twin (Antipholus) looking for his lost brother, accompanied by a clever servant (Dromio) whose twin has also disappeared, results in a farce of mistaken identities that also thoughtfully explores issues of identity and self-knowing. The young women of the play, one the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus (Adriana) and the other her sister (Luciana), engage in meaningful dialogue on issues of wifely obedience and autonomy. Marriage resolves these difficulties at the end, as is routinely the case in Shakespearean romantic comedy, but not before the plot complications have tested the characters’ needs to know who they are and what men and women ought to expect from one another.

Shakespeare’s early romantic comedy most indebted to John Lyly is Love’s Labour’s Lost (c. 1588–97), a confection set in the never-never land of Navarre where the King and his companions are visited by the Princess of France and her ladies-in-waiting on a diplomatic mission that soon devolves into a game of courtship. As is often the case in Shakespearean romantic comedy, the young women are sure of who they are and whom they intend to marry; one cannot be certain that they ever really fall in love, since they begin by knowing what they want. The young men, conversely, fall all over themselves in their comically futile attempts to eschew romantic love in favour of more serious pursuits. They perjure themselves, are shamed and put down, and are finally forgiven their follies by the women. Shakespeare brilliantly portrays male discomfiture and female self-assurance as he explores the treacherous but desirable world of sexual attraction, while the verbal gymnastics of the play emphasize the wonder and the delicious foolishness of falling in love.

In The Taming of the Shrew (c. 1590–94), Shakespeare employs a device of multiple plotting that is to become a standard feature of his romantic comedies. In one plot, derived from Ludovico Ariosto’s I suppositi (Supposes, as it had been translated into English by George Gascoigne), a young woman (Bianca) carries on a risky courtship with a young man who appears to be a tutor, much to the dismay of her father, who hopes to marry her to a wealthy suitor of his own choosing. Eventually the mistaken identities are straightened out, establishing the presumed tutor as Lucentio, wealthy and suitable enough. Simultaneously, Bianca’s shrewish sister Kate denounces (and terrorizes) all men. Bianca’s suitors commission the self-assured Petruchio to pursue Kate so that Bianca, the younger sister, will be free to wed. The wife-taming plot is itself based on folktale and ballad tradition in which men assure their ascendancy in the marriage relationship by beating their wives into submission. Shakespeare transforms this raw, antifeminist material into a study of the struggle for dominance in the marriage relationship. And, whereas he does opt in this play for male triumph over the female, he gives to Kate a sense of humour that enables her to see how she is to play the game to her own advantage as well. She is, arguably, happy at the end with a relationship based on wit and companionship, whereas her sister Bianca turns out to be simply spoiled.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » The early plays » The early histories
In Shakespeare’s explorations of English history, as in romantic comedy, he put his distinctive mark on a genre and made it his. The genre was, moreover, an unusual one. There was as yet no definition of an English history play, and there were no aesthetic rules regarding its shaping. The ancient Classical world had recognized two broad categories of genre, comedy and tragedy. (This account leaves out more specialized genres like the satyr play.) Aristotle and other critics, including Horace, had evolved, over centuries, Classical definitions. Tragedy dealt with the disaster-struck lives of great persons, was written in elevated verse, and took as its setting a mythological and ancient world of gods and heroes: Agamemnon, Theseus, Oedipus, Medea, and the rest. Pity and terror were the prevailing emotional responses in plays that sought to understand, however imperfectly, the will of the supreme gods. Classical comedy, conversely, dramatized the everyday. Its chief figures were citizens of Athens and Rome—householders, courtesans, slaves, scoundrels, and so forth. The humour was immediate, contemporary, topical; the lampooning was satirical, even savage. Members of the audience were invited to look at mimetic representations of their own daily lives and to laugh at greed and folly.

The English history play had no such ideal theoretical structure. It was an existential invention: the dramatic treatment of recent English history. It might be tragic or comic or, more commonly, a hybrid. Polonius’s list of generic possibilities captures the ludicrous potential for endless hybridizations: “tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,” and so on (Hamlet, Act II, scene 2, lines 397–399). (By “pastoral,” Polonius presumably means a play based on romances telling of shepherds and rural life, as contrasted with the corruptions of city and court.) Shakespeare’s history plays were so successful in the 1590s’ London theatre that the editors of Shakespeare’s complete works, in 1623, chose to group his dramatic output under three headings: comedies, histories, and tragedies. The genre established itself by sheer force of its compelling popularity.

Shakespeare in 1590 or thereabouts had really only one viable model for the English history play, an anonymous and sprawling drama called The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth (1583–88) that told the saga of Henry IV’s son, Prince Hal, from the days of his adolescent rebellion down through his victory over the French at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415—in other words, the material that Shakespeare would later use in writing three major plays, Henry IV, Part 1; Henry IV, Part 2; and Henry V. Shakespeare chose to start not with Prince Hal but with more recent history in the reign of Henry V’s son Henry VI and with the civil wars that saw the overthrow of Henry VI by Edward IV and then the accession to power in 1483 of Richard III. This material proved to be so rich in themes and dramatic conflicts that he wrote four plays on it, a “tetralogy” extending from Henry VI in three parts (c. 1589–93) to Richard III (c. 1592–94).

These plays were immediately successful. Contemporary references indicate that audiences of the early 1590s thrilled to the story (in Henry VI, Part 1) of the brave Lord Talbot doing battle in France against the witch Joan of Arc and her lover, the French Dauphin, but being undermined in his heroic effort by effeminacy and corruption at home. Henry VI himself is, as Shakespeare portrays him, a weak king, raised to the kingship by the early death of his father, incapable of controlling factionalism in his court, and enervated personally by his infatuation with a dangerous Frenchwoman, Margaret of Anjou. Henry VI is cuckolded by his wife and her lover, the Duke of Suffolk, and (in Henry VI, Part 2) proves unable to defend his virtuous uncle, the Duke of Gloucester, against opportunistic enemies. The result is civil unrest, lower-class rebellion (led by Jack Cade), and eventually all-out civil war between the Lancastrian faction, nominally headed by Henry VI, and the Yorkist claimants under the leadership of Edward IV and his brothers. Richard III completes the saga with its account of the baleful rise of Richard of Gloucester through the murdering of his brother the Duke of Clarence and of Edward IV’s two sons, who were also Richard’s nephews. Richard’s tyrannical reign yields eventually and inevitably to the newest and most successful claimant of the throne, Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond. This is the man who becomes Henry VII, scion of the Tudor dynasty and grandfather of Queen Elizabeth I, who reigned from 1558 to 1603 and hence during the entire first decade and more of Shakespeare’s productive career.

The Shakespearean English history play told of the country’s history at a time when the English nation was struggling with its own sense of national identity and experiencing a new sense of power. Queen Elizabeth had brought stability and a relative freedom from war to her decades of rule. She had held at bay the Roman Catholic powers of the Continent, notably Philip II of Spain, and, with the help of a storm at sea, had fought off Philip’s attempts to invade her kingdom with the great Spanish Armada of 1588. In England the triumph of the nation was viewed universally as a divine deliverance. The second edition of Holinshed’s Chronicles was at hand as a vast source for Shakespeare’s historical playwriting. It, too, celebrated the emergence of England as a major Protestant power, led by a popular and astute monarch.

From the perspective of the 1590s, the history of the 15th century also seemed newly pertinent. England had emerged from a terrible civil war in 1485, with Henry Tudor’s victory over Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field. The chief personages of these wars, known as the Wars of the Roses—Henry Tudor, Richard III, the duke of Buckingham, Hastings, Rivers, Gray, and many more—were very familiar to contemporary English readers.

Because these historical plays of Shakespeare in the early 1590s were so intent on telling the saga of emergent nationhood, they exhibit a strong tendency to identify villains and heroes. Shakespeare is writing dramas, not schoolbook texts, and he freely alters dates and facts and emphases. Lord Talbot in Henry VI, Part 1 is a hero because he dies defending English interests against the corrupt French. In Henry VI, Part 2 Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, is cut down by opportunists because he represents the best interests of the commoners and the nation as a whole. Most of all, Richard of Gloucester is made out to be a villain epitomizing the very worst features of a chaotic century of civil strife. He foments strife, lies, and murders and makes outrageous promises he has no intention of keeping. He is a brilliantly theatrical figure because he is so inventive and clever, but he is also deeply threatening. Shakespeare gives him every defect that popular tradition imagined: a hunchback, a baleful glittering eye, a conspiratorial genius. The real Richard was no such villain, it seems; at least, his politically inspired murders were no worse than the systematic elimination of all opposition by his successor, the historical Henry VII. The difference is that Henry VII lived to commission historians to tell the story his way, whereas Richard lost everything through defeat. As founder of the Tudor dynasty and grandfather of Queen Elizabeth, Henry VII could command a respect that even Shakespeare was bound to honour, and accordingly the Henry Tudor that he portrays at the end of Richard III is a God-fearing patriot and loving husband of the Yorkist princess who is to give birth to the next generation of Tudor monarchs.

Richard III is a tremendous play, both in length and in the bravura depiction of its titular protagonist. It is called a tragedy on its original title page, as are other of these early English history plays. Certainly they present us with brutal deaths and with instructive falls of great men from positions of high authority to degradation and misery. Yet these plays are not tragedies in the Classical sense of the term. They contain so much else, and notably they end on a major key: the accession to power of the Tudor dynasty that will give England its great years under Elizabeth. The story line is one of suffering and of eventual salvation, of deliverance by mighty forces of history and of divine oversight that will not allow England to continue to suffer once she has returned to the true path of duty and decency. In this important sense, the early history plays are like tragicomedies or romances.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » The poems
Shakespeare seems to have wanted to be a poet as much as he sought to succeed in the theatre. His plays are wonderfully and poetically written, often in blank verse. And when he experienced a pause in his theatrical career about 1592–94, the plague having closed down much theatrical activity, he wrote poems. Venus and Adonis (1593) and The Rape of Lucrece (1594) are the only works that Shakespeare seems to have shepherded through the printing process. Both owe a good deal to Ovid, the Classical poet whose writings Shakespeare encountered repeatedly in school. These two poems are the only works for which he wrote dedicatory prefaces. Both are to Henry Wriothesley, earl of Southampton. This young man, a favourite at court, seems to have encouraged Shakespeare and to have served for a brief time at least as his sponsor. The dedication to the second poem is measurably warmer than the first. An unreliable tradition supposes that Southampton gave Shakespeare the stake he needed to buy into the newly formed Lord Chamberlain’s acting company in 1594. Shakespeare became an actor-sharer, one of the owners in a capitalist enterprise that shared the risks and the gains among them. This company succeeded brilliantly; Shakespeare and his colleagues, including Richard Burbage, John Heminge, Henry Condell, and Will Sly, became wealthy through their dramatic presentations.

Shakespeare may also have written at least some of his sonnets to Southampton, beginning in these same years of 1593–94 and continuing on through the decade and later. The question of autobiographical basis in the sonnets is much debated, but Southampton at least fits the portrait of a young gentleman who is being urged to marry and produce a family. (Southampton’s family was eager that he do just this.) Whether the account of a strong, loving relationship between the poet and his gentleman friend is autobiographical is more difficult still to determine. As a narrative, the sonnet sequence tells of strong attachment, of jealousy, of grief at separation, of joy at being together and sharing beautiful experiences. The emphasis on the importance of poetry as a way of eternizing human achievement and of creating a lasting memory for the poet himself is appropriate to a friendship between a poet of modest social station and a friend who is better-born. When the sonnet sequence introduces the so-called “Dark Lady,” the narrative becomes one of painful and destructive jealousy. Scholars do not know the order in which the sonnets were composed—Shakespeare seems to have had no part in publishing them—but no order other than the order of publication has been proposed, and, as the sonnets stand, they tell a coherent and disturbing tale. The poet experiences sex as something that fills him with revulsion and remorse, at least in the lustful circumstances in which he encounters it. His attachment to the young man is a love relationship that sustains him at times more than the love of the Dark Lady can do, and yet this loving friendship also dooms the poet to disappointment and self-hatred. Whether the sequence reflects any circumstances in Shakespeare’s personal life, it certainly is told with an immediacy and dramatic power that bespeak an extraordinary gift for seeing into the human heart and its sorrows.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » Romantic comedies
In the second half of the 1590s, Shakespeare brought to perfection the genre of romantic comedy that he had helped to invent. A Midsummer Night’s Dream (c. 1595–96), one of the most successful of all his plays, displays the kind of multiple plotting he had practiced in The Taming of the Shrew and other earlier comedies. The overarching plot is of Duke Theseus of Athens and his impending marriage to an Amazonian warrior, Hippolyta, whom Theseus has recently conquered and brought back to Athens to be his bride. Their marriage ends the play. They share this concluding ceremony with the four young lovers Hermia and Lysander, Helena and Demetrius, who have fled into the forest nearby to escape the Athenian law and to pursue one another, whereupon they are subjected to a complicated series of mix-ups. Eventually all is righted by fairy magic, though the fairies are no less at strife. Oberon, king of the fairies, quarrels with his Queen Titania over a changeling boy and punishes her by causing her to fall in love with an Athenian artisan who wears an ass’s head. The artisans are in the forest to rehearse a play for the forthcoming marriage of Theseus and Hippolyta. Thus four separate strands or plots interact with one another. Despite the play’s brevity, it is a masterpiece of artful construction.

The use of multiple plots encourages a varied treatment of the experiencing of love. For the two young human couples, falling in love is quite hazardous; the long-standing friendship between the two young women is threatened and almost destroyed by the rivalries of heterosexual encounter. The eventual transition to heterosexual marriage seems to them to have been a process of dreaming, indeed of nightmare, from which they emerge miraculously restored to their best selves. Meantime the marital strife of Oberon and Titania is, more disturbingly, one in which the female is humiliated until she submits to the will of her husband. Similarly, Hippolyta is an Amazon warrior queen who has had to submit to the authority of a husband. Fathers and daughters are no less at strife until, as in a dream, all is resolved by the magic of Puck and Oberon. Love is ambivalently both an enduring ideal relationship and a struggle for mastery in which the male has the upper hand.

The Merchant of Venice (c. 1596–97) uses a double plot structure to contrast a tale of romantic wooing with one that comes close to tragedy. Portia is a fine example of a romantic heroine in Shakespeare’s mature comedies: she is witty, rich, exacting in what she expects of men, and adept at putting herself in a male disguise to make her presence felt. She is loyally obedient to her father’s will and yet determined that she shall have Bassanio. She triumphantly resolves the murky legal affairs of Venice when the men have all failed. Shylock, the Jewish moneylender, is at the point of exacting a pound of flesh from Bassanio’s friend Antonio as payment for a forfeited loan. Portia foils him in his attempt in a way that is both clever and shystering. Sympathy is uneasily balanced in Shakespeare’s portrayal of Shylock, who is both persecuted by his Christian opponents and all too ready to demand an eye for an eye according to ancient law. Ultimately Portia triumphs, not only with Shylock in the court of law but in her marriage with Bassanio.

Much Ado About Nothing (c. 1598–99) revisits the issue of power struggles in courtship, again in a revealingly double plot. The young heroine of the more conventional story, derived from Italianate fiction, is wooed by a respectable young aristocrat named Claudio who has won his spurs and now considers it his pleasant duty to take a wife. He knows so little about Hero (as she is named) that he gullibly credits the contrived evidence of the play’s villain, Don John, that she has had many lovers, including one on the evening before the intended wedding. Other men as well, including Claudio’s senior officer, Don Pedro, and Hero’s father, Leonato, are all too ready to believe the slanderous accusation. Only comic circumstances rescue Hero from her accusers and reveal to the men that they have been fools. Meantime, Hero’s cousin, Beatrice, finds it hard to overcome her skepticism about men, even when she is wooed by Benedick, who is also a skeptic about marriage. Here the barriers to romantic understanding are inner and psychological and must be defeated by the good-natured plotting of their friends, who see that Beatrice and Benedick are truly made for one another in their wit and candour if they can only overcome their fear of being outwitted by each other. In what could be regarded as a brilliant rewriting of The Taming of the Shrew, the witty battle of the sexes is no less amusing and complicated, but the eventual accommodation finds something much closer to mutual respect and equality between men and women.

Rosalind, in As You Like It (c. 1598–1600), makes use of the by-now familiar device of disguise as a young man in order to pursue the ends of promoting a rich and substantial relationship between the sexes. As in other of these plays, Rosalind is more emotionally stable and mature than her young man, Orlando. He lacks formal education and is all rough edges, though fundamentally decent and attractive. She is the daughter of the banished Duke who finds herself obliged, in turn, to go into banishment with her dear cousin Celia and the court fool, Touchstone. Although Rosalind’s male disguise is at first a means of survival in a seemingly inhospitable forest, it soon serves a more interesting function. As “Ganymede,” Rosalind befriends Orlando, offering him counseling in the affairs of love. Orlando, much in need of such advice, readily accepts and proceeds to woo his “Rosalind” (“Ganymede” playing her own self) as though she were indeed a woman. Her wryly amusing perspectives on the follies of young love helpfully puncture Orlando’s inflated and unrealistic “Petrarchan” stance as the young lover who writes poems to his mistress and sticks them up on trees. Once he has learned that love is not a fantasy of invented attitudes, Orlando is ready to be the husband of the real young woman (actually a boy actor, of course) who is presented to him as the transformed Ganymede-Rosalind. Other figures in the play further an understanding of love’s glorious foolishness by their various attitudes: Silvius, the pale-faced wooer out of pastoral romance; Phoebe, the disdainful mistress whom he worships; William, the country bumpkin, and Audrey, the country wench; and, surveying and commenting on every imaginable kind of human folly, the clown Touchstone and the malcontent traveler Jaques.

Twelfth Night (c. 1600–02) pursues a similar motif of female disguise. Viola, cast ashore in Illyria by a shipwreck and obliged to disguise herself as a young man in order to gain a place in the court of Duke Orsino, falls in love with the duke and uses her disguise as a cover for an educational process not unlike that given by Rosalind to Orlando. Orsino is as unrealistic a lover as one could hope to imagine; he pays fruitless court to the Countess Olivia and seems content with the unproductive love melancholy in which he wallows. Only Viola, as “Cesario,” is able to awaken in him a genuine feeling for friendship and love. They become inseparable companions and then seeming rivals for the hand of Olivia until the presto change of Shakespeare’s stage magic is able to restore “Cesario” to her woman’s garments and thus present to Orsino the flesh-and-blood woman whom he has only distantly imagined. The transition from same-sex friendship to heterosexual union is a constant in Shakespearean comedy. The woman is the self-knowing, constant, loyal one; the man needs to learn a lot from the woman. As in the other plays as well, Twelfth Night neatly plays off this courtship theme with a second plot, of Malvolio’s self-deception that he is desired by Olivia—an illusion that can be addressed only by the satirical devices of exposure and humiliation.

The Merry Wives of Windsor (c. 1597–1601) is an interesting deviation from the usual Shakespearean romantic comedy in that it is set not in some imagined far-off place like Illyria or Belmont or the forest of Athens but in Windsor, a solidly bourgeois village near Windsor Castle in the heart of England. Uncertain tradition has it that Queen Elizabeth wanted to see Falstaff in love. There is little, however, in the way of romantic wooing (the story of Anne Page and her suitor Fenton is rather buried in the midst of so many other goings-on), but the play’s portrayal of women, and especially of the two “merry wives,” Mistress Alice Ford and Mistress Margaret Page, reaffirms what is so often true of women in these early plays, that they are good-hearted, chastely loyal, and wittily self-possessed. Falstaff, a suitable butt for their cleverness, is a scapegoat figure who must be publicly humiliated as a way of transferring onto him the human frailties that Windsor society wishes to expunge.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » Completion of the histories
Concurrent with his writing of these fine romantic comedies, Shakespeare also brought to completion (for the time being, at least) his project of writing 15th-century English history. After having finished in 1589–94 the tetralogy about Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III, bringing the story down to 1485, and then circa 1594–96 a play about John that deals with a chronological period (the 13th century) that sets it quite apart from his other history plays, Shakespeare turned to the late 14th and early 15th centuries and to the chronicle of Richard II, Henry IV, and Henry’s legendary son Henry V. This inversion of historical order in the two tetralogies allowed Shakespeare to finish his sweep of late medieval English history with Henry V, a hero king in a way that Richard III could never pretend to be.

Richard II (c. 1595–96), written throughout in blank verse, is a sombre play about political impasse. It contains almost no humour, other than a wry scene in which the new king, Henry IV, must adjudicate the competing claims of the Duke of York and his Duchess, the first of whom wishes to see his son Aumerle executed for treason and the second of whom begs for mercy. Henry is able to be merciful on this occasion, since he has now won the kingship, and thus gives to this scene an upbeat movement. Earlier, however, the mood is grim. Richard, installed at an early age into the kingship, proves irresponsible as a ruler. He unfairly banishes his own first cousin, Henry Bolingbroke (later to be Henry IV), whereas the king himself appears to be guilty of ordering the murder of an uncle. When Richard keeps the dukedom of Lancaster from Bolingbroke without proper legal authority, he manages to alienate many nobles and to encourage Bolingbroke’s return from exile. That return, too, is illegal, but it is a fact, and, when several of the nobles (including York) come over to Bolingbroke’s side, Richard is forced to abdicate. The rights and wrongs of this power struggle are masterfully ambiguous. History proceeds without any sense of moral imperative. Henry IV is a more capable ruler, but his authority is tarnished by his crimes (including his seeming assent to the execution of Richard), and his own rebellion appears to teach the barons to rebel against him in turn. Henry eventually dies a disappointed man.

The dying king Henry IV must turn royal authority over to young Hal, or Henry, now Henry V. The prospect is dismal both to the dying king and to the members of his court, for Prince Hal has distinguished himself to this point mainly by his penchant for keeping company with the disreputable if engaging Falstaff. The son’s attempts at reconciliation with the father succeed temporarily, especially when Hal saves his father’s life at the battle of Shrewsbury, but (especially in Henry IV, Part 2) his reputation as wastrel will not leave him. Everyone expects from him a reign of irresponsible license, with Falstaff in an influential position. It is for these reasons that the young king must publicly repudiate his old companion of the tavern and the highway, however much that repudiation tugs at his heart and the audience’s. Falstaff, for all his debauchery and irresponsibility, is infectiously amusing and delightful; he represents in Hal a spirit of youthful vitality that is left behind only with the greatest of regret as the young man assumes manhood and the role of crown prince. Hal manages all this with aplomb and goes on to defeat the French mightily at the Battle of Agincourt. Even his high jinks are a part of what is so attractive in him. Maturity and position come at a great personal cost: Hal becomes less a frail human being and more the figure of royal authority.

Thus, in his plays of the 1590s, the young Shakespeare concentrated to a remarkable extent on romantic comedies and English history plays. The two genres are nicely complementary: the one deals with courtship and marriage, while the other examines the career of a young man growing up to be a worthy king. Only at the end of the history plays does Henry V have any kind of romantic relationship with a woman, and this one instance is quite unlike courtships in the romantic comedies: Hal is given the Princess of France as his prize, his reward for sturdy manhood. He takes the lead in the wooing scene in which he invites her to join him in a political marriage. In both romantic comedies and English history plays, a young man successfully negotiates the hazardous and potentially rewarding paths of sexual and social maturation.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » Romeo and Juliet
Apart from the early Titus Andronicus, the only other play that Shakespeare wrote prior to 1599 that is classified as a tragedy is Romeo and Juliet (c. 1594–96), which is quite untypical of the tragedies that are to follow. Written more or less at the time when Shakespeare was writing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Romeo and Juliet shares many of the characteristics of romantic comedy. Romeo and Juliet are not persons of extraordinary social rank or position, like Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth. They are the boy and girl next door, interesting not for their philosophical ideas but for their appealing love for each other. They are character types more suited to Classical comedy in that they do not derive from the upper class. Their wealthy families are essentially bourgeois. The eagerness with which Capulet and his wife court Count Paris as their prospective son-in-law bespeaks their desire for social advancement.

Accordingly, the first half of Romeo and Juliet is very funny, while its delight in verse forms reminds us of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The bawdry of Mercutio and of the Nurse is richly suited to the comic texture of the opening scenes. Romeo, haplessly in love with a Rosaline whom we never meet, is a partly comic figure like Silvius in As You Like It. The plucky and self-knowing Juliet is much like the heroines of romantic comedies. She is able to instruct Romeo in the ways of speaking candidly and unaffectedly about their love rather than in the frayed cadences of the Petrarchan wooer.

The play is ultimately a tragedy, of course, and indeed warns its audience at the start that the lovers are “star-crossed.” Yet the tragic vision is not remotely that of Hamlet or King Lear. Romeo and Juliet are unremarkable, nice young people doomed by a host of considerations outside themselves: the enmity of their two families, the misunderstandings that prevent Juliet from being able to tell her parents whom it is that she has married, and even unfortunate coincidence (such as the misdirection of the letter sent to Romeo to warn him of the Friar’s plan for Juliet’s recovery from a deathlike sleep). Yet there is the element of personal responsibility upon which most mature tragedy rests when Romeo chooses to avenge the death of Mercutio by killing Tybalt, knowing that this deed will undo the soft graces of forbearance that Juliet has taught him. Romeo succumbs to the macho peer pressure of his male companions, and tragedy results in part from this choice. Yet so much is at work that the reader ultimately sees Romeo and Juliet as a love tragedy—celebrating the exquisite brevity of young love, regretting an unfeeling world, and evoking an emotional response that differs from that produced by the other tragedies. Romeo and Juliet are, at last, “Poor sacrifices of our enmity” (Act V, scene 3, line 304). The emotional response the play evokes is a strong one, but it is not like the response called forth by the tragedies after 1599.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » The “problem” plays
Whatever his reasons, about 1599–1600 Shakespeare turned with unsparing intensity to the exploration of darker issues such as revenge, sexual jealousy, aging, midlife crisis, and death. Perhaps he saw that his own life was moving into a new phase of more complex and vexing experiences. Perhaps he felt, or sensed, that he had worked through the romantic comedy and history play and the emotional trajectories of maturation that they encompassed. At any event, he began writing not only his great tragedies but a group of plays that are hard to classify in terms of genre. They are sometimes grouped today as “problem” plays or “problem” comedies. An examination of these plays is crucial to understanding this period of transition from 1599 to 1605.

The three problem plays dating from these years are All’s Well That Ends Well, Measure for Measure, and Troilus and Cressida. All’s Well is a comedy ending in acceptance of marriage, but in a way that poses thorny ethical issues. Count Bertram cannot initially accept his marriage to Helena, a woman of lower social station who has grown up in his noble household and has won Bertram as her husband by her seemingly miraculous cure of the French king. Bertram’s reluctance to face the responsibilities of marriage is all the more dismaying when he turns his amorous intentions to a Florentine maiden, Diana, whom he wishes to seduce without marriage. Helena’s stratagem to resolve this difficulty is the so-called bed trick, substituting herself in Bertram’s bed for the arranged assignation and then calling her wayward husband to account when she is pregnant with his child. Her ends are achieved by such morally ambiguous means that marriage seems at best a precarious institution on which to base the presumed reassurances of romantic comedy. The pathway toward resolution and emotional maturity is not easy; Helena is a more ambiguous heroine than Rosalind or Viola.

Measure for Measure (c. 1603–04) similarly employs the bed trick, and for a similar purpose, though in even murkier circumstances. Isabella, on the verge of becoming a nun, learns that she has attracted the sexual desire of Lord Angelo, the deputy ruler of Vienna serving in the mysterious absence of the Duke. Her plea to Angelo for her brother’s life, when that brother (Claudio) has been sentenced to die for fornication with his fiancée, is met with a demand that she sleep with Angelo or forfeit Claudio’s life. This ethical dilemma is resolved by a trick (devised by the Duke, in disguise) to substitute for Isabella a woman (Mariana) whom Angelo was supposed to marry but refused when she could produce no dowry. The Duke’s motivations in manipulating these substitutions and false appearances are unclear, though arguably his wish is to see what the various characters of this play will do when faced with seemingly impossible choices. Angelo is revealed as a morally fallen man, a would-be seducer and murderer who is nonetheless remorseful and ultimately glad to have been prevented from carrying out his intended crimes; Claudio learns that he is coward enough to wish to live by any means, including the emotional and physical blackmail of his sister; and Isabella learns that she is capable of bitterness and hatred, even if, crucially, she finally discovers that she can and must forgive her enemy. Her charity, and the Duke’s stratagems, make possible an ending in forgiveness and marriage, but in that process the nature and meaning of marriage are severely tested.

Troilus and Cressida (c. 1601–02) is the most experimental and puzzling of these three plays. Simply in terms of genre, it is virtually unclassifiable. It can hardly be a comedy, ending as it does in the deaths of Patroclus and Hector and the looming defeat of the Trojans. Nor is the ending normative in terms of romantic comedy: the lovers, Troilus and Cressida, are separated from one another and embittered by the failure of their relationship. The play is a history play in a sense, dealing as it does with the great Trojan War celebrated in Homer’s Iliad, and yet its purpose is hardly that of telling the story of the war. As a tragedy, it is perplexing in that the chief figures of the play (apart from Hector) do not die at the end, and the mood is one of desolation and even disgust rather than tragic catharsis. Perhaps the play should be thought of as a satire; the choric observations of Thersites and Pandarus serve throughout as a mordant commentary on the interconnectedness of war and lechery. With fitting ambiguity, the play was placed in the Folio of 1623 between the histories and the tragedies, in a category all by itself. Clearly, in these problem plays Shakespeare was opening up for himself a host of new problems in terms of genre and human sexuality.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » Julius Caesar
Written in 1599 (the same year as Henry V) or 1600, probably for the opening of the Globe Theatre on the south bank of the Thames, Julius Caesar illustrates similarly the transition in Shakespeare’s writing toward darker themes and tragedy. It, too, is a history play in a sense, dealing with a non-Christian civilization existing 16 centuries before Shakespeare wrote his plays. Roman history opened up for Shakespeare a world in which divine purpose could not be easily ascertained. (Click here for a video clip of Caesar’s well-known speech.) The characters of Julius Caesar variously interpret the great event of the assassination of Caesar as one in which the gods are angry or disinterested or capricious or simply not there. The wise Cicero observes, “Men may construe things after their fashion, / Clean from the purpose of the things themselves” (Act I, scene 3, lines 34–35).

Human history in Julius Caesar seems to follow a pattern of rise and fall, in a way that is cyclical rather than divinely purposeful. Caesar enjoys his days of triumph, until he is cut down by the conspirators; Brutus and Cassius succeed to power, but not for long. Brutus’s attempts to protect Roman republicanism and the freedom of the city’s citizens to govern themselves through senatorial tradition end up in the destruction of the very liberties he most cherished. He and Cassius meet their destiny at the Battle of Philippi. They are truly tragic figures, especially Brutus, in that their essential characters are their fate; Brutus is a good man but also proud and stubborn, and these latter qualities ultimately bring about his death. Shakespeare’s first major tragedy is Roman in spirit and Classical in its notion of tragic character. It shows what Shakespeare had to learn from Classical precedent as he set about looking for workable models in tragedy.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » The tragedies
Hamlet (c. 1599–1601), on the other hand, chooses a tragic model closer to that of Titus Andronicus and Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy. In form, Hamlet is a revenge tragedy. It features characteristics found in Titus as well: a protagonist charged with the responsibility of avenging a heinous crime against the protagonist’s family, a cunning antagonist, the appearance of the ghost of the murdered person, the feigning of madness to throw off the villain’s suspicions, the play within the play as a means of testing the villain, and still more.

Yet to search out these comparisons is to highlight what is so extraordinary about Hamlet, for it refuses to be merely a revenge tragedy. Shakespeare’s protagonist is unique in the genre in his moral qualms, and most of all in his finding a way to carry out his dread command without becoming a cold-blooded murderer. Hamlet does act bloodily, especially when he kills Polonius, thinking that the old man hidden in Gertrude’s chambers must be the King whom Hamlet is commissioned to kill. The act seems plausible and strongly motivated, and yet Hamlet sees at once that he has erred. He has killed the wrong man, even if Polonius has brought this on himself with his incessant spying. Hamlet sees that he has offended heaven and that he will have to pay for his act. When, at the play’s end, Hamlet encounters his fate in a duel with Polonius’s son, Laertes, Hamlet interprets his own tragic story as one that Providence has made meaningful. By placing himself in the hands of Providence and believing devoutly that “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, / Rough-hew them how we will” (Act V, scene 2, lines 10–11), Hamlet finds himself ready for a death that he has longed for. He also finds an opportunity for killing Claudius almost unpremeditatedly, spontaneously, as an act of reprisal for all that Claudius has done.

Hamlet thus finds tragic meaning in his own story. More broadly, too, he has searched for meaning in dilemmas of all sorts: his mother’s overhasty marriage, Ophelia’s weak-willed succumbing to the will of her father and brother, his being spied on by his erstwhile friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and much more. His utterances are often despondent, relentlessly honest, and philosophically profound, as he ponders the nature of friendship, memory, romantic attachment, filial love, sensuous enslavement, corrupting habits (drinking, sexual lust), and almost every phase of human experience.

One remarkable aspect about Shakespeare’s great tragedies (Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra most of all) is that they proceed through such a staggering range of human emotions, and especially the emotions that are appropriate to the mature years of the human cycle. Hamlet is 30, one learns—an age when a person is apt to perceive that the world around him is “an unweeded garden / That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely” (Act I, scene 2, lines 135–137). Shakespeare was about 36 when he wrote this play. Othello (c. 1603–04) centres on sexual jealousy in marriage. King Lear (c. 1605–06) is about aging, generational conflict, and feelings of ingratitude. Macbeth (c. 1606–07) explores ambition mad enough to kill a father figure who stands in the way. Antony and Cleopatra, written about 1606–07 when Shakespeare was 42 or thereabouts, studies the exhilarating but ultimately dismaying phenomenon of midlife crisis. Shakespeare moves his readers vicariously through these life experiences while he himself struggles to capture, in tragic form, their terrors and challenges.

These plays are deeply concerned with domestic and family relationships. In Othello Desdemona is the only daughter of Brabantio, an aging senator of Venice, who dies heartbroken because his daughter has eloped with a dark-skinned man who is her senior by many years and is of another culture. With Othello, Desdemona is briefly happy, despite her filial disobedience, until a terrible sexual jealousy is awakened in him, quite without cause other than his own fears and susceptibility to Iago’s insinuations that it is only “natural” for Desdemona to seek erotic pleasure with a young man who shares her background. Driven by his own deeply irrational fear and hatred of women and seemingly mistrustful of his own masculinity, Iago can assuage his own inner torment only by persuading other men like Othello that their inevitable fate is to be cuckolded. As a tragedy, the play adroitly exemplifies the traditional Classical model of a good man brought to misfortune by hamartia, or tragic flaw; as Othello grieves, he is one who has “loved not wisely, but too well” (Act V, scene 2, line 354). It bears remembering, however, that Shakespeare owed no loyalty to this Classical model. Hamlet, for one, is a play that does not work well in Aristotelian terms. The search for an Aristotelian hamartia has led all too often to the trite argument that Hamlet suffers from melancholia and a tragic inability to act, whereas a more plausible reading of the play argues that finding the right course of action is highly problematic for him and for everyone. Hamlet sees examples on all sides of those whose forthright actions lead to fatal mistakes or absurd ironies (Laertes, Fortinbras), and indeed his own swift killing of the man he assumes to be Claudius hidden in his mother’s chambers turns out to be a mistake for which he realizes heaven will hold him accountable.

Daughters and fathers are also at the heart of the major dilemma in King Lear. In this configuration, Shakespeare does what he often does in his late plays: erase the wife from the picture, so that father and daughter(s) are left to deal with one another. (Compare Othello, The Winter’s Tale, Cymbeline, The Tempest, and perhaps the circumstances of Shakespeare’s own life, in which his relations with his daughter Susanna especially seem to have meant more to him than his partly estranged marriage with Anne.) Lear’s banishing of his favourite daughter, Cordelia, because of her laconic refusal to proclaim a love for him as the essence of her being, brings upon this aging king the terrible punishment of being belittled and rejected by his ungrateful daughters, Goneril and Regan. Concurrently, in the play’s second plot, the Earl of Gloucester makes a similar mistake with his good-hearted son, Edgar, and thereby delivers himself into the hands of his scheming bastard son, Edmund. Both these erring elderly fathers are ultimately nurtured by the loyal children they have banished, but not before the play has tested to its absolute limit the proposition that evil can flourish in a bad world.

The gods seem indifferent, perhaps absent entirely; pleas to them for assistance go unheeded while the storm of fortune rains down on the heads of those who have trusted in conventional pieties. Part of what is so great in this play is that its testing of the major characters requires them to seek out philosophical answers that can arm the resolute heart against ingratitude and misfortune by constantly pointing out that life owes one nothing. The consolations of philosophy preciously found out by Edgar and Cordelia are those that rely not on the suppositious gods but on an inner moral strength demanding that one be charitable and honest because life is otherwise monstrous and subhuman. The play exacts terrible prices of those who persevere in goodness, but it leaves them and the reader, or audience, with the reassurance that it is simply better to be a Cordelia than to be a Goneril, to be an Edgar than to be an Edmund.

Macbeth is in some ways Shakespeare’s most unsettling tragedy, because it invites the intense examination of the heart of a man who is well-intentioned in most ways but who discovers that he cannot resist the temptation to achieve power at any cost. (Click here for a video clip of the opening scene from Macbeth.) Macbeth is a sensitive, even poetic person, and as such he understands with frightening clarity the stakes that are involved in his contemplated deed of murder. Duncan is a virtuous king and his guest. The deed is regicide and murder and a violation of the sacred obligations of hospitality. Macbeth knows that Duncan’s virtues, like angels, “trumpet-tongued,” will plead against “the deep damnation of his taking-off” (Act I, scene 7, lines 19–20). The only factor weighing on the other side is personal ambition, which Macbeth understands to be a moral failing. The question of why he proceeds to murder is partly answered by the insidious temptations of the three Weird Sisters, who sense Macbeth’s vulnerability to their prophecies, and the terrifying strength of his wife, who drives him on to the murder by describing his reluctance as unmanliness. (Click here for a video clip of Lady Macbeth goading her husband.) Ultimately, though, the responsibility lies with Macbeth. His collapse of moral integrity confronts the audience and perhaps implicates it. The loyalty and decency of such characters as Macduff hardly offset what is so painfully weak in the play’s protagonist.

Antony and Cleopatra approaches human frailty in terms that are less spiritually terrifying. The story of the lovers is certainly one of worldly failure. Plutarch’s Lives gave to Shakespeare the object lesson of a brave general who lost his reputation and sense of self-worth through his infatuation with an admittedly attractive but nonetheless dangerous woman. Shakespeare changes none of the circumstances: Antony hates himself for dallying in Egypt with Cleopatra, agrees to marry with Octavius Caesar’s sister Octavia as a way of recovering his status in the Roman triumvirate, cheats on Octavia eventually, loses the battle of Actium because of his fatal attraction for Cleopatra, and dies in Egypt a defeated, aging warrior. Shakespeare adds to this narrative a compelling portrait of midlife crisis. Antony is deeply anxious about his loss of sexual potency and position in the world of affairs. His amorous life in Egypt is manifestly an attempt to affirm and recover his dwindling male power.

Yet the Roman model is not in Shakespeare’s play the unassailably virtuous choice that it is in Plutarch. In Antony and Cleopatra Roman behaviour does promote attentiveness to duty and worldly achievement, but, as embodied in young Octavius, it is also obsessively male and cynical about women. Octavius is intent on capturing Cleopatra and leading her in triumph back to Rome—that is, to cage the unruly woman and place her under male control. When Cleopatra perceives that aim, she chooses a noble suicide rather than humiliation by a patriarchal male. In her suicide, Cleopatra avers that she has called “great Caesar ass / Unpolicied” (Act V, scene 2, lines 307–308). Vastly to be preferred is the fleeting dream of greatness with Antony, both of them unfettered, godlike, like Isis and Osiris, immortalized as heroic lovers even if the actual circumstances of their lives were often disappointing and even tawdry. The vision in this tragedy is deliberately unstable, but at its most ethereal it encourages a vision of human greatness that is distant from the soul-corrupting evil of Macbeth or King Lear.

Two late tragedies also choose the ancient Classical world as their setting but do so in a deeply dispiriting way. Shakespeare appears to have been much preoccupied with ingratitude and human greed in these years. Timon of Athens (c. 1605–08), probably an unfinished play and possibly never produced, initially shows us a prosperous man fabled for his generosity. When he discovers that he has exceeded his means, he turns to his seeming friends for the kinds of assistance he has given them, only to discover that their memories are short. Retiring to a bitter isolation, Timon rails against all humanity and refuses every sort of consolation, even that of well-meant companionship and sympathy from a former servant. He dies in isolation. The unrelieved bitterness of this account is only partly ameliorated by the story of the military captain Alcibiades, who has also been the subject of Athenian ingratitude and forgetfulness but who manages to reassert his authority at the end. Alcibiades resolves to make some accommodation with the wretched condition of humanity; Timon will have none of it. Seldom has a more unrelievedly embittered play been written.

Coriolanus (c. 1608) similarly portrays the ungrateful responses of a city toward its military hero. The problem is complicated by the fact that Coriolanus, egged on by his mother and his conservative allies, undertakes a political role in Rome for which he is not temperamentally fitted. His friends urge him to hold off his intemperate speech until he is voted into office, but Coriolanus is too plainspoken to be tactful in this way. His contempt for the plebeians and their political leaders, the tribunes, is unsparing. His political philosophy, while relentlessly aristocratic and snobbish, is consistent and theoretically sophisticated; the citizens are, as he argues, incapable of governing themselves judiciously. Yet his fury only makes matters worse and leads to an exile from which he returns to conquer his own city, in league with his old enemy and friend, Aufidius. When his mother comes out for the city to plead for her life and that of other Romans, he relents and thereupon falls into defeat as a kind of mother’s boy, unable to assert his own sense of self. As a tragedy, Coriolanus is again bitter, satirical, ending in defeat and humiliation. It is an immensely powerful play, and it captures a philosophical mood of nihilism and bitterness that hovers over Shakespeare’s writings throughout these years in the first decade of the 1600s.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » The romances
Concurrently, nonetheless, and then in the years that followed, Shakespeare turned again to the writing of comedy. The late comedies are usually called romances or tragicomedies because they tell stories of wandering and separation leading eventually to tearful and joyous reunion. They are suffused with a bittersweet mood that seems eloquently appropriate to a writer who has explored with such unsparing honesty the depths of human suffering and degradation in the great tragedies.

Pericles, written perhaps in 1606–08 and based on the familiar tale of Apollonius of Tyre, may involve some collaboration of authorship; the text is unusually imperfect, and it did not appear in the Folio of 1623. It employs a chorus figure, John Gower (author of an earlier version of this story), to guide the reader or viewer around the Mediterranean on Pericles’ various travels, as he avoids marriage with the daughter of the incestuous King Antiochus of Antioch; marries Thaisa, the daughter of King Simonides of Pentapolis; has a child by her; believes his wife to have died in childbirth during a storm at sea and has her body thrown overboard to quiet the superstitious fears of the sailors; puts his daughter Marina in the care of Cleon of Tarsus and his wicked wife, Dionyza; and is eventually restored to his wife and child after many years. The story is typical romance. Shakespeare adds touching scenes of reunion and a perception that beneath the naive account of travel lies a subtle dramatization of separation, loss, and recovery. Pericles is deeply burdened by his loss and perhaps, too, a sense of guilt for having consented to consign his wife’s body to the sea. He is recovered from his despair only by the ministrations of a loving daughter, who is able to give him a reason to live again and then to be reunited with his wife.

The Winter’s Tale (c. 1609–11) is in some ways a replaying of this same story, in that King Leontes of Sicilia, smitten by an irrational jealousy of his wife, Hermione, brings about the seeming death of that wife and the real death of their son. The resulting guilt is unbearable for Leontes and yet ultimately curative over a period of many years that are required for his only daughter, Perdita (whom he has nearly killed also), to grow to maturity in distant Bohemia. This story, too, is based on a prose romance, in this case Robert Greene’s Pandosto. The reunion with daughter and then wife is deeply touching as in Pericles, with the added magical touch that the audience does not know that Hermione is alive and in fact has been told that she is dead. Her wonderfully staged appearance as a statue coming to life is one of the great theatrical coups in Shakespeare, playing as it does with favourite Shakespearean themes in these late plays of the ministering daughter, the guilt-ridden husband, and the miraculously recovered wife. The story is all the more moving when one considers that Shakespeare may have had, or imagined, a similar experience of attempting to recover a relationship with his wife, Anne, whom he had left in Stratford during his many years in London.

In Cymbeline (c. 1608–10) King Cymbeline drives his virtuous daughter Imogen into exile by his opposition to her marriage with Posthumus Leonatus. The wife in this case is Cymbeline’s baleful Queen, a stereotypical wicked stepmother whose witless and lecherous son Cloten (Imogen’s half brother) is the embodiment of everything that threatens and postpones the eventual happy ending of this tale. Posthumus, too, fails Imogen by being irrationally jealous of her, but he is eventually recovered to a belief in her goodness. The dark portraiture of the Queen illustrates how ambivalent is Shakespeare’s view of the mother in his late plays. This Queen is the wicked stepmother, like Dionyza in Pericles; in her relentless desire for control, she also brings to mind Lady Macbeth and the Weird Sisters in Macbeth, as well as Coriolanus’s mother, Volumnia. The devouring mother is a forbidding presence in the late plays, though she is counterbalanced by redeeming maternal figures such as Hermione in The Winter’s Tale and Thaisa in Pericles.

The Tempest (c. 1611) sums up much of what Shakespeare’s mature art was all about. Once again we find a wifeless father with a daughter, in this case on a deserted island where the father, Prospero, is entirely responsible for his daughter’s education. He behaves like a dramatist in charge of the whole play as well, arranging her life and that of the other characters. He employs a storm at sea to bring young Ferdinand into the company of his daughter; Ferdinand is Prospero’s choice, because such a marriage will resolve the bitter dispute between Milan and Naples—arising after the latter supported Prospero’s usurping brother Antonio in his claim to the dukedom of Milan—that has led to Prospero’s banishment. At the same time, Ferdinand is certainly Miranda’s choice as well; the two fall instantly in love, anticipating the desired romantic happy ending. The ending will also mean an end to Prospero’s career as artist and dramatist, for he is nearing retirement and senses that his gift will not stay with him forever. The imprisoned spirit Ariel, embodiment of that temporary and precious gift, must be freed in the play’s closing moments. Caliban, too, must be freed, since Prospero has done what he could to educate and civilize this Natural Man. Art can only go so far.

The Tempest seems to have been intended as Shakespeare’s farewell to the theatre. It contains moving passages of reflection on what his powers as artist have been able to accomplish, and valedictory themes of closure. As a comedy, it demonstrates perfectly the way that Shakespeare was able to combine precise artistic construction (the play chooses on this farewell occasion to observe the Classical unities of time, place, and action) with his special flair for stories that transcend the merely human and physical: The Tempest is peopled with spirits, monsters, and drolleries. This, it seems, is Shakespeare’s summation of his art as comic dramatist.

But The Tempest proved not to be Shakespeare’s last play after all. Perhaps he discovered, as many people do, that he was bored in retirement in 1613 or thereabouts. No doubt his acting company was eager to have him back. He wrote a history play titled Henry VIII (1613), which is extraordinary in a number of ways: it relates historical events substantially later chronologically than those of the 15th century that had been his subject in his earlier historical plays; it is separated from the last of those plays by perhaps 14 years; and, perhaps most significant, it is as much romance as history play. History in this instance is really about the birth of Elizabeth I, who was to become England’s great queen. The circumstances of Henry VIII’s troubled marital affairs, his meeting with Anne Boleyn, his confrontation with the papacy, and all the rest turn out to be the humanly unpredictable ways by which Providence engineers the miracle of Elizabeth’s birth. The play ends with this great event and sees in it a justification and necessity of all that has proceeded. Thus history yields its providential meaning in the shape of a play that is both history and romance.

Shakespeare’s plays and poems » Plays of the middle and late years » Collaborations and spurious attributions
The Two Noble Kinsmen (c. 1612–14) brought Shakespeare into collaboration with John Fletcher, his successor as chief playwright for the King’s Men. (Fletcher is sometimes thought also to have helped Shakespeare with Henry VIII.) The story, taken out of Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale, is essentially another romance, in which two young gallants compete for the hand of Emilia and in which deities preside over the choice. Shakespeare may have had a hand earlier as well in Edward III, a history play of about 1590–95, and he seems to have provided a scene or so for The Book of Sir Thomas More (c. 1593–1601) when that play encountered trouble with the censor. Collaborative writing was common in the Renaissance English stage, and it is not surprising that Shakespeare was called upon to do some of it. Nor is it surprising that, given his towering reputation, he was credited with having written a number of plays that he had nothing to do with, including those that were spuriously added to the third edition of the Folio in 1664: Locrine (1591–95), Sir John Oldcastle (1599–1600), Thomas Lord Cromwell (1599–1602), The London Prodigal (1603–05), The Puritan (1606), and A Yorkshire Tragedy (1605–08). To a remarkable extent, nonetheless, his corpus stands as a coherent body of his own work. The shape of the career has a symmetry and internal beauty not unlike that of the individual plays and poems.

David Bevington

Shakespeare’s sources
With a few exceptions, Shakespeare did not invent the plots of his plays. Sometimes he used old stories (Hamlet, Pericles). Sometimes he worked from the stories of comparatively recent Italian writers, such as Giovanni Boccaccio—using both well-known stories (Romeo and Juliet, Much Ado About Nothing) and little-known ones (Othello). He used the popular prose fictions of his contemporaries in As You Like It and The Winter’s Tale. In writing his historical plays, he drew largely from Sir Thomas North’s translation of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans for the Roman plays and the chronicles of Edward Hall and Holinshed for the plays based upon English history. Some plays deal with rather remote and legendary history (King Lear, Cymbeline, Macbeth). Earlier dramatists had occasionally used the same material (there were, for example, the earlier plays called The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth and King Leir). But, because many plays of Shakespeare’s time have been lost, it is impossible to be sure of the relation between an earlier, lost play and Shakespeare’s surviving one: in the case of Hamlet it has been plausibly argued that an “old play,” known to have existed, was merely an early version of Shakespeare’s own.

Shakespeare was probably too busy for prolonged study. He had to read what books he could, when he needed them. His enormous vocabulary could only be derived from a mind of great celerity, responding to the literary as well as the spoken language. It is not known what libraries were available to him. The Huguenot family of Mountjoys, with whom he lodged in London, presumably possessed French books. Moreover, he seems to have enjoyed an interesting connection with the London book trade. The Richard Field who published Shakespeare’s two poems Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece, in 1593–94, seems to have been (as an apprenticeship record describes him) the “son of Henry Field of Stratford-upon-Avon in the County of Warwick, tanner.” When Henry Field the tanner died in 1592, John Shakespeare the glover was one of the three appointed to value his goods and chattels. Field’s son, bound apprentice in 1579, was probably about the same age as Shakespeare. From 1587 he steadily established himself as a printer of serious literature—notably of North’s translation of Plutarch (1595, reprinted in 1603 and 1610). There is no direct evidence of any close friendship between Field and Shakespeare. Still, it cannot escape notice that one of the important printer-publishers in London at the time was an exact contemporary of Shakespeare at Stratford, that he can hardly have been other than a schoolmate, that he was the son of a close associate of John Shakespeare, and that he published Shakespeare’s first poems. Clearly, a considerable number of literary contacts were available to Shakespeare, and many books were accessible.

That Shakespeare’s plays had “sources” was already apparent in his own time. An interesting contemporary description of a performance is to be found in the diary of a young lawyer of the Middle Temple, John Manningham, who kept a record of his experiences in 1602 and 1603. On February 2, 1602, he wrote:

At our feast we had a play called Twelfth Night; or, What You Will, much like The Comedy of Errors, or Menaechmi in Plautus, but most like and near to that in Italian called Inganni.

The first collection of information about sources of Elizabethan plays was published in the 17th century—Gerard Langbaine’s Account of the English Dramatick Poets (1691) briefly indicated where Shakespeare found materials for some plays. But, during the course of the 17th century, it came to be felt that Shakespeare was an outstandingly “natural” writer, whose intellectual background was of comparatively little significance: “he was naturally learn’d; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature,” wrote John Dryden in 1668. It was nevertheless obvious that the intellectual quality of Shakespeare’s writings was high and revealed a remarkably perceptive mind. The Roman plays, in particular, gave evidence of careful reconstruction of the ancient world.

The first collection of source materials, arranged so that they could be read and closely compared with Shakespeare’s plays, was made by Charlotte Lennox in the 18th century. More complete collections appeared later, notably those of John Payne Collier (Shakespeare’s Library, 1843; revised by W. Carew Hazlitt, 1875). These earlier collections have been superseded by a seven-volume version edited by Geoffrey Bullough as Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare (1957–72).

It has become steadily more possible to see what was original in Shakespeare’s dramatic art. He achieved compression and economy by the exclusion of undramatic material. He developed characters from brief suggestions in his source (Mercutio, Touchstone, Falstaff, Pandarus), and he developed entirely new characters (the Dromio brothers, Beatrice and Benedick, Sir Toby Belch, Malvolio, Paulina, Roderigo, Lear’s fool). He rearranged the plot with a view to more-effective contrasts of character, climaxes, and conclusions (Macbeth, Othello, The Winter’s Tale, As You Like It). A wider philosophical outlook was introduced (Hamlet, Coriolanus, All’s Well That Ends Well, Troilus and Cressida). And everywhere an intensification of the dialogue and an altogether higher level of imaginative writing transformed the older work.

But, quite apart from evidence of the sources of his plays, it is not difficult to get a fair impression of Shakespeare as a reader, feeding his own imagination by a moderate acquaintance with the literary achievements of other men and of other ages. He quotes his contemporary Christopher Marlowe in As You Like It. He casually refers to the Aethiopica (“Ethiopian History”) of Heliodorus (which had been translated by Thomas Underdown in 1569) in Twelfth Night. He read the translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses by Arthur Golding, which went through seven editions between 1567 and 1612. George Chapman’s vigorous translation of Homer’s Iliad impressed him, though he used some of the material rather sardonically in Troilus and Cressida. He derived the ironical account of an ideal republic in The Tempest from one of Montaigne’s essays. He read (in part, at least) Samuel Harsnett’s Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostors and remembered lively passages from it when he was writing King Lear. The beginning lines of one sonnet (106) indicate that he had read Edmund Spenser’s poem The Faerie Queene or comparable romantic literature.

He was acutely aware of the varieties of poetic style that characterized the work of other authors. A brilliant little poem he composed for Prince Hamlet (Act V, scene 2, line 115) shows how ironically he perceived the qualities of poetry in the last years of the 16th century, when poets such as John Donne were writing love poems uniting astronomical and cosmogenic imagery with skepticism and moral paradoxes. The eight-syllable lines in an archaic mode written for the 14th-century poet John Gower in Pericles show his reading of that poet’s Confessio amantis. The influence of the great figure of Sir Philip Sidney, whose Arcadia was first printed in 1590 and was widely read for generations, is frequently felt in Shakespeare’s writings. Finally, the importance of the Bible for Shakespeare’s style and range of allusion is not to be underestimated. His works show a pervasive familiarity with the passages appointed to be read in church on each Sunday throughout the year, and a large number of allusions to passages in Ecclesiasticus (Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach) indicates a personal interest in one of the deuterocanonical books.

John Russell Brown
Terence John Bew Spencer

Understanding Shakespeare » Questions of authorship
Readers and playgoers in Shakespeare’s own lifetime, and indeed until the late 18th century, never questioned Shakespeare’s authorship of his plays. He was a well-known actor from Stratford who performed in London’s premier acting company, among the great actors of his day. He was widely known by the leading writers of his time as well, including Ben Jonson and John Webster, both of whom praised him as a dramatist. Many other tributes to him as a great writer appeared during his lifetime. Any theory that supposes him not to have been the writer of the plays and poems attributed to him must suppose that Shakespeare’s contemporaries were universally fooled by some kind of secret arrangement.

Yet suspicions on the subject gained increasing force in the mid-19th century. One Delia Bacon proposed that the author was her claimed ancestor Sir Francis Bacon, Viscount St. Albans, who was indeed a prominent writer of the Elizabethan era. What had prompted this theory? The chief considerations seem to have been that little is known about Shakespeare’s life (though in fact more is known about him than about his contemporary writers), that he was from the country town of Stratford-upon-Avon, that he never attended one of the universities, and that therefore it would have been impossible for him to write knowledgeably about the great affairs of English courtly life such as we find in the plays.

The theory is suspect on a number of counts. University training in Shakespeare’s day centred on theology and on Latin, Greek, and Hebrew texts of a sort that would not have greatly improved Shakespeare’s knowledge of contemporary English life. By the 19th century, a university education was becoming more and more the mark of a broadly educated person, but university training in the 16th century was quite a different matter. The notion that only a university-educated person could write of life at court and among the gentry is an erroneous and indeed a snobbish assumption. Shakespeare was better off going to London as he did, seeing and writing plays, listening to how people talked. He was a reporter, in effect. The great writers of his era (or indeed of most eras) are not usually aristocrats, who have no need to earn a living by their pens. Shakespeare’s social background is essentially like that of his best contemporaries. Edmund Spenser went to Cambridge, it is true, but he came from a sail-making family. Christopher Marlowe also attended Cambridge, but his kindred were shoemakers in Canterbury. John Webster, Thomas Dekker, and Thomas Middleton came from similar backgrounds. They discovered that they were writers, able to make a living off their talent, and they (excluding the poet Spenser) flocked to the London theatres where customers for their wares were to be found. Like them, Shakespeare was a man of the commercial theatre.

Other candidates—William Stanley, 6th earl of Derby, and Christopher Marlowe among them—have been proposed, and indeed the very fact of so many candidates makes one suspicious of the claims of any one person. The late 20th-century candidate for the writing of Shakespeare’s plays, other than Shakespeare himself, was Edward de Vere, 17th earl of Oxford. Oxford did indeed write verse, as did other gentlemen; sonneteering was a mark of gentlemanly distinction. Oxford was also a wretched man who abused his wife and drove his father-in-law to distraction. Most seriously damaging to Oxford’s candidacy is the fact that he died in 1604. The chronology presented here, summarizing perhaps 200 years of assiduous scholarship, establishes a professional career for Shakespeare as dramatist that extends from about 1589 to 1614. Many of his greatest plays—King Lear, Antony and Cleopatra, and The Tempest, to name but three—were written after 1604. To suppose that the dating of the canon is totally out of whack and that all the plays and poems were written before 1604 is a desperate argument. Some individual dates are uncertain, but the overall pattern is coherent. The growth in poetic and dramatic styles, the development of themes and subjects, along with objective evidence, all support a chronology that extends to about 1614. To suppose alternatively that Oxford wrote the plays and poems before 1604 and then put them away in a drawer, to be brought out after his death and updated to make them appear timely, is to invent an answer to a nonexistent problem.

When all is said, the sensible question one must ask is, why would Oxford want to write the plays and poems and then not claim them for himself? The answer given is that he was an aristocrat and that writing for the theatre was not elegant; hence he needed a front man, an alias. Shakespeare, the actor, was a suitable choice. But is it plausible that a cover-up like this could have succeeded?

Shakespeare’s contemporaries, after all, wrote of him unequivocally as the author of the plays. Ben Jonson, who knew him well, contributed verses to the First Folio of 1623, where (as elsewhere) he criticizes and praises Shakespeare as the author. John Heminge and Henry Condell, fellow actors and theatre owners with Shakespeare, signed the dedication and a foreword to the First Folio and described their methods as editors. In his own day, therefore, he was accepted as the author of the plays. In an age that loved gossip and mystery as much as any, it seems hardly conceivable that Jonson and Shakespeare’s theatrical associates shared the secret of a gigantic literary hoax without a single leak or that they could have been imposed upon without suspicion. Unsupported assertions that the author of the plays was a man of great learning and that Shakespeare of Stratford was an illiterate rustic no longer carry weight, and only when a believer in Bacon or Oxford or Marlowe produces sound evidence will scholars pay close attention.

Understanding Shakespeare » Linguistic, historical, textual, and editorial problems
Since the days of Shakespeare, the English language has changed, and so have audiences, theatres, actors, and customary patterns of thought and feeling. Time has placed an ever-increasing cloud before the mirror he held up to life, and it is here that scholarship can help.

Problems are most obvious in single words. In the 21st century, presently, for instance, does not mean “immediately,” as it usually did for Shakespeare, or will mean “lust,” or rage mean “folly,” or silly denote “innocence” and “purity.” In Shakespeare’s day, words sounded different, too, so that ably could rhyme with eye or tomb with dumb. Syntax was often different, and, far more difficult to define, so was response to metre and phrase. What sounds formal and stiff to a modern hearer might have sounded fresh and gay to an Elizabethan.

Ideas have changed, too, most obviously political ones. Shakespeare’s contemporaries almost unanimously believed in authoritarian monarchy and recognized divine intervention in history. Most of them would have agreed that a man should be burned for ultimate religious heresies. It is the office of linguistic and historical scholarship to aid the understanding of the multitude of factors that have significantly affected the impressions made by Shakespeare’s plays.

None of Shakespeare’s plays has survived in his handwritten manuscript, and, in the printed texts of some plays, notably King Lear and Richard III, there are passages that are manifestly corrupt, with only an uncertain relationship to the words Shakespeare once wrote. Even if the printer received a good manuscript, small errors could still be introduced. Compositors were less than perfect; they often “regularized” the readings of their copy, altered punctuation in accordance with their own preferences or “house” style or because they lacked the necessary pieces of type, or made mistakes because they had to work too hurriedly. Even the correction of proof sheets in the printing house could further corrupt the text, since such correction was usually effected without reference to the author or to the manuscript copy; when both corrected and uncorrected states are still available, it is sometimes the uncorrected version that is preferable. Correctors are responsible for some errors now impossible to right.

John Russell Brown
Terence John Bew Spencer
David Bevington

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism
During his own lifetime and shortly afterward, Shakespeare enjoyed fame and considerable critical attention. The English writer Francis Meres, in 1598, declared him to be England’s greatest writer in comedy and tragedy. Writer and poet John Weever lauded “honey-tongued Shakespeare.” Ben Jonson, Shakespeare’s contemporary and a literary critic in his own right, granted that Shakespeare had no rival in the writing of comedy, even in the ancient Classical world, and that he equaled the ancients in tragedy as well, but Jonson also faulted Shakespeare for having a mediocre command of the Classical languages and for ignoring Classical rules. Jonson objected when Shakespeare dramatized history extending over many years and moved his dramatic scene around from country to country, rather than focusing on 24 hours or so in a single location. Shakespeare wrote too glibly, in Jonson’s view, mixing kings and clowns, lofty verse with vulgarity, mortals with fairies.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Seventeenth century
Jonson’s Neoclassical perspective on Shakespeare was to govern the literary criticism of the later 17th century as well. John Dryden, in his essay Of Dramatick Poesie (1668) and other essays, condemned the improbabilities of Shakespeare’s late romances. Shakespeare lacked decorum, in Dryden’s view, largely because he had written for an ignorant age and poorly educated audiences. Shakespeare excelled in “fancy” or imagination, but he lagged behind in “judgment.” He was a native genius, untaught, whose plays needed to be extensively rewritten to clear them of the impurities of their frequently vulgar style. And in fact most productions of Shakespeare on the London stage during the Restoration did just that: they rewrote Shakespeare to make him more refined.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Eighteenth century
This critical view persisted into the 18th century as well. Alexander Pope undertook to edit Shakespeare in 1725, expurgating his language and “correcting” supposedly infelicitous phrases. Samuel Johnson also edited Shakespeare’s works (1765), defending his author as one who “holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life”; but, though he pronounced Shakespeare an “ancient” (supreme praise from Johnson), he found Shakespeare’s plays full of implausible plots quickly huddled together at the end, and he deplored Shakespeare’s fondness for punning. Even in his defense of Shakespeare as a great English writer, Johnson lauded him in classical terms, for his universality, his ability to offer a “just representation of general nature” that could stand the test of time.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Romantic critics
For Romantic critics such as Samuel Taylor Coleridge in the early 19th century, Shakespeare deserved to be appreciated most of all for his creative genius and his spontaneity. For Goethe in Germany as well, Shakespeare was a bard, a mystical seer. Most of all, Shakespeare was considered supreme as a creator of character. Maurice Morgann wrote such character-based analyses as appear in his book An Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff (1777), where Falstaff is envisaged as larger than life, a humane wit and humorist who is no coward or liar in fact but a player of inspired games. Romantic critics, including Charles Lamb, Thomas De Quincey (who wrote Encyclopædia Britannica’s article on Shakespeare for the eighth edition), and William Hazlitt, extolled Shakespeare as a genius able to create an imaginative world of his own, even if Hazlitt was disturbed by what he took to be Shakespeare’s political conservatism. In the theatre of the Romantic era, Shakespeare fared less well, but as an author he was much touted and even venerated. In 1769 the famous actor David Garrick had instituted a Shakespeare Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon to celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday. Shakespeare had become England’s national poet.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » Increasing importance of scholarship
The late 19th and early 20th centuries saw major increases in the systematic and scholarly exploration of Shakespeare’s life and works. Philological research established a more reliable chronology of the work than had been hitherto available. Edward Dowden, in his Shakspere: A Critical Study of His Mind and Art (1875), analyzed the shape of Shakespeare’s career in a way that had not been possible earlier. A.C. Bradley’s magisterial Shakespearean Tragedy (1904), a book that remains highly readable, showed how the achievements of scholarship could be applied to a humane and moving interpretation of Shakespeare’s greatest work. As in earlier studies of the 19th century, Bradley’s approach focused largely on character.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » Historical criticism
Increasingly in the 20th century, scholarship furthered an understanding of Shakespeare’s social, political, economic, and theatrical milieu. Shakespeare’s sources came under new and intense scrutiny. Elmer Edgar Stoll, in Art and Artifice in Shakespeare (1933), stressed the ways in which the plays could be seen as constructs intimately connected with their historical environment. Playacting depends on conventions, which must be understood in their historical context. Costuming signals meaning to the audience; so does the theatre building, the props, the actors’ gestures.

Accordingly, historical critics sought to know more about the history of London’s theatres (as in John Cranford Adams’s well-known model of the Globe playhouse or in C. Walter Hodges’s The Globe Restored [1953]), about audiences (Alfred Harbage, As They Liked It [1947]; and Ann Jennalie Cook, The Privileged Playgoers of Shakespeare’s London, 1576–1642 [1981]), about staging methods (Bernard Beckerman, Shakespeare at the Globe 1599–1609 [1962]), and much more. Other scholarly studies examined censorship, the religious controversies of the Elizabethan era and how they affected playwriting, and the heritage of native medieval English drama. Studies in the history of ideas have examined Elizabethan cosmology, astrology, philosophical ideas such as the Great Chain of Being, physiological theories about the four bodily humours, political theories of Machiavelli and others, the skepticism of Montaigne, and much more. See also Sidebar: Shakespeare on Theatre; Sidebar: Shakespeare and the Liberties; and Sidebar: Music in Shakespeare’s Plays.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » New Criticism
As valuable as it is, historical criticism has not been without its opponents. A major critical movement of the 1930s and ’40s was the so-called New Criticism of F.R. Leavis, L.C. Knights, Derek Traversi, Robert Heilman, and many others, urging a more formalist approach to the poetry. “Close reading” became the mantra of this movement. At its most extreme, it urged the ignoring of historical background in favour of an intense and personal engagement with Shakespeare’s language: tone, speaker, image patterns, and verbal repetitions and rhythms. Studies of imagery, rhetorical patterns, wordplay, and still more gave support to the movement. At the commencement of the 21st century, close reading remained an acceptable approach to the Shakespearean text.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » New interpretive approaches
Shakespeare criticism of the 20th and 21st centuries has seen an extraordinary flourishing of new schools of critical approach. Psychological and psychoanalytic critics such as Ernest Jones have explored questions of character in terms of Oedipal complexes, narcissism, and psychotic behaviour or, more simply, in terms of the conflicting needs in any relationship for autonomy and dependence. Mythological and archetypal criticism, especially in the influential work of Northrop Frye, has examined myths of vegetation having to do with the death and rebirth of nature as a basis for great cycles in the creative process. Christian interpretation seeks to find in Shakespeare’s plays a series of deep analogies to the Christian story of sacrifice and redemption.

Conversely, some criticism has pursued a vigorously iconoclastic line of interpretation. Jan Kott, writing in the disillusioning aftermath of World War II and from an eastern European perspective, reshaped Shakespeare as a dramatist of the absurd, skeptical, ridiculing, and antiauthoritarian. Kott’s deeply ironic view of the political process impressed filmmakers and theatre directors such as Peter Brook (King Lear, A Midsummer Night’s Dream). (For further discussion of later interpretations of Shakespeare, see Sidebar: Viewing Shakespeare on Film and Sidebar: Shakespeare and Opera.) He also caught the imagination of many academic critics who were chafing at a modern political world increasingly caught up in image making and the various other manipulations of the powerful new media of television and electronic communication.

A number of the so-called New Historicists (among them Stephen Greenblatt, Stephen Orgel, and Richard Helgerson) read avidly in cultural anthropology, learning from Clifford Geertz and others how to analyze literary production as a part of a cultural exchange through which a society fashions itself by means of its political ceremonials. Stephen Greenblatt’s Renaissance Self-Fashioning (1980) provided an energizing model for the ways in which literary criticism could analyze the process. Mikhail Bakhtin was another dominant influence. In Britain the movement came to be known as Cultural Materialism; it was a first cousin to American New Historicism, though often with a more class-conscious and Marxist ideology. The chief proponents of this movement with regard to Shakespeare criticism are Jonathan Dollimore, Alan Sinfield, John Drakakis, and Terry Eagleton.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » Feminist criticism and gender studies
Feminist and gender-study approaches to Shakespeare criticism made significant gains after 1980. Feminists, like New Historicists, were interested in contextualizing Shakespeare’s writings rather than subjecting them to ahistorical formalist analysis. Turning to anthropologists such as Claude Lévi-Strauss, feminist critics illuminated the extent to which Shakespeare inhabited a patriarchal world dominated by men and fathers, in which women were essentially the means of exchange in power relationships among those men. Feminist criticism is deeply interested in marriage and courtship customs, gender relations, and family structures. In The Tempest, for example, feminist interest tends to centre on Prospero’s dominating role as father and on the way in which Ferdinand and Miranda become engaged and, in effect, married when they pledge their love to one another in the presence of a witness—Miranda’s father. Plays and poems dealing with domestic strife (such as Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece) take on a new centrality in this criticism. Diaries, marriage-counseling manuals, and other such documents become important to feminist study. Revealing patterns emerge in Shakespeare’s plays as to male insecurities about women, men’s need to dominate and possess women, their fears of growing old, and the like. Much Ado About Nothing can be seen as about men’s fears of being cuckolded; Othello treats the same male weakness with deeply tragic consequences. The tragedy in Romeo and Juliet depends in part on Romeo’s sensitivity to peer pressure that seemingly obliges him to kill Tybalt and thus choose macho male loyalties over the more gentle and forgiving model of behaviour he has learned from Juliet. These are only a few examples. Feminist critics of the late 20th and early 21st centuries included, among many others, Lynda Boose, Lisa Jardine, Gail Paster, Jean Howard, Karen Newman, Carol Neely, Peter Erickson, and Madelon Sprengnether.

Gender studies such as those of Bruce R. Smith and Valerie Traub also dealt importantly with issues of gender as a social construction and with changing social attitudes toward “deviant” sexual behaviour: cross-dressing, same-sex relationships, and bisexuality.

Understanding Shakespeare » Literary criticism » Twentieth century and beyond » Deconstruction
The critical movement generally known as deconstruction centred on the instability and protean ambiguity of language. It owed its origins in part to the linguistic and other work of French philosophers and critics such as Ferdinand de Saussure, Michel Foucault, and Jacques Derrida. Some of the earliest practitioners and devotees of the method in the United States were Geoffrey Hartmann, J. Hillis Miller, and Paul de Man, all of Yale University. Deconstruction stressed the extent to which “meaning” and “authorial intention” are virtually impossible to fix precisely. Translation and paraphrase are exercises in approximation at best.

The implications of deconstruction for Shakespeare criticism have to do with language and its protean flexibility of meanings. Patricia Parker’s Shakespeare from the Margins: Language, Culture, Context (1996), for example, offers many brilliant demonstrations of this, one of which is her study of the word preposterous, a word she finds throughout the plays. It means literally behind for before, back for front, second for first, end or sequel for beginning. It suggests the cart before the horse, the last first, and “arsie versie,” with obscene overtones. It is thus a term for disorder in discourse, in sexual relationships, in rights of inheritance, and much more. Deconstruction as a philosophical and critical movement aroused a good deal of animosity because it questioned the fixity of meaning in language. At the same time, however, deconstruction attuned readers to verbal niceties, to layers of meaning, to nuance.

Late 20th-century and early 21st-century scholars were often revolutionary in their criticism of Shakespeare. To readers the result frequently appeared overly postmodern and trendy, presenting Shakespeare as a contemporary at the expense of more traditional values of tragic intensity, comic delight, and pure insight into the human condition. No doubt some of this criticism, as well as some older criticism, was too obscure and ideologically driven. Yet deconstructionists and feminists, for example, at their best portray a Shakespeare of enduring greatness. His durability is demonstrable in the very fact that so much modern criticism, despite its mistrust of canonical texts written by “dead white European males,” turns to Shakespeare again and again. He is dead, white, European, and male, and yet he appeals irresistibly to readers and theatre audiences all over the world. In the eyes of many feminist critics, he portrays women with the kind of fullness and depth found in authors such as Virginia Woolf and George Eliot.

David Bevington








Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic comedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: France and Italy
First presented: с 1602

Uneven in tone, All's Well That Ends Well ranges from scenes of farce to moments of serious insight. Helena's character, of rather dubious virtue in terms of her tactics with Bertram, sheds interesting ambiguity on the play's general theme of the blindness of prejudice and unreason.


Principal Characters

Helena (hel'3-пэ), the orphaned daughter of Gerard de Narbon, a distinguished physician, and the ward of the Countess of Rousillon. She at first regards her love for Bertram, the countess' son, as hopeless; then, with the independence characteristic of the heroines of Shakespeare's comedies, she resolves to try to win him with her father's one legacy to her, a cure for the ailing king's mysterious malady. Her charm and sincerity win the love and admiration of all who see her except Bertram himself. Hurt but undaunted by his flight from her on their wedding day, she mourns chiefly that she has sent him into danger in the Florentine war and deprived his mother of his presence. She leaves the countess without farewell, hoping at least to free her husband to return to his home if she is not successful in fulfilling his seemingly impossible conditions for a reconciliation. She contrives through an ingenious trick, substituting herself for the Florentine girl he is trying to seduce, to obtain his ring and conceive his child. Thus she wins for herself a loving and repentant husband.
Bertram (ber'trem), Count Rousillon (roo-sil'yan, roo-se-yoh'), a rather arrogant, self-satisfied, impulsive young man. Proud of his noble blood, he feels degraded by the king's command that he marry Helena, and after the ceremony he flees with his dissolute companion, Par-olles, to the army of the Duke of Florence to escape such ignominy. He wins fame as a soldier, but he fares less well in his personal relationships. First, Parolles' essential cowardice and disloyalty are exposed by his fellow soldiers to the young count who had trusted him. Then his attempt to seduce Diana brings about the very end he is trying to escape, union with his own wife. His antagonism for Helena melts when he hears reports of her death and recognizes the depth of the love he has lost, and he is willingly reconciled to her when she is restored to him.
The Countess of Rousillon, Bertram's mother, a wise and gracious woman who is devoted to both Bertram and Helena and welcomes the idea of their marriage. Her
son's calloused rejection of his virtuous wife appalls her, and she grieves deeply for his folly, in spite of her protest to Helena that she looks upon her as her only remaining child. After Helena's reported death and Bertram's return, she begs the king to forgive her son's youthful rebelliousness.
Parolles (pa-roTes), Bertram's follower and fellow soldier, who has no illusions about his own character: "Simply the thing I am shall make me live . . . every braggart shall be found an ass." His romantic illusions are nonexistent; he encourages Bertram to be off to the wars with him, and he aids and abets the attempted seduction of Diana. The quality of his loyalty to his patron becomes all too obvious in the hilarious drum scene, when he, blindfolded, insults and offers to betray all his countrymen to free himself from the enemies into whose hands he thinks he has fallen.
The King of France, a kindly old man who has almost resigned himself to the fact that his illness is incurable when Helena comes to court with her father's prescription, which heals him. He believes her the equal of any man in the kingdom and readily agrees to reward her service to him by letting her choose her husband from among the noblemen of the kingdom. Only the pleas of Lafeu and the countess and Bertram's late recognition of Helena's virtues prevent him from punishing the young man severely for his rebellious flight.
Lafeu (la'fu'). an old lord, counselor to the king and the countess' friend. He is as much captivated by Helena's grace as his king is, but he blames Parolles chiefly for Bertram's ungentle desertion of his wife. Out of friendship for the countess, he arranges a marriage between Bertram and his own daughter in an attempt to assuage the king's anger against the count.
Lavache (la-vash'), the countess' servant, a witty clown who is expert in the nonsensical trains of logic spun by characters such as Touchstone and Feste.
Diana Capilet (dl-ап'э kap'Het), the attractive, virtuous daughter of a Florentine widow. She willingly agrees
to help Helena win Bertram when she hears her story, and she wins a rich husband for herself as a reward from the king for her honesty.
A Widow, Diana's mother, who is concerned about the honor of her daughter and her house.
Violenta (ve-o-l'en'ta) and Mariana (ma-re-a'na), the widow's honest neighbors.
The Duke of Florence, the general whose army Bertram joins.
Rinaldo (ri-nal'do), the countess' steward, who first tells her of Helena's love for Bertram.


The Story

Bertram, the Count of Rousillon, had been called to the court to serve the king of France, who was ill of a disease that all the royal physicians had failed to cure. The only doctor in the entire country who might have cured the king was now dead. On his deathbed he had bequeathed to his daughter Helena his books and papers describing cures for all common and rare diseases, among them the one suffered by the king.
Helena was now the ward of the Countess of Rousillon, who thought of her as a daughter. Helena loved young Count Bertram and wanted him for a husband, not a brother. Bertram considered Helena only slightly above a servant, however, and would not consider her for a wife. Through her knowledge of the king's illness, Helena at last hit upon a plot to gain the spoiled young man for her mate, in such fashion as to leave him no choice in the decision. She journeyed to the court and, offering her life as forfeit if she failed, gained the king's consent to try her father's cure on him. If she won, the young lord of her choice was to be given to her in marriage.
Her sincerity won the king's confidence. She cured him by means of her father's prescription and as her boon asked for Bertram for her husband. That young man protested to the king, but the ruler kept his promise, not only because he had given his word but also because Helena had won him over completely.
The king ordered the marriage to be performed at once, yet Bertram, although bowing to the king's will, would not have Helena for a wife in any but a legal way. Pleading the excuse of urgent business elsewhere, he deserted her after the ceremony and sent messages to her and to his mother saying he would never belong to a wife forced upon him. He told Helena that she would not really be his wife until she wore on her finger a ring he now wore on his and carried in her body a child that was his; and these two things would never come to pass, for he would never see Helena again. He was encouraged in his hatred for Helena by his follower, Parolles, a scoundrel and a coward who would as soon betray one person as another. Helena had reproached him for his vulgar ways, and he wanted vengeance on her.
Helena returned to the Countess of Rousillon, as Bertram had commanded. The countess heard of her son's actions with horror, and when she read the letter he had written her, restating his hatred for Helena, she disowned her son, for she loved Helena as her own child. When Helena learned that Bertram had said he would never
return to France until he no longer had a wife there, she sadly decided to leave the home of her benefactress. Loving Bertram, she vowed that she would not keep him from his home.
Disguising herself as a religious pilgrim, Helena followed Bertram to Italy, where he had gone to fight for the Duke of Florence. While lodging with a widow and her daughter, a beautiful young girl named Diana, Helena learned that Bertram had seduced a number of young Florentine girls. Lately he had turned his attention to Diana, but she, a pure and virtuous girl, would not accept his attentions. Then Helena told the widow and Diana that she was Bertram's wife, and by bribery and a show of friendliness she persuaded them to join her in a plot against Bertram. Diana listened again to his vows of love for her and agreed to let him come to her rooms, provided he first gave her a ring from his finger to prove the constancy of his love. Bertram, overcome with passion, gave her the ring, and that night, as he kept the appointment in her room, the girl he thought Diana slipped a ring on his finger as they lay in bed together.
News came to the countess in France and to Bertram in Italy that Helena had died of grief and love for Bertram. Bertram returned to France to face his mother's and the king's displeasure, but first he discovered that Parolles was the knave everyone else knew him to be. When Bertram held him up to public ridicule, Parolles vowed he would be revenged on his former benefactor.
When the king visited the Countess of Rousillon, she begged him to restore her son to favor. Bertram protested that he really loved Helena, though he had not recognized that love until after he had lost her forever through death. His humility so pleased the king that his confession of love, coupled with his exploits in the Italian wars, won him a royal pardon for his offense against his wife. Then the king, about to betroth him to another wife, the lovely and wealthy daughter of a favorite lord, noticed the ring Bertram was wearing. It was the ring given to him the night he went to Diana's rooms; the king in turn recognized it as a jewel he had given to Helena. Bertram tried to pretend that it had been thrown to him in Florence by a high-born lady who loved him. He said that he had told the lady he was not free to wed, but that she had refused to take back her gift.
At that moment Diana appeared as a petitioner to the king and demanded that Bertram fulfill his pledge to recognize her as his wife. When Bertram tried to pretend
that she was no more than a prostitute he had visited, she produced the ring he had given her. That ring convinced everyone present, especially his mother, that Diana was really Bertram's wife. Parolles added to the evidence against Bertram by testifying that he had heard his former master promise to marry the girl. Bertram persisted in his denials. Diana then asked for the ring she had given to him, the ring which the king thought to be Helena's. The king asked Diana where she had gotten the ring. When she refused to tell on penalty of her life, he ordered her taken to prison. Diana then declared that she would sent for her bail. Her bail was Helena, now carrying Bertram's child within her, for it was she, of course, who had received him in Diana's rooms that fateful night. To her Diana gave the ring. The two requirements for his real wife being now fulfilled, Bertram promised to love Helena as a true and faithful husband. Diana received from the king a promise to give her any young man of her choice for her husband, with the king to provide the dowry. Thus the bitter events of the past made sweeter the happiness of all.


Critical Evaluation

All's Well That Ends Well belongs to the set of "problem plays" of Shakespeare—those works which approach traditional dramatic themes in an unconventional fashion, or which combine the outward forms of comedy with an inner sense of unease and disquiet. Undoubtedly the most famous and successful of these troubling comedies is Measure for Measure, and it is worth noting that it and All's Well That Ends Well were almost certainly written about the same time. This was also the period of Shakespeare's great tragedies, such as Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear. All's Well That Ends Well stands as the weakest work of the period; it is a masterpiece, but a flawed one.
Two major reasons contribute to the relative thinness of the play: Its characters are sketchily drawn and, with the exception of Helena, do not fully engage the audience's sympathies; the plot, taken from ancient folktales by way of Boccaccio, retains many of its magical aspects— such as Helena's miraculous cure of the king—yet these elements do not fit well with the spare, unromantic style of the play.
The language of All's Well That Ends Well is suited to the intelligent, skeptical view of this period of Shakespeare's art, but it is not lively enough for a true comedy, or elaborate enough for a fantasy based on folklore. There are moments of ribald interchange, including the one at the beginning of the play between Parolles and Helena, and there are the finely elegiac lines of the ill French king, when he speaks of old men "whose judgments are mere fathers of their garments." These and numerous other remarkable passages reveal that any fault lies not in Shakespeare's linguistic resources but in the link between language and the characters and actions of the play.
The prime weakness of the plot must consist in its brevity, a normal feature of folktales but one which makes it difficult to sustain action throughout a five-act play. Shakespeare's mastery of invention, so amply demonstrated in other works, seems to have been held in check here, perhaps deliberately so, according to many critics. While it is possible to speculate on his motives for restraining his plot, one should note that a conscious limitation of invention is typical of the problem plays.
The basic situation of the plot is familiar to any reader of folktales: A woman is set what seems to be an impossible task, which, if she completes it, will win her a desired reward. In All's Well That Ends Well, the reward for Helena will be Bertram as her true husband; to win him she must wear a ring from his finger and bear his child. Bertram attempts to forestall these actions by deserting Helena in France while he travels to Italy with his bombastic companion, Parolles. Such a task as Helena is given makes sense in a folktale, but in a full-length play it must be made believable through the nature of the characters.
Helena, a strong, capable, and lively young woman, is one of Shakespeare's most engaging heroines. Yet she has one inexplicable trait—perhaps even a flaw—in that she desires Bertram for her husband. Bertram, a self-centered, snobbish young nobleman, enters the play with no apparent qualities to recommend him to a generous woman such as Helena. Perhaps she sees in him some nature that is capable of being renewed: this is suggested during the play's Italian episodes, in which Bertram seems to redeem himself through personal valor in battle, and in which his conscience is stirred by a justly reproachful letter from his mother. Yet it is also in Italy that Bertram barters away his precious ring for a moment of lewd pleasure; back in France, he will promptly and ineptly lie about the exchange. This moral seesawing raises questions about Bertram's basic character. Still, without the love of Helena for Bertram, there would be no play, and as Helena remarks, "All's well that ends well yet Though time seem so adverse and means unfit." Perhaps here we should understand "time" as being the events of the play and Bertram as the "means unfit."
The other particularly notable character in the play is Parolles, a braggart soldier whose valor is all in the sound of his voice, and who carries into battle. tellingK enough. not a musket but a drum. Once again, there is the inevitable tendency to contrast characters, but between Sir John Falstaff and the rogue of this pla\ there is no contest. Parolles is neither witty nor humorous in Falstaff's sense, although he is gifted with great verbal ingenuity, especially of the coarse and mocking sort—parolles means "words"—but his language repels rather than attracts the audience or reader.
Yet, in the end, Parolles speaks the lines that sum up the central mystery of All's Well That Ends Well, and of all the problem plays, when he defines his character and fate: "Simply the thing I am shall make me live." The supposedly simple thing that Shakespeare hints at throughout the play is the one point that he never fully reveals.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: About 30 B.C.
Locale: Egypt and various parts of the Roman Empire
First presented: 1606-1607

Antony and Cleopatra is the tragedy of a man destined to rule the world who instead brings himself to ruin through capitulation to desires of the flesh; deserted by friends and subjects, he is forced to seek the escape of ignoble suicide. Shakespeare's source for the play was Sir Thomas North's translation of Plutarch's Lives. It is interesting to note that for many years Dryden's version of the story, All for Love, was the more frequently performed of the two plays.


Principal Characters

Mark Antony (mark an'ta-ne), also Marcus Anton-ius, the majestic ruin of a great general and political leader, a Triumvir of Rome. Enthralled by Cleopatra, he sometimes seems about to desert her for her real and dangerous rival: Rome. He marries Caesar's sister Octa-via for political reasons, but returns to Cleopatra. His greatness is shown as much by his effect on others as by his own actions. His cynical, realistic follower Enobar-bus is deeply moved by him; his soldier's adore him even in defeat; his armor-bearer remains with him to the death; even his enemy Octavius Caesar praises him in life and is shocked into heightened eulogy when he hears of his death. Antony is capable of jealous fury and reckless indiscretion; but he bears the aura of greatness. He dies by his own hand after hearing the false report of Cleopatra's death, but lives long enough to see her once more and bid her farewell.
Cleopatra (kle-o-pa'tre), queen of Egypt. Considered by many critics Shakespeare's greatest feminine creation, she has the complexity and inconsistency of real life. Like Antony, she is displayed much through the eyes of others. Even the hard-bitten realist Enobarbus is moved to lavish poetic splendor by her charm and beauty. Only Octavius Caesar, of all those who come in contact with her, is impervious to her charms, but the nobility of her death moves even him. She is mercurial and self-centered, and there is some ambiguity in her love of Antony. It is difficult to be certain that her tragic death would have taken place had cold Octavius Caesar been tony's favor. Caesar's affection for his sister Octavia is almost the only warm note in his character; but his comments on the deaths of Antony and Cleopatra show unexpected generosity and magnanimity.
Domitius Enobarbus (do-mish'yus e-nobar'bus), Antony's friend and follower. Of the family of Shakespeare's loyal Horatio and Kent, he is a strong individual within the type. Though given to the disillusioned cynicism of the veteran soldier, he has a splendid poetic vein which is stimulated by Cleopatra. He knows his master well and leaves him only when Antony seems to have left himself. Miserable as a deserter, Enobarbus is moved so deeply by Antony's generosity that he dies of grief. He serves as a keen, critical chorus for about three-fourths of the play.
Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (mf'kus emil'I-dus), the third Triumvir, a "poor third," as Enobarbus calls him. He tries to bring together Antony and Octavius and to quell the thunderstorms which their rivalry frequently engenders. He is the butt of some teasing by Antony when they are both drinking heavily on Pompey's galley. After the defeat of Pompey, Octavius Caesar destroys Lepidus, leaving himself and Antony to fight for control of the world.
Sextus Pompeius (Pompey) (seks'tus рбт-pe'yus; 'pam-рё), the son of Pompey the Great. Ambitious and power-hungry, he has a vein of chivalric honor which prevents his consenting to the murder of his guests, the Triumvirs, aboard his galley. He makes a peace with the Triumvirs, largely because of Antony, but is later attacked and defeated by Caesar and loses not only his power but his life as well.
Octavia (ak-'ta-ves), sister of Octavius Caesar. A virtuous widow, fond of her brother and strangely fond of Antony after their marriage, she serves as a foil to Cleopatra. She is not necessarily as dull as Cleopatra thinks her. There is pathos in her situation, but she lacks tragic stature.
Charmian, a pert, charming girl attending Cleopatra. Gay, witty, and risque, she maintains a tragic dignity during the death of her queen. She tends Cleopatra's body, closes the eyes, delivers a touching eulogy, and then joins her mistress in death.
Iras, another of Cleopatra's charming attendants. Much like Charmian, but not quite so fully drawn, she dies just before Cleopatra.
Mardian, a eunuch, servant of Cleopatra. He bears the false message of Cleopatra's death to Antony, which leads Antony to kill himself.
Alexas, an attendant to Cleopatra. He jests wittily with Charmian, Iras, and the Soothsayer. Deserting Cleopatra and joining Caesar, he is hanged by Caesar's orders.
A Soothsayer. He serves two functions: one to make satirical prophecies to Charmian and Iras, which turn out to be literally true; the other to warn Antony against remaining near Caesar, whose fortune will always predominate. The second helps Antony to make firm his decision to leave Octavia and return to Egypt.
Seleucus (se-ldo'kus), Cleopatra's treasurer. He betrays to Caesar the information that Cleopatra is holding back the greater part of her treasure. She indulges in a public temper tantrum when he discloses this; but since the information apparently lulls Caesar into thinking that the queen is not planning suicide, perhaps Seleucus is really aiding, not betraying, her.
A Clown, who brings a basket of figs to the captured queen. In the basket are concealed the poisonous asps. The clown's language is a mixture of simpleminded philosophy and mistaken meanings. The juxtaposition of his unconscious humor and Cleopatra's tragic death is reminiscent of the scene between Hamlet and the gravedigger.
Ventidius (ven-tid'i-us), one of Antony's able subordinates. A practical soldier, he realizes that it is best to be reasonably effective, but not spectacular enough to arouse the envy of his superiors; therefore, he does not push his victory to the extreme.
Eros (e'ros), Antony's loyal bodyguard and armor bearer. He remains with his leader to final defeat. Rather than carry out Antony's command to deliver him a death stroke, he kills himself.
Scarus (ska'ras, ska'rus), one of Antony's tough veterans. Fighting heroically against Caesar's forces in spite of severe wounds, he rouses Antony's admiration. In partial payment, Antony requests the queen to offer him her hand to kiss.
Canidius (ca-nid'i-us), Antony's lieutenant general. When Antony refuses his advice and indiscreetly chooses to fight Caesar's forces on sea rather than on land, and consequently meets defeat, Canidius deserts to Caesar.
Dercetas (der'ce-ta s), a loyal follower of Antony. He takes the sword stained with Antony's blood to Caesar. announces his leader's death, and offers either to serve Caesar or die.
Demetrius (ds-me'tri-us) and Philo (fi'lo). followers of Antony. They open the play with comments on Antony's "dotage" on the Queen of Egypt.
Euphronius (u-fro'm-us), Antony's old schoolmaster. He is Antony's emissary to Caesar asking for generous terms of surrender. Caesar refuses his requests.
Silius (sll'yus), an officer in Ventidius' army.
Menas (me'nas), a pirate in the service of Pompey. He remains sober at the drinking bout on board Pompey "s galley and offers Pompey the world. He intends to cut the cable of the galley and then cut the throats of the Triumvirs and their followers. Angered at Pompey's rejection of his proposal, he joins Enobarbus in drunken revelry and withdraws his support from Pompey.
Menecrates (тёп-ёк'гэ-tez) and Varrius (va'ri-us). followers of Pompey.
Maecenas (me-se'nas), Caesar's friend and follower. He supports Agrippa and Lepidus in arranging the alliance between Caesar and Antony.
Agrippa (э-grip's), Caesar's follower. He is responsible for the proposal that Antony and Octavia be married to cement the alliance. His curiosity about Cleopatra leads to Enobarbus' magnificent description of her on her royal barge.
Dolabella (dol-э-ЬёГэ), one of Caesar's emissaries to Cleopatra. Enchanted by her, he reveals Caesar's plan to display her in a Roman triumph. This information strengthens her resolution to take her own life.
Proculeius (ргб-кп-le'us), the only one of Caesar's followers whom Antony advises Cleopatra to trust. She wisely withholds the trust, for Proculeius is sent by Caesar to lull her into a false sense of security.
Thyreus (thi're-us), an emissary of Caesar. Antony catches him kissing Cleopatra's hand and has him whipped and sent back to Caesar with insulting messages.
Gallus (gal'us), another of Caesar's followers. He captures Cleopatra and her maids in the monument and leaves them guarded.
Taurus (to'rus), Caesar's lieutenant general.


The Story

After the murder of Julius Caesar, the Roman Empire was ruled by three men, the noble triumvirs, Mark Antony, Lepidus, and Octavius, Caesar's nephew. Antony, having been given the Eastern sphere to rule, had gone to Alexandria and there he had seen and fallen passionately in love with Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. She was the flower of the Nile, but a wanton who had been the mistress of Julius Caesar and of many others. Antony was so filled with lust for her that he ignored his own counsel and the warnings of his friends, and as long as possible he ignored also a request from Octavius Caesar that he return to Rome. Sextus Pompeius, son of Pompey the Great, and a powerful leader, was gathering troops to seize Rome from the rule of the triumvirs, and Octavius Caesar wished to confer with the other two, Antony and Lepidus. At last the danger of a victory by Sextus Pompeius, coupled with the news that his wife Fulvia was dead, forced Antony to leave Egypt and Cleopatra and journey to Rome.
Pompeius was confident of victory so long as Antony stayed in Egypt, for Antony was a better general than either Lepidus or Octavius. When Pompeius heard that Antony was headed toward Rome, his hope was that Octavius and Antony would not mend their quarrels but would continue to fight each other as they had in the past. Lepidus did not matter; he sided with neither of the other two, and cared little for conquest and glory. Pompeius faced disappointment however, for Antony and Octavius mended their quarrels in the face of common danger. To seal their renewed friendship, Antony married Octavia, the sister of Octavius; through her, each general would be bound to the other. Thus it seemed that Pompeius' scheme to separate Antony and Octavius would fail. His last hope was that Antony's lust would send him back to Cleopatra; then he and Octavius would battle each other and Pompeius would conquer Rome. To stall for time, he sealed a treaty with the triumvirs. Antony, with his wife, went to Athens on business for the Empire, There word reached him that Lepidus and Octavius had waged war in spite of the treaty they had signed, and Pompeius had been killed. Octavius' next move was to seize Lepidus on the pretext that he had aided Pompeius. Now the Roman world had but two rulers, Octavius and Antony.
But Antony could not resist the lure of Cleopatra. Sending Octavia, his wife, home from Athens, he hurried back to Egypt. His return ended all pretense of friendship between him and Octavius. Each man prepared for battle, the winner to be the sole ruler of the world. Cleopatra joined her forces with those of Antony. At first Antony was supreme on the land, but Octavius ruled the sea and lured Antony to fight him there. Antony's friends and captains, particularly loyal Enobarbus, begged him not to risk his forces on the sea, but Antony, confident of victory, prepared to match his ships with those of Octavius at Actium. But in the decisive hour of the great sea fight Cleopatra ordered her fleet to leave the battle, and sail for home. Antony, leaving the battle and his honor and his glory, followed her. Because he had set the example for desertion, many of his men left his forces and joined the standard of Octavius.
Antony was sunk in gloom at the folly of his own actions, but his lust had made him drunk with desire, and everything, even honor, must bow to Cleopatra. She protested that she did not know that Antony would follow her when she sailed away. Antony had reason enough to know she lied, but he still wanted the fickle wanton at any cost.
Octavius sent word to Cleopatra that she might have all her wishes granted if she would surrender Antony to Octavius. Knowing that Octavius was likely to be the victor in the struggle, she sent him a message of loyalty and of admiration for his greatness. Although Antony had seen her receive the addresses of Octavius' messenger, and even though he ranted and stormed at her for her faithlessness, she was easily able to dispel his fears and jealousy and make him hers again. After a failure to sue for peace, Antony decided to march again against his enemy. At this decision even the faithful Enobarbus left him and went over to Octavius, for he thought Antony had lost his reason as well as his honor. But Enobarbus too was an honorable man who shortly afterward died of shame for deserting his general.
On the day of the battle, victory was in sight for Antony, in spite of overwhelming odds. But once more the flight of the Egyptian fleet betrayed him. His defeat left Octavius master of the world. Antony was like a madman, seeking nothing but revenge on treacherous Cleopatra. When the queen heard of his rage, she had word sent to him that she was dead, killed by her own hand out of love for him. Convinced once more that Cleopatra had been true to him, Antony called on Eros, his one remaining follower, to kill him so that he could join Cleopatra in death. But faithful Eros killed himself rather than stab his beloved general. Determined to die, Antony fell on his own sword. Even that desperate act was without dignity or honor, for he did not die immediately and he could find no one who loved him enough to end his pain and misery. While he lay there, a messenger brought word that Cleopatra still lived. He ordered his servants to carry him to her. There he died in her arms, each proclaiming eternal love for the other.
When Octavius Caesar heard the news of Antony's death, he grieved. Although he had fought and conquered Antony, he lamented the sorry fate of a great man turned weakling, ruined by his own lust. He sent a messenger to assure Cleopatra that she would be treated royally, that she should be ruler of her own fate. But the queen learned, as Antony had warned her, that Octavius would take her to Rome to march behind him in his triumphant procession, where she, a queen and mistress to two former rulers of the world, would be pinched and spat upon by rabble and slaves. To cheat him of his triumph, she put on her crown and all her royal garb, placed a poisonous asp on her breast, and lay down to die. Charmian and Iras, her loyal attendants, died the same death. Octavius Caesar, entering her chamber, saw her dead, but as beautiful and desirable as in life. There was only one thing he could do for his one-time friend and the dead queen: He ordered their burial in a common grave, so they were together in death as they had wished to be in life.


Critical Evaluation

In Antony and Cleopatra Shakespeare is not bound by the Aristotelian unities. He moves swiftly across the whole of the civilized world with a panorama of scenes and characters; he creates a majestic expanse suitable to the broad significance of the tragedy. The play, Shakespeare's longest, is broken up into small units which intensify the impression of rapid movement. Written immediately after the four great tragedies—Julius Caesar, Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth—it rivals them in tragic effect even though it has no plot which Aristotle would recognize. The story is taken from North's translation of Plutarch, but is refashioned into a complex rendering of a corruption which enobles as it destroys. It may lack the poignantly representative character of the great tragedies, but it extends its significance by taking the whole world for its canvas.
As a standard tragic figure, Antony leaves much to be desired. His actions are little more than a series of vacillations between commitment to a set of responsibilities, which are his by virtue of his person and his office, and submission to the overpowering passion which repeatedly draws him back to the fatal influence of Cleopatra. His nobility is of an odd sort. He commands respect and admiration as one of the two great rulers of the world, but we merely are told of his greatness; we do not see it represented in his actions. Antony travels, but he does not really do anything until his suicide—and he does not even do that very efficiently. His nobility, attested by his past deeds and his association with the glories of Rome, is a quality of which we are frequently reminded, but it is not something earned within the play.
Antony has another impediment to tragic stature: He is somewhat too intelligent and aware of what he is doing. Although it is true that he behaves irresponsibly, the fact remains, as Mark Van Doren has noted, that he lives "in the full light of accepted illusion." There is no duping of the hero: Cleopatra is not Antony's Iago. Nor is there any self-deception; Antony does not cheer himself up by pretending that their love is anything more than it is.
Nevertheless, their love is sufficiently great to endow Antony with whatever nobility he salvages in the play. It is not simply that he is a hero brought to disgrace by lust, although that much is true. Viewed from another angle, he is a hero set free from the limits of heroism by a love which frees him from a commitment to honor for a commitment to life. Of course, his liberation is also his humiliation and destruction because he is a Roman hero of great power and historical significance. Both noble and depraved, both consequential and trivial, Antony finds new greatness in the intense passion which simultaneously lays him low.
Cleopatra is an equally complex character, but her complexity is less the result of paradox than of infinite variation. Throughout the first four acts she lies, poses, cajoles, and entices, ringing manifold changes on her powers to attract. Yet she is not a coarse temptress, not a personification of evil loosed upon a helpless victim. As her behavior in the last act reminds us, she is also an empress, whose dignity should be recalled throughout her machinations. For Cleopatra too is swept along by overwhelming passion. She is not only a proud queen and conniving seducer, but a sincere and passionate lover. Despite her tarnished past, her plottings in Antony and Cleopatra are given the dignity of underlying love. Like Antony, she is not the sort of character who challenges the universe and transcends personal destruction. Rather. her dignity lies somewhere beyond, or outside, traditional heroism.
The complexity of Cleopatra is most apparent in the motivation for her suicide. Certainly one motive is the desire to avoid the humiliation of being led in a triumph through Rome by the victorious Octavius Caesar. But if that were all, then she would be nothing more than an egoistic conniver. However, she is also motivated by her sincere unwillingness to survive Antony. The two motives become intertwined, since the humiliation of slavery would also extend to Antony and taint his reputation. This mixture of motives is a model of the way in which the two lovers are simultaneously the undoing and the salvation of each other. Their mutual destruction springs from the same love that provides them with their antiheroic greatness. Love is lower than honor in the Roman world, but it can generate an intensity which makes heroism irrelevant. Antony is too intelligent, Cleopatra is too witty, and their love is too intricate for ordinary tragedy.
The structure of the plot also departs from the tragic norm. There is almost none of the complication and unraveling which we expect in tragedy. Rather, the action moves in fits and starts through the forty-two scenes of the play. These brief segments appear to be a series of unequal waves, sweeping over the characters and finally carrying them to destruction. The plethora of scenes and the rapid shifting of locations create a jerky dramatic movement. Although the action of the play must extend over a long period of time, the quick succession of scenes suggests an unsteady hurtling toward a conclusion.
The helter-skelter quality is reinforced by the language of the play. Few speeches are long, and there are many abrupt exchanges; there are also many quick, wide-ranging allusions. Finally, in his versification, Shakespeare uses feminine endings which metrically recreate the nervous vitality of the action. Thus, plot and language spread the drama over the whole world and hasten its conclusion in order to maximize the tensions of a "world well lost" for love.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Pastoral romance
Time of plot: The Middle Ages
Locale: The Forest of Arden in medieval France
First presented: с 1590-1600

A pastoral romantic comedy set in the Middle Ages, As You Like It takes its plot from Thomas Lodge's popular romance, Rosalyde (1590). Involving the eventual union of four very different pairs of lovers who represent the diverse faces of love, the story is marked by its mood of kindliness, fellowship, and good humor.


Principal Characters

Rosalind (roz's-Hnd)—disguised as Ganymede (gan's-med) in the forest scenes—the daughter of the banished Duke Senior. A witty, self-possessed young woman, she accepts whatever fortune brings, be it love or exile, with gaiety and good sense. She is amused by the ironic situations arising from her disguise as a youth, and she wryly recognizes the humorous aspects of her growing love for Orlando, whose passion she pretends to be curing. Her central place in the lives of her companions is epitomized in the final scene where she sorts out the tangled skeins of romance and, with Orlando, joins three other couples before Hymen, the god of marriage.
Orlando (or-lan'do). youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, the late ally of Rosalind's father. Although his elder brother mistreats him and neglects his education, he reveals his gentle birth in his manner and appearance. His love for Rosalind provokes extravagantly romantic gestures, but the deeper feeling of which he is capable is evident in his concern for his faithful old servant Adam, as well as in his fidelity to his sweetheart.
Celia (se'li-э), Rosalind's gentle cousin, who refuses to let her depart alone for the Forest of Arden. She, too, is gay and witty, ready to exchange quips with Touchstone and tease Rosalind about her love for Orlando. When she meets Orlando's brother Oliver, however, she succumbs to Cupid even more rapidly than did her cousin.
Touchstone, Duke Frederick's clever fool, who accompanies his master's daughter Celia and Rosalind into the Forest of Arden, much to the amusement of Jaques and to the consternation of the old shepherd Corin, who finds himself damned for never having been at court, according to Touchstone's logic. The fool, more than any of the other characters, remains at heart a courtier, even in Arcadia, but he returns from the forest with a country wench as his bride.
Jaques (ja'kwez), a hanger-on of Duke Senior's court in Arden, a professional man of melancholy who philosophizes on the "seven ages of man." He is fascinated by
the presence in the forest of a "motley fool," and he delights in Touchstone's explanations of court formalities. He remains in the forest when his lord recovers his dukedom, and he goes off to observe and comment on the unexpected conversion of Duke Frederick.
Oliver (ol'I-var), Orlando's greedy, tyrannical brother, who tries to deprive him of both wealth and life. Sent by Duke Frederick to find his brother or forfeit all his lands, he is rescued by Orlando from a lioness. This kindness from his mistreated brother gives him new humanity, and he becomes a worthy husband for Celia.
Duke Frederick, Celia's strong, self-centered father, the usurper. Fearing her popularity with the people, he arbitrarily sends Rosalind away to her exiled father. Later, equally unreasonably, he banishes Orlando for being the son of an old enemy and then sets Oliver wandering in search of the brother he despises. He is reported at the end of the play to have retired from the world with an old hermit.
Duke Senior, Rosalind's genial father, banished by his brother Duke Frederick, who holds court under the greenwood trees, drawing amusement from hunting, singing, and listening to Jaques' melancholy philosophy in the golden world of Arden.
Silvius (sil' vi-us), a lovesick young shepherd. He asks "Ganymede" to help him win his scornful sweetheart Phebe.
Phebe (fe'be), a disdainful shepherdess. Rebuked by "Ganymede" for her cruelty to Silvius, she promptly becomes enamored of the youth. She promises, however, to wed Silvius if she is refused Ganymede, and. of course, she does so once Rosalind reveals her identity.
Audrey (6'dri), Touchstone's homely, stupid, good-hearted country wench.
William, Audrey's equally simple-minded rustic suitor.
Corin (kor'in), a wide, well-meaning old shepherd. He gives good counsel to William and expresses the virtues of the simple life in his cross-purposes discussion of court and country with Touchstone.
Adam, a faithful old servant of Orlando's family. He accompanies his young master into the forest.
Jaques (ja'kwez, jak), the brother of Orlando and Oliver. He brings the news of Duke Frederick's retirement to the forest.
Sir Oliver Martext, a "hedge-priest" hired by Touchstone to marry him to Audrey in somewhat dubious rites.
Le Beau (1э bo), Duke Frederick's pompous attendant. Charles, a champion wrestler challenged and defeated by Orlando.
Amiens (a'ml-enz), one of Duke Senior's lords.
Dennis, Oliver's servant.
Hymen (Ы'тэп), the god of marriage.


The Story

A long time ago the elder and lawful ruler of a French province had been deposed by his younger brother, Frederick. The old duke, driven from his dominions, fled with several faithful followers to the Forest of Arden. There he lived a happy life, free from the cares of the court and able to devote himself at last to learning the lessons nature had to teach. His daughter Rosalind, however, remained at court as a companion to her cousin Celia, the usurping Duke Frederick's daughter. The two girls were inseparable, and nothing her father said or did could make Celia part from her dearest friend.
One day Duke Frederick commanded the two girls to attend a wrestling match between the duke's champion, Charles, and a young man named Orlando, the special object of Duke Frederick's hatred. Orlando was the son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who in his lifetime had been one of the banished duke's most loyal supporters. When Sir Rowland died, he had charged his oldest son, Oliver, with the task of looking after his younger brother's education, but Oliver had neglected his father's charge. The moment Rosalind laid eyes on Orlando she fell in love with him, and he with her. She tried to dissuade him from an unequal contest with a champion so much more powerful than he, but the more she pleaded the more determined Orlando was to distinguish himself in his lady's eyes. In the end he completely conquered his antagonist, and was rewarded for his prowess by a chain from Rosalind's own neck.
When Duke Frederick discovered his niece's interest in Sir Rowland's son, he banished Rosalind immediately from the court. His daughter Celia announced her intention of following her cousin. As a consequence, Rosalind disguised herself as a boy and set out for the Forest of Arden, and Celia and the faithful Touchstone (the false duke's jester) went with her. In the meantime, Orlando also found it necessary to flee because of his brother's harsh treatment. He was accompanied by his faithful servant, Adam, an old man who willingly turned over his life savings of five hundred crowns for the privilege of following his young master.
Orlando and Adam also set out for the Forest of Arden, but before they had traveled very far they were both weary and hungry. While Adam rested in the shade of some trees, Orlando wandered into that part of the forest where the old duke was, and came upon the outlaws at their meal. Desperate from hunger, Orlando rushed upon the duke with a drawn sword and demanded food. The duke immediately offered to share the hospitality of his table, and Orlando blushed with shame over his rude manner. Moreover, he would not touch a mouthful until Adam had been fed. When the old duke found that Orlando was the son of his friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took Orlando and Adam under his protection and made them members of his band of foresters.
In the meantime, Rosalind and Celia also arrived in the Forest of Arden, where they bought a flock of sheep and proceeded to live the life of shepherds. Rosalind passed as Ganymede, Celia, as a sister, Aliena. In this adventure they encountered some real Arcadians—Silvius, a shepherd, and Phebe, a dainty shepherdess with whom Silvius was in love. But the moment Phebe laid eyes on the disguised Rosalind she fell in love with the supposed young shepherd and would have nothing further to do with Silvius. As Ganymede, Rosalind also met Orlando in the forest and twitted him on his practice of writing verses in praise of Rosalind and hanging them on the trees. Touchstone displayed, in the forest, the same willfulness and whimsicality he showed at court, even to his love Audrey, a country wench whose sole appeal was her unloveliness.
One morning, as Orlando was on his way to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lying asleep under an oak tree. A snake was coiled about the sleeper's neck, and a hungry lioness crouched nearby ready to spring. He recognized the man as his own brother, Oliver, and for a moment Orlando was tempted to leave him to his fate. But he drew his sword and killed the snake and the lioness. In the encounter he himself was wounded by the lioness. Because Orlando had saved his life, Oliver was duly repentant, and the two brothers were joyfully reunited.
His wound having bled profusely, Orlando was too weak to visit Ganymede, and he sent Oliver instead with a bloody handkerchief as proof of his wounded condition. When Ganymede saw the handkerchief, the supposed shepherd promptly fainted. The disguised Celia was so impressed by Oliver's concern for his brother that she fell in love with him, and they made plans to be married on the following day. Orlando was so overwhelmed by this news that he was a little envious. But when Ganymede came to call upon Orlando, the young shepherd promised to produce the lady Rosalind the next day. Meanwhile Phebe came to renew her ardent declaration of love for Ganymede, who promised on the morrow to unravel the love tangle of everyone.
In the meantime, Duke Frederick, enraged at the flight of his daughter, Celia, had set out at the head of an expedition to capture his elder brother and put him and all his followers to death. But on the outskirts of the Forest of Arden he met an old hermit who turned Frederick's head from his evil design. On the day following, as Ganymede had promised, with the banished duke and his followers as guests, Rosalind appeared as herself and explained how she and Celia had posed as the shepherd Ganymede and his sister Aliena. Four marriages took place with great rejoicing that day—Orlando to Rosalind, Oliver to Celia, Silvius to Phebe, and Touchstone to Audrey. Moreover, Frederick was so completely converted by the hermit that he resolved to take religious orders, and he straightway dispatched a messenger to the Forest of Arden to restore his brother's lands and those of all his followers.


Critical Evaluation

As You Like It is a splendid comedy on love and alternate life-styles that more than fulfills the promise of its title. Its characters are, for the most part, wonderfully enamored of love, one another, and themselves. The play has a feeling of freshness and vitality, and although adapted from an older story full of artifice, suggests a world of spontaneity and life.
To understand As You Like It, one must understand the conventions it uses. As You Like It is often called a pastoral comedy because it engages the conventions of pastoral literature. Pastoral literature, beginning in the third century B.C. and popular in the late sixteenth century, enabled poets, novelists, and dramatists to contrast trie everyday world's fears, anxieties, disloyalties, uncertainties, and tensions with the imagined, mythical world of a previous age when peace, longevity, contentment, and fulfillment reigned in men's lives. Each age develops its own manner of describing lost happiness, far removed from the normal toil of human existence. The pastoral was the dominant such vision in the late sixteenth century.
In the pastoral, the mythic, lost, "golden" world is set in a simple, rural environment, which then becomes the image of all things desirable to honest men. As You Like It is typical of this convention and it contains two contrasting worlds: the world of the court and the rural world— in this case the Forest of Arden. The court is inhabited by corrupt men; namely, Duke Frederick and Oliver. It is not significant that the gentle Duke, Orlando, Rosalind, and Celia once resided there. Rather, as the play develops, the court is the natural home of the wicked and ambitious. Yet, we do not witness the degeneration of Duke Frederick and Oliver; they are naturally wicked, and the court is their proper milieu.
The elder Duke, Orlando, Rosalind, and Celia, on the other hand, are naturally good, and the forest is their natural milieu. If the court represents elaborate artifice, ambition, avarice, cruelty, and deception, the forest represents openness, tolerance, simplicity, and freedom. In the pastoral, one does not find immensely complex characters such as Hamlet, who like most humans has both good and bad characteristics; instead, good and bad traits are apportioned to separate characters. This allocation imposes a necessary artifice upon the play, which colors all actions, from falling in love to hating or helping a brother. In a play such as As You Like It. one docs not expect naturalistic behavior. On the other hand, by using the conventions and artifice adroitly, Shakespeare achieved a remarkable exploration of love and its attendant values.
In the opening scene, Orlando, who has been denied an education and kept like an animal by his brother, is seen to be naturally good and decent. Talking to his brother Oliver, Orlando says, "You have train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me. and I will no longer endure it: therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman . . ." (I. i. 71 - 7 61. Oliver, on the other hand, is just as naturally wicked as Orlando is decent. He says, "for my soul—yet I know not why—hates nothing more than he" (I.i.171-172). Logic has no necessary place in this world. Love, however, does.
Love is a natural part of the pastoral world. Practically at first glance, Rosalind and Orlando are in love. Shakespeare's magic in As You Like It is to take the contrived love that is the expected part of the pastoral convention. and make of it a deeply felt experience that the audience can understand and to which it can react. Shakespeare manages this not only through the extraordinary beauty of his language but also through the structure of his play.
As You Like It is full of parallel actions. Orlando and Rosalind meet and immediately fall in love. Silvius and Phebe are in love. Touchstone meets Audrey in the forest, and they fall in love. At the end of the play Celia meets the reformed Oliver, and they fall in love just as quickly as Rosalind and Orlando had at the beginning of the play. The love match at the play's end nicely sets off the love match at the beginning.
Each love pairing serves a particular purpose. The focus of the play is primarily upon the Rosalind-Orlando match. Rosalind is the more interesting of the pair, for while she recognizes the silliness of the lover's ardor, she is as much victim as those she scorns. In Act IV, while in boy's disguise, she pretends to Orlando that his Rosalind will not have him. He says, "Then ... I die" (IV.i.93). Her response pokes fun at the expiring love: "No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. . . . Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love" (IV.i.93-108). She can toy with Orlando in her disguise as Ganymede, yet she is completely dominated by her love passion. Strong passion is a part of the love experience, but Rosalind's and Orlando's passion is highly refined; the passion others know is more earthly.
Touchstone, in his quest for Audrey, exemplifies this side of love. He at first wants to marry her out of church so when he tires of her, he can claim their marriage was invalid. The kind of love he represents is physical passion. The Phebe-Silvius pairing shows yet another face of love. Silvius exemplifies the typical pastoral lover, hopelessly in love with a fickle mistress. He sighs on his pillow and breaks off from company, forlornly calling out his mistress' name. Touchstone's and Silvius' brands of love are extreme versions of qualities in Rosalind's love. In the comedies Shakespeare often used this device of apportioning diverse characteristics to multiple characters rather than building one complete character. Without Touchstone, love in the play may be too sentimental to take seriously. Without Silvius, it may be too crude. With both, love as exemplified by Rosalind and Orlando becomes a precious balance of substance and nonsense, spirituality and silliness.
Curious things happen in As You Like It. Good men leave the honorable forest to return to the wicked court. Wicked men who enter the forest are instantly converted in their ways. At the end of the play Oliver, who came to the Forest of Arden to hunt down his brother Orlando, gives his estate to Orlando and marries Celia, vowing to remain in the forest and live and die a shepherd. Duke Frederick also came to the Forest of Arden in order to kill his brother. Meeting "an old religious man" in the forest. Duke Frederick "was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world." He too gives up his estate, and his crown, to his brother. The forest, the pastoral world, has the power to convert.
Why, then, do the elder Duke, Orlando, and Rosalind elect to return to the court, home of wickedness? They do so because in the end As You Like It is not a fairy tale, but an expression of humanly felt experiences. The forest ultimately is to be used as a cleansing and regenerative experience, a place to which one may retire in order to renew simplicity, honesty, and virtue. It is not, however, to be a permanent retreat. Good men stained by labor and trouble in their everyday world in the end must still participate in that world. They can retreat to the pastoral world in order to renew and reinvigorate themselves, but finally they must return, refreshed and fortified, to the community of men, to take on the responsibilities all must face.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Comedy
Time of plot: First century B.C.
Locale: Ancient Greece
First presented: с 1592


The Comedy of Errors is a farce-comedy bordering at times on slapstick. The basic plot, inherently confusing, involves two sets of twins and a family, separated for years, which is reunited at last in court. For his sources in this play, Shakespeare used The Twin Menaechmi of the Roman playwright Plautus, and perhaps Plautus' Amphitryon as well.


Principal Characters

Antipholus of Syracuse (an-tif б-lus of sfr's-kus), the son of Aegeon and Aemilia. Separated from his twin brother in his childhood, he meets him again under the most baffling circumstances. Shortly after he and his servant, Dromio of Syracuse, land in Ephesus, the whole series of comic errors begins. Antipholus meets his servant's lost twin brother, who is also bewildered by the ensuing conversation. Thinking this Dromio to be his own servant, Antipholus belabors the mystified man about his pate with great vigor. Finally, at the end, the puzzle is solved when he recognizes that he has found his identical twin.
Antipholus of Ephesus (efesus), the identical twin brother of Antipholus of Syracuse. Equally bewildered by his mishaps, he is disgruntled when his wife locks him out of his house; she is blissfully unaware of the truth—that the man in her house is not her husband. In addition, a purse of money is received by the wrong man. Never having seen his own father, or at least not aware of the relationship, he is even more amazed when the old man calls him son. By this time the entire town believes him to be mad, and he, like his twin, is beginning to think that he is bewitched. It is with great relief that he finally learns the true situation and is reunited with his family.
Dromio of Syracuse (dro'mi'6), the twin brother to Dromio of Ephesus and attendant to Antipholus of Syracuse. He is as much bewildered as his master, who, in the mix-up, beats both Dromios. To add to his misery, a serving wench takes him for her Dromio and makes unwanted advances. Much to his chagrin, she is "no longer from head to foot than from hip to hip. She is spherical, like a globe. . . ."
Dromio of Ephesus. When the two Antipholi were separated during a shipwreck, he, too, was separated from his identical twin. As is his brother, he is often drubbed by his master. In this case, if his master does not pummel him, his mistress will perform the same office. During all this time he is involved in many cases of mistaken identity. Sent for a piece of rope, he is amazed when his supposed master knows nothing of the transaction.
Aegeon (ё-je'on), a merchant of Syracuse. Many years before, he had lost his beloved wife and one son. Since then, his other son has left home to find his twin brother. Now Aegeon is searching for all his family. Landing in Ephesus, he finds that merchants from Syracuse are not allowed there on penalty of death or payment of a large ransom; the duke gives the old man a one-day reprieve. He finds his sons just in time, the ransom is paid, and the family is reunited.
Adriana (a-dri-апэ), the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus. When her husband denies his relationship to her, she (unaware that he is the wrong man) thinks he is insane. Already suspicious of her husband because of supposed infidelities, she suspects him even more.
Aemilia (ё-гпПТэ), the wife of Aegeon, and abbess at Ephesus. In the recognition scene she finds her husband, who has been separated from her for many years.
Solinus (so-M'nus), duke of Ephesus.
Luciana (loo-she-а'пэ), Adriana's sister, wooed by Antipholus of Syracuse.
Angelo (an'je-lo), a goldsmith.
Pinch, a schoolmaster, "a hungry lean-fac'd villain, a mere anatomy."


The Story

Aegeon, a merchant of Syracuse recently arrived in Ephesus, was to be put to death because he could not raise a thousand marks for payment of his fine. The law of the time was that a native of either land must not journey to the other on penalty of his life or the ransom of a thousand marks. When Solinus, duke of Ephesus,
heard Aegeon's story, however, he gave the merchant one more day to try to raise the money.
It was a sad and strange tale Aegeon told. He had, many years ago, journeyed to Epidamnum. Shortly after his wife joined him there she was delivered of identical twins. Strangely enough, at the same time and in the same house, another woman also bore twin boys, both identical. The second wife and her husband were so poor that they could not care for their children, and so they gave them to Aegeon and his wife Aemilia, to be attendants to their two sons. On their way home to Syracuse, the six were shipwrecked. Aemilia and the two with her were rescued by one ship, Aegeon and the other two by a different ship. Aegeon did not see his wife and the two children in her company again. When he reached eighteen years of age, Antipholus, the son reared by his father, grew anxious to find his brother, and he and his attendant set out to find their missing twins. Now they too were lost to Aegeon, and he had come to Syracuse to seek them.
Unknown to Aegeon, his son and his attendant had just arrived in Ephesus. Antipholus and Dromio, his attendant, met first a merchant of the city, who warned them to say that they came from somewhere other than Syracuse, lest they suffer the penalty already meted out to Aegeon. Antipholus, having sent Dromio to find lodging for them, was utterly bewildered when the servant returned and said that Antipholus' wife waited dinner for him. What had happened was that the Dromio who came now to Antipholus was Dromio of Ephesus, servant and attendant to Antipholus of Ephesus. Antipholus of Syracuse had given his Dromio money to pay for lodging, and when he heard a tale of a wife about whom he knew nothing he thought his servant was trying to trick him. He asked the servant to return his money, but Dromio of Ephesus had been given no money and professed no knowledge of the sum. He was beaten soundly for dishonesty. Antipholus of Syracuse later heard that his money had been delivered to the inn; he could not understand his servant's joke.
A short time later, the wife and sister-in-law of Antipholus of Ephesus met Antipholus of Syracuse and, after berating him for refusing to come home to dinner, accused him of unfaithfulness with another woman. Not understanding a thing of which Adriana spoke, Antipholus of Syracuse went to her home to dinner, Dromio being assigned by her to guard the gate and allow no one to enter. Thus it was that Antipholus of Ephesus arrived at his home with his Dromio and was refused admittance. So incensed was he that he left his house and went to an inn. There he dined with a courtesan and gave her gifts intended for his wife.
In the meantime Antipholus of Syracuse, even though almost believing that he must be the husband of Adriana, fell in love with her sister Luciana. When he told her of his love, she called him an unfaithful husband and begged
him to remain true to his wife. Dromio of Syracuse was pursued by a kitchen maid whom he abhorred; the poor girl mistook him for Dromio of Ephesus, who loved her.
Even the townspeople and merchants were bewildered. A goldsmith delivered to Antipholus of Syracuse a chain meant for Antipholus of Ephesus and then tried to collect from the latter, who in turn stated that he had received no chain and accused the merchant of trying to rob him.
Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse decided to get out of the seemingly mad town as soon as possible, and the servant was sent to book passage on the first ship leaving the city. Dromio of Syracuse brought back the news of the sailing, however, to Antipholus of Ephesus, who by that time had been arrested for refusing to pay the merchant for the chain he had not received. Antipholus of Ephesus, believing the servant to be his own, sent Dromio of Syracuse to his house to get money for his bail. Before that Dromio returned with the money, Dromio of Ephesus came to Antipholus of Ephesus, naturally without the desired money. Meanwhile, Dromio of Syracuse took the money to Antipholus of Syracuse, who had not sent for money and could not understand what his servant was talking about. To make matters worse, the courtesan with whom Antipholus of Ephesus had dined had given him a ring. Now she approached the other Antipholus and demanded the ring. Knowing nothing about the ring, he angrily dismissed the wench, who decided to go to his house and tell his wife of his betrayal.
On his way to jail for the debt he did not owe, Antipholus of Ephesus met his wife. Wild with rage, he accused her of locking him out of his own house and of refusing him his own money for bail. She was so frightened that she asked the police first to make sure that he was securely bound and then to imprison him in their home so that she could care for him.
At the same time, Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse were making their way toward the ship that would carry them away from this mad city. Antipholus was wearing the gold chain. The merchant, meeting them, demanded that Antipholus be arrested. To escape, Antipholus of Syracuse and his Dromio fled into an abbey. To the same abbey came Aegeon, the duke, and the executioners, for Aegeon had not raised the money for his ransom. Adriana and Luciana also appeared, demanding the release to them of Adriana's husband and his servant. Adriana, seeing the two men take refuge in the convent, thought they were Antipholus and Dromio of Ephesus. At that instant a servant ran in to tell Adriana that her husband and Dromio had escaped from the house and were even now on the way to the abbey. Adriana did not believe the servant, for she herself had seen her husband and Dromio enter the abbey. Then Antipholus and Dromio of Ephesus appeared before the abbey. Aegeon thought he recognized the son and servant he had been seeking, but they denied any knowledge of him. The confusion grew worse until the abbess brought from the convent Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse, who instantly recognized Aegeon. Then all the mysteries were solved. Adriana was reunited with her husband, Antipholus of Ephesus, and his Dromio had the kitchen maid once more. Antipholus of Syracuse was free to make love to Luciana. His Dromio was merely freed. Still more surprising, the abbess turned out to be Aegeon's wife, the mother of the Antipholi. So the happy family was together again. Lastly, Antipholus of Ephesus paid his father's ransom and brought to an end all the errors of that unhappy day.


Critical Evaluation

The Comedy of Errors is not a subtle play. Although it is well constructed and highly amusing, it never really rises above the level of farce, largely because its characters remain the stock figures of traditional low comedy and exhibit none of the individual touches and personalities of Shakespeare's later characters. The humor of the play is broad, both in action and in language. These facts have caused many to see The Comedy of Errors as Shakespeare's first comedy, a work of genius perhaps, but of apprentice genius. To support this conjecture it should be noted that this is his shortest play in number of lines, and one of only two comedies without songs; the other is All's Well That Ends Well, another play which does not quite fit into the traditional framework.
The plot of The Comedy of Errors was taken from the Latin New Comedy farce by Plautus, The Twin Menae-chimi, which follows the misadventures of identical twins separated at birth. In Shakespeare's comedy, these are the two brothers who share the name Antipholus. Shakespeare also borrowed from another of Plautus' plays, Amphitryon, for a second set of separated twins, the Dromio brothers, servants to the Antipholi. This doubling of twins and the confusions which result constitute almost the sole comic resources of the play.
In adapting the Plautine comedy, Shakespeare made a number of telling changes. He greatly softened the coarse, satirical approach of the ancient Roman farce, placing less emphasis on sexual gibes and more on witty wordplay. He was also more sympathetic and original with his characters; even as broadly drawn as Shakespeare's figures are in this work, they have much more life and appeal than the characters of Plautus. The two Antipholi are certainly not well-rounded persons, but they can be distinguished from one another: The brother from Syracuse is the more thoughtful of the two, while his Ephe-sian brother is a hardheaded businessman. Another change: Plautus had the twins' father die of grief over their loss, while Shakespeare keeps Aegeon and his wife alive so the family can be reunited at play's end. In these and numerous other touches, Shakespeare made the rough texture of his source more appealing and accessible.
Still, the play is a comedy of events rather than characters, and the humor springs from situations which are often bizarre or outrageous. The Comedy of Errors is heavily dependent upon two staples of much Elizabethan comedy, and indeed all broad comedy: wordplay and physical cruelty. The cruelty is humorous precisely because the characters are not individuals but only clowns, and the numerous beatings administered to the bewildered Dromios are laughable since no real pain is inflicted. The verbal repartee, based on quibbles, puns, and feigned mistakings, is a central technique in Shakespeare, and in this play appears in its obvious forms; the lengthy exchange between Antipholus of Syracuse and his Dromio in act 2, scene 2 is typical. While these exchanges are amusing, they lack the linguistic energy and sustained intelligence of Shakespeare's later plays.
The genius of The Comedy of Errors is not, then, in its characters or language but rather in the deftness of its plot and the fast-paced perfection of its action. In addition to the basic situation of the play, Shakespeare brought from Plautus many of the conventions of this particular type of comedy; chief among these was that no character move beyond his or her role. On the most obvious level, this means that until the very end of the play, the characters never learn what the audience knows from the start; if they possessed such knowledge, there could be no misunderstandings and therefore no play. On a deeper level, adherence to this convention means that no character can assume a dominant role, either by having a superior knowledge of events (as Prospero does in The Tempest) or by possessing a more generous character (as Rosalind does in As You Like It). Since precisely such a situation is brilliantly created and then masterfully exploited in Shakespeare's later comedies, its omission in The Comedy of Errors is especially striking.
There can be no doubt, however, that this play is Shakespeare's. Its first performance, at the Gray's Inn Christmas Revels on December 28, 1594, is well documented; the play was also published in the Folio of 1623, so the text is considered to be as good as any we have for Shakespeare. Furthermore, this play introduces a theme which was to occupy Shakespeare throughout his dramatic career: a shipwreck which separates families or lovers, who must then pass through trials before a final reunion. From The Comedy of Errors to The Tempest, this shipwreck motif exerted a powerful, mysterious hold over Shakespeare's imagination.
In a sense, it is unfair to compare this early work with the masterpieces of Shakespeare's later career. The Comedy of Errors has many virtues, and its defects are perceived largely in retrospect. Further, even if we acknowledge that Shakespeare was working within a limited compass and at the start of his career, it must be admitted that The Comedy of Errors is filled with touches of genius and moments of greatness that are uniquely his.


W. Shakespeare "Hamlet" illustration by Eugene Delacroix


Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: с 1200
Locale: Elsinore, Denmark
First presented: 1602


One of the most popular and highly respected plays ever written, Hamlet owes its greatness to the character of the Prince, a man of thought rather than action, a philosophical, introspective hero who is swept along by events rather than exercising control of them. Through the medium of some of the most profound and superb poetry ever composed, Shakespeare transforms a conventional revenge tragedy into a gripping exploration of the universal problems of mankind. In Hamlet's struggle with duty, morality, and ethics are mirrored the hopes, fears, and despair of all mankind.


Principal Characters

Hamlet (ham'tot), prince of Denmark. Generally agreed to be Shakespeare's most fascinating hero, Hamlet has been buried under volumes of interpretation, much of it conflicting. No brief sketch can satisfy his host of admirers nor take into account more than a minute fraction of the commentary now in print. The character is a mysterious combination of a series of literary sources and the phenomenal genius of Shakespeare. Orestes in Greek tragedy is probably his ultimate progenitor, not Oedipus, as some critics have suggested. The Greek original has been altered and augmented by medieval saga and Renaissance romance; perhaps an earlier "Hamlet," written by Thomas Kyd, furnished important material; however, the existence of such a play has been disputed. A mixture of tenderness and violence, a scholar, lover, friend, athlete, philosopher, satirist, and deadly enemy, Hamlet is larger than life itself. Torn by grief for his dead father and disappointment in the conduct of his beloved mother, Hamlet desires a revenge so complete that it will reach the soul as well as the body of his villainous uncle. His attempt to usurp God's prerogative of judgment leads to all the deaths in the play. Before his death he reaches a state of resignation and acceptance of God's will. He gains his revenge but loses his life.
Claudius (klo'di-us), king of Denmark, husband of his brother's widow, Hamlet's uncle. A shrewd and capable politician and administrator, he is courageous and self-confident; but he is tainted by mortal sin. He has murdered his brother and married his queen very soon thereafter. Although his conscience torments him with remorse, he is unable to repent or to give up the throne or the woman that his murderous act brought him. He has unusual self-knowledge and recognizes his unrepentant state. He is a worthy and mighty antagonist for Hamlet, and they destroy each other.
Gertrude, queen of Denmark, Hamlet's mother. Warmhearted but weak, she shows deep affection for Hamlet and tenderness for Ophelia. There are strong indications that she and Claudius have been engaged in an adulterous affair before the death of the older Hamlet. She loves Claudius, but she respects Hamlet's confidence and does not betray him to his uncle when he tells her of the murder, of which she has been obviously innocent and ignorant. Her death occurs after she drinks the poison prepared by Claudius for Hamlet.
Polonius (рэ-16'ni-us), Lord Chamberlain under Claudius, whom he has apparently helped to the throne. An affectionate but meddlesome father to Laertes and Ophelia, he tries to control their lives, He is garrulous and self-important, always seeking the devious rather than the direct method in politics or family relationships. Hamlet jestingly baits him but he apparently has some affection for the officious old man and shows real regret at killing him. Polonius' deviousness and eavesdropping bring on his death; Hamlet stabs him through the tapestry in the mistaken belief that Claudius is concealed there.
Ophelia, Polonius' daughter and Hamlet's love. A sweet, docile girl, she is easily dominated by her father. She loves Hamlet but never seems to realize that she is imperiling his life by helping her father spy on him. Her gentle nature being unable to stand the shock of her father's death at her lover's hands, she loses her mind and is drowned.
Laertes (la-flr'tez), Polonius' son. He is in many ways a foil to Hamlet. He also hungers for revenge for a slain father. Loving his dead father and sister, he succumbs to Claudius' temptation to use fraud in gaining his revenge. This plotting brings about his own death but also destroys Hamlet.
Horatio (ho-ra'-shi-б), Hamlet's former schoolmate and loyal friend. Well balanced, having a quiet sense of humor, he is thoroughly reliable. Hamlet trusts him implicitly and confides in him freely. At Hamlet's death, he wishes to play the antique Roman and die by his own hand; but he yields to Hamlet's entreaty and consents to remain alive to tell Hamlet's story and to clear his name.
Ghost of King Hamlet. Appearing first to the watch, he later appears to Horatio and to Hamlet. He leads Hamlet away from the others and tells him of Claudius' foul crime. His second appearance to Hamlet occurs during the interview with the queen, to whom he remains invisible, causing her to think that Hamlet is having hallucinations. In spite of Gertrude's betrayal of him, the ghost of murdered Hamlet shows great tenderness for her in both of his appearances.
Fortinbras (for'tin-bras), prince of Norway, son of old Fortinbras, the former king of Norway, nephew of the present regent. Another foil to Hamlet, he is resentful of his father's death at old Hamlet's hands and the consequent loss of territory. He plans an attack on Denmark, which is averted by his uncle after diplomatic negotiations between him and Claudius. He is much more the man of action than the man of thought. Hamlet chooses him as the next king of Denmark and expresses the hope and belief that he will be chosen. Fortinbras delivers a brief but emphatic eulogy over Hamlet's body.
Rosencrantz (ro-zen'kranz) and Guildenstern (gil'dan-stern), the schoolmates of Hamlet summoned to Denmark by Claudius to act as spies on Hamlet. Though hypocritical and treacherous, they are no match for him, and in trying to betray him they go to their own deaths.
Old Norway, uncle of Fortinbras. Although he never appears on the stage, he is important in that he diverts young Fortinbras from his planned attack on Denmark.
Yorick (yor'ik), King Hamlet's jester. Dead some years before the action of the play begins, he makes his brief appearance in the final act when his skull is thrown up by a sexton digging Ophelia's grave. Prince Hamlet reminisces and moralizes while holding the skull in his hands. At the time he is ignorant of whose grave the sexton is digging.
Reynaldo (ra-nol'do), Polonius' servant. Polonius sends him to Paris on business, incidentally to spy on Laertes. He illustrates Polonius' deviousness and unwillingness to make a direct approach to anything.
First Clown, a gravedigger. Having been sexton for many years, he knows personally the skulls of those he has buried. He greets with particular affection the skull of Yorick, which he identifies for Hamlet. He is an earthy humorist, quick with a witty reply.
Second Clown, a stupid straight man for the wit of the First Clown.
Osric (oz'rik), a mincing courtier. Hamlet baits him in much the same manner as he does Polonius, but without the concealed affection he has for the old man. He brings Hamlet word of the fencing match arranged between him and Laertes and serves as a referee of the match.
Marcellus (mar-seTus) and Bernardo (Ьэг-nar'do), officers of the watch who first see the Ghost of King Hamlet and report it to Horatio, who shares a watch with them. After the appearance of the Ghost to them and Horatio, they all agree to report the matter to Prince Hamlet, who then shares a watch with the three.
Francisco (fran-sis'ko), a soldier on watch at the play's opening. He sets the tone of the play by imparting a feeling of suspense and heartsickness.
First Player, the leader of a troop of actors. He produces "The Murder of Gonzago" with certain alterations furnished by Hamlet to trap King Claudius into displaying his guilty conscience.
A Priest, who officiates at Ophelia's abbreviated funeral. He refuses Laertes' request for more ceremony, since he believes Ophelia has committed suicide.
Voltimand (vol'M-mand) and Cornelius (kor-neTyus), ambassadors sent to Norway by Claudius.


The Story

Three times the ghost of Denmark's dead king had stalked the battlements of Elsinore Castle. On the fourth night Horatio, Hamlet's friend, brought the young prince to see the specter of his father, two months dead. Since his father's untimely death, Hamlet had been grief-stricken and in an exceedingly melancholy frame of mind. The mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of his father had perplexed him; then too, his mother had married Claudius, the dead king's brother, much too hurriedly to suit Hamlet's sense of decency.
That night Hamlet saw his father's ghost and listened in horror to what it had to say. He learned that his father had not died from the sting of a serpent, as had been supposed, but that he had been murdered by his own brother. Claudius, the present king. The ghost added that Claudius was guilty not only of murder but also of incest and adultery. But the spirit cautioned Hamlet to spare Queen Gertrude, his mother, so that heaven could punish her.
The ghost's disclosures should have left no doubt in Hamlet's mind that Claudius must be killed. But the introspective prince was not quite sure that the ghost was his father's spirit, for he feared it might have been a devil sent to torment him. Debating with himself the problem of whether or not to carry out the spirit's commands, Hamlet swore his friends, including Horatio, to secrecy concerning the appearance of the ghost, and he told them not to consider him mad if his behavior seemed strange to them.
Meanwhile Claudius was facing not only the possibility of war with Norway, but also, and much worse, his own conscience, which had been much troubled since his hasty marriage to Gertrude. In addition, he did not like the melancholia of the prince, who, he knew, resented the king's hasty marriage. Claudius feared that Hamlet would take his throne away from him. The prince's strange behavior and wild talk made the king think that perhaps Hamlet was mad, but he was not sure. To learn the cause of Hamlet's actions—madness or ambition—Claudius commissioned two of Hamlet's friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, to spy on the prince. But Hamlet saw through their clumsy efforts and confused them with his answers to their questions.
Polonius, the garrulous old chamberlain, believed that Hamlet's behavior resulted from lovesickness for his daughter, Ophelia. Hamlet, meanwhile, had become increasingly melancholy. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, as well as Polonius, were constantly spying on him. Even Ophelia, he thought, had turned against him. The thought of deliberate murder was revolting to him, and he was constantly plagued by uncertainty as to whether the ghost were good or bad. When a troupe of actors visited Elsi-nore, Hamlet saw in them a chance to discover whether Claudius were guilty. He planned to have the players enact before the king and the court a scene like that which, according to the ghost, took place the day the old king died. By watching Claudius during the performance, Hamlet hoped to discover for himself signs of Claudius' guilt.
His plan worked. Claudius became so unnerved during the performance that he walked out before the end of the scene. Convinced by the king's actions that the ghost was right, Hamlet had no reason to delay in carrying out the wishes of his dead father. Even so, Hamlet failed to take advantage of his first real chance after the play to kill Claudius. He came upon the king in an attitude of prayer and could have stabbed him in the back. Hamlet did not strike because he believed that the king would die in grace at his devotions.
The queen summoned Hamlet to her chamber to reprimand him for his insolence to Claudius. Hamlet, remembering what the ghost had told him, spoke to her so violently that she screamed for help. A noise behind a curtain followed her cries, and Hamlet, suspecting that Claudius was eavesdropping, plunged his sword through the curtain, killing old Polonius. Fearing an attack on his own life, the king hastily ordered Hamlet to England in company with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who carried a warrant for Hamlet's death. But the prince discovered the orders and altered them so that the bearers should be killed on their arrival in England. Hamlet then returned to Denmark.
Much had happened in that unhappy land during Hamlet's absence. Because Ophelia had been rejected by her former lover, she went mad and later drowned. Laertes, Polonius' hot-tempered son, returned from France and collected a band of malcontents to avenge the death of his father. He thought that Claudius had killed Polonius, but the king told him that Hamlet was the murderer and even persuaded Laertes to take part in a plot to murder the prince.
Claudius arranged for a duel between Hamlet and Laertes. To allay suspicion of foul play, the king placed bets on Hamlet, who was an expert swordsman. At the same time, he had poison placed on the tip of Laertes' weapon and put a cup of poison within Hamlet's reach in the event that the prince became thirsty during the duel. Unfortunately, Gertrude, who knew nothing of the king's treachery, drank from the poisoned cup and died. During the contest, Hamlet was mortally wounded with the poisoned rapier, but the two contestants exchanged foils in a scuffle, and Laertes himself received a fatal wound. Before he died, Laertes was filled with remorse and told Hamlet that Claudius was responsible for the poisoned sword. Hesitating no longer, Hamlet seized his opportunity to act, and fatally stabbed the king. Then the prince himself died. But the ghost was avenged.


Critical Evaluation

Hamlet has remained the most perplexing, as well as the most popular, of Shakespeare's major tragedies. Performed frequently, the play has tantalized critics with what has become known as the Hamlet mystery. The mystery resides in Hamlet's complex behavior, most notably his indecision and his reluctance to act.
Freudian critics have located his motivation in the psy-chodynamic triad of the father-mother-son relationship. According to this view, Hamlet is disturbed and eventually deranged by his Oedipal jealousy of the uncle who has done what, we are to believe, all sons long to do themselves. Other critics have taken the more conventional tack of identifying Hamlet's tragic flaw as a lack of courage or moral resolution. In this view, Hamlet's indecision is a sign of moral ambivalence which he overcomes too late.
The trouble with both of these views is that they presuppose a precise discovery of Hamlet's motivation. However, Renaissance drama is not generally a drama of motivation either by psychological set or moral predetermination. Rather, the tendency is to present characters, with well delineated moral and ethical dispositions, who are faced with dilemmas. It is the outcome of these conflicts, the consequences, which normally hold center stage. What we watch in Hamlet is an agonizing confrontation between the will of a good and intelligent man and the uncongenial role which circumstance calls upon him to play.
The disagreeable role is a familiar one in Renaissance drama—the revenger. The early description of Hamlet, bereft by the death of his father and the hasty marriage of his mother, makes him a prime candidate to assume such a role. One need not conclude that his despondency is Oedipal in order to sympathize with the extremity of his grief. His father, whom he deeply loved and admired, is recently deceased and he himself seems to have been finessed out of his birthright. Shakespeare, in his unfortunate ignorance of Freud, emphasized Hamlet's shock at Gertrude's disrespect to the memory of his father rather than love of mother as the prime source of his distress. The very situation breeds suspicion, which is reinforced by the ghastly visitation by the elder Hamlet's ghost and the ghost's disquieting revelation. The ingredients are all there for bloody revenge.
However, if Hamlet were simply to act out the role that has been thrust upon him, the play would be just another sanguinary potboiler without the moral and theological complexity which provides its special fascination. Hamlet has, after all, been a student of theology at Wittenberg. Hamlet's knowledge complicates the situation. First of all, he is aware of the fundamental immorality of the liaison between Gertrude and Claudius. Hamlet's accusation of incest is not an adolescent excess but an accurate theological description of a marriage between a widow and her dead husband's brother.
Hamlet's theological accomplishments do more than exacerbate his feelings. For the ordinary revenger, the commission from the ghost of the murdered father would be more than enough to start the bloodletting. But Hamlet is aware of the unreliability of otherworldly apparitions, and consequently he is reluctant to heed the ghost's injunction to perform an action which is objectively evil. In addition, the fear that his father was murdered in a state of sin and is condemned to hell not only increases Hamlet's sense of injustice but also, paradoxically, casts further doubt on the reliability of the ghost's exhortation. Is the ghost, Hamlet wonders, merely an infernal spirit goading him to sin?
Thus, Hamlet's indecision is not an indication of weakness, but the result of his complex understanding of the moral dilemma with which he is faced. He is unwilling to act unjustly, yet he is afraid that he is failing to exact a deserved retribution. He debates the murky issue and becomes unsure himself whether his behavior is caused by moral scruple or cowardice. He is in sharp contrast with the cynicism of Claudius and the verbose moral platitudes of Polonius. The play is in sharp contrast with the moral simplicity of the ordinary revenge tragedy. Hamlet's intelligence has transformed a stock situation into a unique internal conflict.
He believes that he must have greater certitude of Claudius' guilt if he is to take action. The device of the play within a play provides greater assurance that Claudius is suffering from a guilty conscience, but it simultaneously sharpens Hamlet's anguish. Having seen a re-creation of his father's death and Claudius' response, Hamlet is able to summon the determination to act. However, he once again hesitates when he sees Claudius in prayer because he believes that the king is repenting and, if murdered at that moment, will go directly to heaven. Here Hamlet's inaction is not the result of cowardice nor even of a perception of moral ambiguity. Rather, after all of his agonizing, Hamlet once decided on revenge is so thoroughly committed that his passion cannot be satiated except by destroying his uncle body and soul. It is ironic that Claudius has been unable to repent and that Hamlet is thwarted this time by the combination of his theological insight with the extreme ferocity of his vengeful intention.
That Hamlet loses his mental stability is clear in his behavior toward Ophelia and in his subsequent mean-derings. Circumstance had enforced a role whose enormity has overwhelmed the fine emotional and intellectual balance of a sensitive, well-educated young man. Gradually he regains control of himself and is armed with a cold determination to do what he decides is the just thing. Yet, even then, it is only in the carnage of the concluding scenes that Hamlet finally carries out his intention. Having concluded that "the readiness is all," he strikes his uncle only after he has discovered Claudius' final scheme to kill him and Laertes, but by then he is mortally wounded.
The arrival of Fortinbras, who has been lurking in the background throughout the play, superficially seems to indicate that a new, more direct and courageous order will prevail in the place of the evil of Claudius and the weakness of Hamlet. But Fortinbras' superiority is only apparent. He brings stasis and stability back to a disordered kingdom, but he does not have the self-consciousness and moral sensitivity which destroy and redeem Hamlet.
Gerald Else has interpreted Aristotle's notion of katharsis to be not a purging of the emotions but a purging of a role of the moral horror, the pity and fear, ordinarily associated with it. If that is so, then Hamlet, by the conflict of his ethical will with his role, has purged the revenger of his horrific bloodthirstiness and turned the stock figure into a self-conscious hero in moral conflict.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Historical chronicle
Time of plot: 1400-1405
Locale: England
First presented: 1596


Through the antics of Falstaff and his mates, comedy and history join in this play. Woven into scenes of court and military matters, the humorous sequences are used to reveal Prince Hal's character and to bring into sharp relief the serious affairs of honor and history.


Principal Characters

King Henry the Fourth, England's troubled ruler. Haunted by his action in the deposition and indirectly in the death of his predecessor and kinsman, Richard II, and deeply disturbed by the apparent unworthiness of his irresponsible eldest son, he also faces the external problem of rebellion. He wishes to join a crusade to clear his conscience and to carry out a prophecy that he is to die in Jerusalem; it turns out that he dies in the Jerusalem chamber in Westminster.
Henry, Prince of Wales (Prince Hal, Harry Mon-mouth), later King Henry V. A boisterous youth surrounded by bad companions, he matures rapidly with responsibility, saves his father's life in battle, and kills the dangerous rebel, Hotspur. When he comes to the throne, he repudiates his wild companions.
Sir John Falstaff, a comical, down-at-the-heels follower of Prince Hal. Considered by many to be one of Shakespeare's finest creations, by some to be his greatest, Falstaff is a plump fruit from the stem of the "Miles Gloriosus" of Plautus. He is the typical braggart soldier with many individualizing traits. As he says, he is not only witty himself, but the cause of wit in other men. Innumerable pages have been written on whether or not he is a coward. He is a cynical realist, a fantastic liar, a persuasive rascal. Also, he is apparently a successful combat soldier. His colossal body, which "lards the lean earth as he walks along," appropriately houses his colossal personality. In the second part of the play, there is some decline of his character, perhaps to prepare the way for Prince Hal, as King Henry V, to cast him off.
Prince John of Lancaster, another of King Henry's sons, who also bears himself well in battle at Shrewsbury. He commands part of his father's forces in Yorkshire and arranges a false peace with the Archbishop of York and other rebels. When their troops are dismissed, he has them arrested and executed.
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, a leading rebel against King Henry IV. He conceals the king's offer of generous terms from his nephew Hotspur, thereby causing the young warrior's death. He is executed for treason.
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, Worcester's brother. Having had an important share in the deposition of Richard II and the enthronement of Henry IV, he feels that he and his family are entitled to more power and wealth than they receive. He is also influenced to rebellion by his crafty brother and his fiery son. He fails his cause by falling ill or feigning illness before the Battle of Shrewsbury, and he does not appear there. Later he disconcerts Mowbray by withdrawing to Scotland, where he is defeated.
Hotspur (Henry Percy), son of Northumberland. A courageous, hot-tempered youth, he seeks to pluck glory from the moon. He is a loving, teasing husband, but his heart is more on the battlefield than in the boudoir. He rages helplessly at the absence of his father and Glen-dower from the Battle of Shrewsbury. In the battle he falls by Prince Henry's hand.
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, Hotspur's brother-in-law, designated heir to the English throne by Richard II. Captured while fighting against Glendower, he marries his captor's daughter. King Henry's refusal to ransom him leads to the rebellion of the Percys. He too fails to join Hotspur at Shrewsbury.
Owen Glendower, the Welsh leader. Hotspur finds his mystical self-importance irritating and almost precipitates internal strife among King Henry's opponents. Glendower also fails Hotspur at Shrewsbury. Some time later, Warwick reports Glendower's death to the ailing king.
Sir Richard Vernon, another rebel. He is with the Earl of Worcester when King Henry offers his terms for peace, and with great reluctance he agrees to conceal the terms from Hotspur.
Archibald, Earl of Douglas, a noble Scottish rebel. After killing Sir Walter Blunt and two others whom he mistakes for King Henry at Shrewsbury, he is prevented from killing the king by Prince Hal. After the battle, Prince Hal generously releases him without ransom.
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York, a principal rebel. He thinks to make peace with King Henry and take later advantage of his weakness, but is tricked by Prince John and executed.
Sir Walter Blunt, a heroic follower of the king. At the Battle of Shrewsbury, he pretends to Douglas that he is the King, thus bringing death on himself.
Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap. She is a silly, voluble woman with a stupendous fund of malapropisms. Easily angered, but gullible, she is a frequent victim of Falstaff's chicanery.
Bardolph, the red-nosed right-hand man of Falstaff. His fiery nose makes him the butt of many witticisms. Like Falstaff, he is capable of sudden and violent action.
Poins, Prince Hal's confidant. Masked, he and the Prince rob Falstaff and the other robbers at Gadshill and endeavor to discountenance Falstaff at the Boar's Head Tavern afterward.
Gadshill and Peto, other members of the Prince's scapegrace following.
The Sheriff, who seeks Falstaff after the robbery. Prince Hal sends him away with the promise that Sir John will answer for his behavior.
Lady Percy, Hotspur's wife, Mortimer's sister. A charming and playful girl, she is deeply in love with her fiery husband and tragically moved by his death.
Lady Mortimer, daughter of Glendower. Speaking only Welsh, she is unable to understand her husband, to whom she is married as a political pawn.
Sir Michael, a follower of the Archbishop of York, for whom he delivers secret messages to important rebels.


The Story

King Henry, conscience-stricken because of his part in the murder of King Richard П, his predecessor, planned a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He declared to his lords that war had been banished from England and that peace would reign throughout the kingdom.
But there were those of differing opinions. Powerful barons in the North remained disaffected after the accession of the new king. Antagonized by his failure to keep promises made when he claimed the throne, they recruited forces to maintain their feudal rights. In fact, as Henry announced plans for his expedition to the Holy Land, he was informed of the brutal murder of a thousand persons in a fray between Edmund Mortimer, proclaimed by Richard as heir to the crown, and Glendower, a Welsh rebel. Mortimer was taken prisoner. A messenger also brought word of Hotspur's success against the Scots at Holmedon Hill. The king expressed his commendation of the young knight and his regrets that his own son, Prince Henry, was so irresponsible and carefree.
But King Henry, piqued by Hotspur's refusal to release to him more than one prisoner, ordered a council meeting to bring the overzealous Hotspur to terms. At the meeting Henry refused to ransom Mortimer, the pretender to the throne, held by Glendower. In turn, Hotspur refused to release the prisoners taken at Holmedon Hill, and Henry threatened more strenuous action against Hotspur and his kinsmen.
In a rousing speech Hotspur appealed to the power and nobility of Northumberland and Worcester and urged that they undo the wrongs of which they were guilty in the dethronement and murder of Richard and in aiding Henry instead of Mortimer to the crown. Worcester promised to help Hotspur in his cause against Henry. Worcester's plan would involve the aid of Douglas of Scotland, to be sought after by Hotspur, of Glendower and Mortimer, to be won over through Worcester's efforts, and of the Archbishop of York, to be approached by Northumberland.
Hotspur's boldness and impatience were shown in his dealing with Glendower as they, Mortimer, and Worcester discussed the future division of the kingdom. Hotspur, annoyed by the tedium of Glendower's personal account of his own ill-fated birth and by the uneven distribution of land, was impudent and rude. Hotspur was first a soldier, then a gentleman.
In the king's opinion, Prince Henry was quite lacking in either of these attributes. In one of their foolish pranks Sir John Falstaff and his riotous band had robbed some travelers at Gadshill, only to be set upon and put to flight by the prince and one companion. Summoning the prince from the Boar's Head Tavern, the king urged his son to break with the undesirable company he kept, chiefly the ne'er-do-well Falstaff. Contrasting young Henry with Hotspur, the king pointed out the military achievements of Northumberland's heir. Congenial, high-spirited Prince Henry, remorseful because of his father's lack of confidence in him, swore his allegiance to his father and declared he would show the king that in time of crisis Hotspur's glorious deeds would prove Hotspur no better soldier than Prince Henry. To substantiate his pledge, the prince took command of a detachment that would join ranks with other units of the royal army—Blunt's, Prince John's, Westmoreland's, and the king's—in twelve days.
Prince Henry's conduct seemed to change very little. He continued his buffoonery with Falstaff, who had recruited a handful of bedraggled, nondescript foot soldiers. Falstaff's contention was that, despite their physical condition, they were food for powder and that little more could be said for any soldier.
Hotspur's forces suffered gross reverses through Northumberland's failure, because of illness, to organize an army. Also, Hotspur's ranks were reduced because Glendower believed the stars not propitious for him to march at that time. Undaunted by the news of his reduced forces, Hotspur pressed on to meet Henry's army of thirty thousand.
At Shrewsbury, the scene of the battle, Sir Walter Blunt carried to Hotspur the king's offer that the rebels' grievances would be righted and that anyone involved in the revolt would be pardoned if he chose a peaceful settlement. In answer to the king's message Hotspur reviewed the history of Henry's double-dealing and scheming in the past. Declaring that Henry's lineage should not continue on the throne, Hotspur finally promised Blunt that Worcester would wait upon the king to give him an answer to his offer.
Henry repeated his offer of amnesty to Worcester and Vernon, Hotspur's ambassadors. Because Worcester doubted the king's sincerity, because of previous betrayals, he lied to Hotspur on his return to the rebel camp and reported that the king in abusive terms had announced his determination to march at once against Hotspur. Worcester also reported Prince Henry's invitation to Hotspur that they fight a duel. Hotspur gladly accepted the challenge.
As the two armies moved into battle, Blunt, mistaken for the king, was slain by Douglas, who, learning his error, was sorely grieved that he had not killed Henry. Douglas, declaring that he would yet murder the king, accosted him after a long search over the field. He would have been successful in his threat had it not been for the intervention of Prince Henry, who engaged Douglas and allowed the king to withdraw from the fray.
In the fighting Hotspur descended upon Prince Henry, exhausted from an earlier wound and his recent skirmish with Douglas. When the two young knights fought, Hotspur was wounded. Douglas again appeared, fighting with Falstaff, and departed after Falstaff had fallen to the ground as if he were dead. Hotspur died of his wounds and Prince Henry, before going off to join Prince John, his brother, eulogized Hotspur and Falstaff. The two benedictions were quite different. But Falstaff had only pretended life-lessness to save his life. After the prince's departure, he stabbed Hotspur. He declared that he would swear before any council that he had killed the young rebel.
Worcester and Vernon were taken prisoners. Because they had not relayed to Hotspur the peace terms offered by the king, they were sentenced to death. Douglas, in flight after Hotspur's death, was taken prisoner. Given the king's permission to dispose of Douglas, Prince Henry ordered that the valiant Scottish knight be freed.
The king sent Prince John to march against the forces of Northumberland and the Archbishop of York. He and Prince Henry took the field against Glendower and Mortimer, in Wales. Falstaff had the honor of carrying off the slain Hotspur.


Critical Evaluation

Although there is no evidence that the cycle of plays including Richard the Second, Henry the Fourth, Part One and Part Two, and Henry the Fifth were intended by Shakespeare to form a unit, there is much continuity, of theme as well as of personages. There is a movement from one grand epoch to another, from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance. The main aspects of his transition implied at the end of each play are projected into the next, where they are developed and explored.
The reader of Henry the Fourth, Part One, should be familiar with some aspects of Richard the Second, for in that play the broad lines of the entire cycle are drawn and the immediate base of Henry the Fourth, Part One, is formed. In Richard the Second, the legitimate king, Richard II, is deposed by Bolingbroke, who becomes Henry IV. This event, to include both historical perspectives, must be viewed as at once a usurpation and a necessary political expediency. It is a usurpation because unjustifiable, indeed unthinkable, from the strictly medieval view of what has been called "the great chain of being." This notion postulates that the universe is ordered, hierarchical, that everything is given a place by God, from angels to ants, and that station is immutable. In this world, formed by ritual, an anointed king is representative of God's Order. To depose him is to call in question all order in the world. Tradition, especially ritual, presupposed and supported fixed order. Ritual in this larger sense is broken in Richard the Second first by the excesses of Richard himself and then, in a more definitive sense, by the usurping Bolingbroke. The irony of Bolingbroke's act, and the subject of Henry the Fourth, Part One, is the consequences of what was to have been a momentary departure from ordained ritual. As with Eve, the gesture of self-initiative was irrevocable, the knowledge and correlative responsibility gained at that moment inescapable. At the opening of Henry the Fourth, Part One, then, we see the results of rebellion already installed; the security of the old system of feudal trust is forever lost. Those who helped the king to power are men instead of God, the guarantors of the "sacredness" (the term already anachronistic) of the crown. This means political indebtedness and, at this point in history, with the anxiety of lost certainty still sharp, terrible doubt as to whence truth, power, and justice rightfully emanate. The king is no longer sovereign as he must negotiate, in the payment of his political debts, the very essence of his station. At the historical moment of the play, distrust predictably triumphs. Men are guided by the most available counsel, & personal sense of justice, or merely, perhaps, their own interests and passions.
In the void left by the fallen hierarchical order Shakespeare dramatizes the birth of modern individualism and, as a model for this, the formation of a Renaissance king (Prince Hal), an entity now of uncertain, largely self-created identity.
Prince Hal's position in the play is central. He represents a future unstigmatized by the actual usurpation. However, he inherits, to be sure, the new political and moral climate created by it. Yet while Henry's planned crusade to the Holy Land will be forever postponed in order to defend his rule from his former collaborators, Hal looks to the future.
It is characteristic of Henry's uncertain world that he knows his son only through hearsay, rumor, and slander. Even the Prince of Wales is suspect. He is widely thought a wastrel, and the king even suspects his son would like him dead. But where is the pattern of virtue for Hal? The king, the usurper, is tainted, of ambiguous virtue at best. He has betrayed, perhaps out of political necessity, even those who helped him to the throne.
In this play Hal is clearly attracted to two figures, Hotspur and Falstaff. Both of these are removed from the medieval ritualistic structures that had once tended to integrate disparate aspects of life: courtesy, valor, honest exchange, loyalty, and the like. A new synthesis of this sort is symbolically enacted in Hal's procession through the experience of, and choices between, the worlds of Hotspur and Falstaff.
For Hotspur life is a constant striving for glory in battle. As has been remarked, time for him presses implacably, considered wasted if not intensely devoted to the achievement of fame. But his is an assertion of the individual enacted outside a traditional frame such as the medieval "quest." Hotspur's character is seen to be extremely limited, however breathtaking his elan may be. For it is finally morbid, loveless, incourteous, and even sexually impotent. He has not the patience to humor the tediousness of Glendower (which costs him, perhaps, his support); his speech is full of death and death's images; he mocks the love of Mortimer and has banished his wife from his bed, too absorbed by his planned rebellion.
Falstaff, on the other hand, is as quick to lie, to steal, to waste time with a whore or drinking wine, as Hotspur is to risk his life for a point of honor. Hal spends most of his time with him, and he seems at times a sort of apprentice to the older man in the "art" of tavern living. This means, for Hal, living intimately with common people, who naively call him "boy," and whose unpreten-tiousness strips him of the artificial defenses he would have among people who understand protocol.
The adventure with the robbery is the image of cowardice as the reputation of Hotspur is the image of valor. Yet both stories are in their ways celebrative. Falstaff's flexible ways are more human, certainly kinder than Hotspur's, kinder even than Hal's. Hal is awkward at joking sometimes, not being sensitive enough to know what is serious, what light. Hotspur has renounced sensitivity to human love; Falstaff has abandoned honor. In schematic terms, it is a synthesis of these two perspectives that Hal must, and in a way does, achieve.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Historical chronicle
Time of plot: 1405-1413
Locale: England
First presented: 1597


As in Henry the Fourth, Part One, comedy is an outstanding feature of this play, with Falstaff continuing to promise great things for his friends until the touching moment of his death. The pomp and drama common to Shakespeare's historical chronicles permeate the serious parts of the play, and the deathbed scene between Henry IV and Prince Henry is considered among the best in dramatic literature.


Principal Characters

King Henry IV, England's troubled ruler. Haunted by his action in the deposition and indirectly in the death of his predecessor and kinsman, Richard II, and deeply disturbed by the apparent unworthiness of his irresponsible eldest son, he also faces the external problem of rebellion. He wishes to join a crusade to clear his conscience and to carry out a prophecy that he is to die in Jerusalem; it turns out that he dies in the Jerusalem chamber in Westminster.
Henry, Prince of Wales (Prince Hal, Harry Mon-mouth), later King Henry V. A boisterous youth surrounded by bad companions, he matures rapidly with responsibility, saves his father's life in battle, and kills the dangerous rebel Hotspur. When he comes to the throne, he repudiates his wild companions.
Sir John Falstaff, a comical, down-at-the-heels follower of Prince Hal. Considered by many to be one of Shakespeare's finest creations, by some to be his greatest, Falstaff is a plump fruit from the stem of the "Miles Gloriosus" of Plautus. He is the typical braggart soldier with many individualizing traits. As he says, he is not only witty himself but the cause of wit in other men. Innumerable pages have been written on whether or not he is a coward. He is a cynical realist, a fantastic liar, a persuasive rascal. Also, he apparently a successful combat soldier. His colossal body, which "lards the lean earth as he walks along," appropriately houses his colossal personality. In the second part of the play, there is some decline of his character, perhaps to prepare the way for Prince Hal, as King Henry V, to cast him off.
Prince John of Lancaster, another of King Henry's sons, who also bears himself well in battle at Shrewsbury. He commands part of his father's forces in Yorkshire and arranges a false peace with the Archbishop of York and other rebels. When their troops are dismissed, he has them arrested and executed.
Humphrey of Gloucester and Thomas of Clarence, other sons of Henry IV, brothers of Henry V.
Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, Worcester's brother. Having had an important share in the deposition of Richard II and the enthronement of Henry IV, he feels that he and his family are entitled to more power and wealth than they receive. He is also influenced to rebellion by his crafty brother and his fiery son. He fails his cause by falling ill or feigning illness before the Battle of Shrewsbury, and he does not appear there. Later he disconcerts Mowbray by withdrawing to Scotland, where he is defeated.
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York, a principal rebel. He thinks to make peace with King Henry and take later advantage of his weakness, but is tricked by Prince John and executed.
Sir Walter Blunt, a heroic follower of the king. At the Battle of Shrewsbury he pretends to Douglas that he is the king, thus bringing death on himself.
Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap. She is a silly, voluble woman with a stupendous fund of malapropisms. Easily angered, but gullible, she is a frequent victim of Falstaff's chicanery.
Bardolph, the right-hand man of Falstaff. His fiery nose makes him the butt of many witticisms. Like Falstaff, he is capable of sudden and violent action.
Poins, Prince Hal's confidant. Masked, he and the Prince rob Falstaff and the other robbers at Gadshill and endeavor to discountenance Falstaff at the Boar's Head Tavern afterward.
Peto, another member of the Prince's scapegrace following.
Pistol, a cowardly, loud-mouthed soldier who has a habit of quoting or misquoting snatches of drama. He swaggers and roars until Falstaff is forced to pink him in the shoulder, and Bardolph ejects him from the inn.
Page, a tiny and witty boy given to Falstaff, apparently to make a ridiculous contrast. He makes impudent and spicy remarks on several of the characters.
Doll Tearsheet, a frowzy companion of Sir John Falstaff. She flatters and caresses the old knight, but cannot abide Pistol.
The Lord Chief Justice, a stern man who has dared even to commit the Prince. After Mistress Quickly's complaints, he rebukes Falstaff and demands that he make restitution. Because Falstaff's reputation has increased since the Battle of Shrewsbury, the justice is more lenient than expected.
Justice Shallow, a garrulous old man. Before furnishing Falstaff with a roll of soldiers from his district, he pours out a flood of reminiscences about their wild youth.
Justice Silence, Shallow's cousin.
Davy, Shallow's servant.
Fang and Snare, two sergeants called in by the hostess to arrest Falstaff.
Ralph Mouldy, Simon Shadow, Thomas Wart, Francis Feeble, and Peter Bullcalf, country soldiers furnished to Falstaff's company.
Rumour, an abstraction who presents exposition at the beginning of the Second Part of "King Henry the Fourth."
Lady Northumberland, Hotspur's mother, Northumberland's troubled wife.
Lady Percy, Hotspur's wife and Mortimer's sister. A charming and playful girl, she is deeply in love with her fiery husband and tragically moved by his death.
Sir John Colville (Colville of the Dale), Lord Mow-bray, Lord Hastings, Lord Bardolph, Travers, and Morton, rebels against King Henry IV.
The Earl of Westmoreland, The Earl of Warwick, The Earl of Surrey, Gower, and Harcourt, followers of King Henry IV.


The Story

After the battle of Shrewsbury many false reports were circulated among the peasants. At last they reached Northumberland, who believed for a time that the rebel forces had been victorious. But his retainers, fleeing from that stricken field, brought a true account of the death of Hotspur, Northumberland's valiant son, at the hands of Prince Henry, and of King Henry's avowal to put down rebellion by crushing those forces still opposing him. Northumberland, sorely grieved by news of his son's death, prepared to avenge that loss. Hope lay in the fact that the Archbishop of York had mustered an army, because soldiers so organized, being responsible to the church rather than to a military leader, would prove better fighters than those who had fled from Shrewsbury field. News that the king's forces of twenty-five thousand men had been divided into three units was encouraging to his enemies.
In spite of Northumberland's grief for his slain son and his impassioned threat against the king and Prince Henry, he was easily persuaded by his wife and Hotspur's widow to flee to Scotland, there to await the success of his confederates before he would consent to join them with his army.
Meanwhile, Falstaff delayed in carrying out his orders to proceed north and recruit troops for the king. Deeply involved with Mistress Quickly, he used his royal commission to avoid being imprisoned for debt. With Prince Henry, who had paid little heed to the conduct of the war, he continued his riotous feasting and jesting until both were summoned to join the army marching against the rebels.
King Henry, aging and weary, had been ill for two weeks. Sleepless nights had taken their toll on him, and in his restlessness he reviewed his ascent to the throne and denied, to his lords, the accusation of unscrupu-lousness brought against him by the rebels. He was somewhat heartened by the news of Glendower's death.
In Gloucestershire, recruiting troops at the house of Justice Shallow, Falstaff grossly accepted bribes and let able-bodied men buy themselves out of service. The soldiers he took to the war were a raggle-taggle lot.
Prince John of Lancaster, taking the field against the rebels, sent word by Westmoreland to the archbishop that the king's forces were willing to make peace, and he asked that the rebel leaders make known their grievances so that they might be corrected.
When John and the archbishop met for a conference, John questioned and criticized the archbishop's dual role as churchman and warrior. Because the rebels announced their intention to fight until their wrongs were righted, John promised redress for all. Then he suggested that the archbishop's troops be disbanded after a formal review; he wished to see the stalwart soldiers that his army would have fought if a truce had not been declared.
His request was granted, but the men, excited by the prospect of their release, scattered so rapidly that inspection was impossible. Westmoreland, sent to disband John's army, returned to report that the soldiers would take orders only from the prince. With his troops assembled and the enemy's disbanded, John ordered some of the opposing leaders arrested for high treason and others, including the archbishop, for capital treason. John explained that his action was in keeping with his promise to improve conditions and that to remove rebellious factions was the first step in his campaign. The enemy leaders were sentenced to death. Falstaff took Coleville, the fourth of the rebel leaders, who was sentenced to execution with the others.
News of John's success was brought to King Henry as he lay dying, but the victory could not gladden the sad, old king. His chief concern lay in advice and admonition to his younger sons, Gloucester and Clarence, regarding their future conduct, and he asked for unity among his sons. Spent by his long discourse, the king lapsed into unconsciousness.
Prince Henry, summoned to his dying father's bedside, found the king in a stupor, with the crown beside him. The prince, remorseful and compassionate, expressed regret that the king had lived such a tempestuous existence because of the crown and promised, in his turn, to wear the crown graciously. As he spoke, he placed the crown on his head and left the room. Awaking and learning that the prince had donned the crown, King Henry immediately assumed that his son wished him dead in order to inherit the kingdom. Consoled by the prince's strong denial of such wishful thinking, the king confessed his own unprincipled behavior in gaining the crown. Asking God's forgiveness, he repeated his plan to journey to the Holy Land to divert his subjects from revolt, and he advised the prince, when he should become king, to involve his powerful lords in wars with foreign powers, thereby relieving the country of internal strife.
The king's death caused great sorrow among those who loved him and to those who feared the prince, now Henry V. A short time before, the Lord Chief Justice, acting on the command of Henry IV, had alienated the prince by banishing Falstaff and his band, but the newly crowned king accepted the Chief Justice's explanation for his treatment of Falstaff and restored his judicial powers.
Falstaff was rebuked for his conduct by Henry, who stated that he was no longer the person Falstaff had known him to be. Until the old knight learned to correct his ways, the king banished him, on pain of death, to a distance ten miles away from Henry's person. He promised, however, that if amends were made Falstaff would return by degrees to the king's good graces. Undaunted by that reproof, Falstaff explained to his cronies that he yet would make them great, that the king's reprimand was only a front, and that the king would send for him and in the secrecy of the court chambers they would indulge in their old foolishness and plan the advancement of Falstaff's followers.
Prince John, expressing his admiration for Henry's public display of his changed attitude, prophesied that England would be at war with France before a year had passed.


Critical Evaluation

The third play in Shakespeare's second tetralogy, Henry the Fourth, Part Two, is based primarily upon Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles and an anonymous play, The Famous Victories of Henry V. Yet it offers a galaxy of well-rounded characters for whom Shakespeare makes slender use of sources. Clearly a sequel to Part One, the play resolves the conflict between the king and the rebellious nobles, a struggle between local and national rule, and continues the development of Prince Hal as an ideal future king. The denial of characters' expectations and assumptions, often marked by dramatic reversals, represents a unifying motif of the play.
Retaining the main plot of the rebellion and the subplot involving Falstaff and his companions found in Part One, the drama limits action in favor of rhetoric. As the rebels, under the able leadership of the Archbishop of York, regroup following Shrewsbury, the king's divided army prepares to move against two centers of rebel strength, York and Wales, arousing expectations of decisive battles. Instead, the king returns to London, grievously ill, and later learns that his Welsh enemy Glendower has died, ending the threat in the west. In York, Prince John, a capable but ruthless general, forces the rebels into a deceptive truce and sends their leaders, including the archbishop, to immediate execution. The expected military actions having been averted, the king consolidates his rule, only to discover that he is too ill to continue.
An important theme of the play concerns orderly succession, and while the major characters are troubled by the prospect of Hal as king, their pessimistic expectations prove groundless. Except for Warwick, the king's counselors fear disorder and chaos when Hal succeeds his father.
In an early scene (act 1, scene 2), Falstaff, who has escaped punishment for theft only through holding a military commission, attempts to intimidate the Chief Justice, who has sought to admonish Falstaff about his behavior. The Chief Justice, who sent Hal to prison and thus expects least from his reign, represents a father figure in the drama. Courageous, loyal, and devoid of self-interest, he is the antithesis of Falstaff, a pseudo-father figure. Falstaff, as witty, fertile, and energetic as ever, continues to intimidate and outwit those of his own class, the frequenters of the Boar's Head Tavern and the country bumpkins led by Justice Shallow, yet when he attempts to hold his own with those connected with the court, he is clearly beyond his depth. Falstaff intimates that the king is dying, that Hal will be the next king, and that Hal as Falstaff's friend will act against the Chief Justice. Unmoved by any personal threat, the Chief Justice demonstrates his commitment to law as an ideal. This scene enables the reader to assess the mettle of the Chief Justice and anticipates Prince Hal's three important rhetorical confrontations: with the king, his real father; with the Chief Justice, a just and wise father figure; and with Falstaff, a pseudo-father figure who must be rejected.
In the climactic (act 4, scene 4), Hal is summoned to the- dying king's bedside. The king's doubts about him are reinforced when Hal, thinking his father dead, takes the crown from the pillow to meditate on the pain and grief it has brought. Regaining consciousness, the king notices that the crown is missing and concludes that Hal has seized it prematurely. When he returns, the king denounces him for ingratitude, citing numerous instances from the past. But his sense of personal injury gives way to a more important concern—the future of the nation under Hal's rule. He has long considered Hal as foolish and indiscreet as the deposed Richard, and he fears that Hal will recklessly give power and office to Falstaff and friends like him. As a consequence, the unity that the king has achieved will degenerate into riot and anarchy. In an eloquent response, Hal convinces the dying king that he is mistaken about the crown and about Hal's intentions, assuring the king that he intends to follow his example. Following the speech, the king gives Hal advice about governance, urging him to retain trusted counselors like Warwick and the Chief Justice and to involve the nation in a foreign war in order to unify it.
As if to demonstrate how mistaken the king has been in his expectations, Shakespeare introduces an old prophecy. The king has always believed that he would die in Jerusalem. He casually inquires the name of the chamber where he first collapsed and learns that it is called Jerusalem. Recognizing that the prophecy meant something other than he thought, he orders that he be returned there to die.
Following the king's death, all those around Hal, especially the princes, express fear of the future. To reassure them, he deliberately singles out the Chief Justice, who is convinced that he has the most to lose. Formally, he greets the new king. Now assuming the role of the injured party, that of his father in the earlier confrontation, Hal asks whether he can be expected to forget the indignity suffered at the hands of the Chief Justice. The Chief Justice recounts the episode in detail and argues that authority and justice demanded Hal's commitment to prison. Pointedly, he asks Hal to explain how his sentence was unjust. The king's response, moving in its dignity, reassures the Chief Justice that he was correct, confirms him in his office, retains him as counselor, and assures those present that Hal will follow the example of his father.
In remote Gloucestershire, visiting Justice Shallow to extort money from him, Falstaff learns of Hal's succession and immediately sets out with his companions to see the king, assuming that the king longs for him and confidently offering Justice Shallow his choice of offices. Arriving in time for the coronation procession, Falstaff thrusts himself forward and addresses the king with impudent familiarity: "God save thee, my sweet boy!" Hal coldly turns aside and asks the Chief Justice to speak to him. This move astonishes Falstaff, who is confident that the Chief Justice will be punished for his transgressions, and he again directs his speech to Hal. Speaking in his royal person, the king denounces Falstaff as a misleader of youth with too many appetites and banishes him from his company. Incredulous at this reversal and denial of his expectations, Falstaff thinks that the king will send for him in private, but even Justice Shallow discerns the finality of the king's tone.
At the drama's end, the Chief Justice and Prince John approve the handling of Falstaff and suggest that Hal will lead the nation to war with France in order to unify it, as the former king had advised. Hal faces an aristocracy united in support of the monarch, now that the rebel threat has been eliminated. He has separated himself from those who would weaken his authority internally and has gained the loyalty of the king's counselors. It remains for him to unite the commoners through a foreign war, as his father had recommended and as he will do in Henry the Fifth.




Tyре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Historical romance
Time of plot: Early part of the fifteenth century
Locale: England and France
First presented: 1600


In The Life of Henry the Fifth, Shakespeare skillfully combined poetry, pageantry, and history in his effort to glorify England and Englishmen. Although the characters are larger than life, they also are shown to be flawed like other men; even Henry at last achieves a necessary element of humility.


Principal Characters

Henry the Fifth, king of England from 1413 to 1422, the wild "Prince Hal" of the "Henry IV" plays. Since his accession to the throne, he has grown into a capable monarch whose sagacity astonishes his advisers. The question of state that most concerns him is that of his right, through his grandfather, Edward Ш, to certain French duchies and ultimately to the French crown. His claim to the duchies is haughtily answered by the Dauphin of France, who sends Henry a barrel of tennis balls, a jibe at the English king's misspent youth. Having crushed at home a plot against his life fomented by his cousin, the Earl of Cambridge, abetted by Lord Scroop and Sir Thomas Gray, and having been assured by the Archbishop of Canterbury that his claim to the French crown is valid, Henry invades France. After the capture of Harfleur, at which victory he shows mercy to the inhabitants of the town, the king meets the French at Agincourt in Picardy. The French take the impending battle very lightly, since they outnumber the English. Henry spends the night wandering in disguise around his camp, talking to the soldiers to test their feelings and to muse on the responsibilities of kingship, In the battle on the following day, the English win a great victory. The peace is concluded by the betrothal of Henry to the Princess Katharine, daughter of the French king, and the recognition of his claim to the French throne. To Shakespeare, as to most of his contemporaries, Henry was a great national hero, whose exploits of two centuries earlier fitted in well with the patriotic fervor of a generation that had seen the defeat of the Spanish Armada.
Charles the Sixth, the weak-minded king of France.
Queen Isabel, his wife.
Lewis, the dauphin of France, whose pride is humbled at Agincourt.
Katharine of France, daughter of Charles VI. As part of the treaty of peace, she is betrothed to Henry V, who woos her in a mixture of blunt English and mangled French.
Edward, duke of York, the cousin of the king, though called "uncle" in the play. He dies a hero's death at Agincourt.
Richard, Earl of Cambridge, the younger brother of York. Corrupted by French gold, he plots against the life of Henry and is executed for treason.
Lord Scroop and Sir Thomas Gray, fellow conspirators of Cambridge.
Philip, duke of Burgundy, the intermediary between Charles VI and Henry V. He draws up the treaty of peace and forces it on Charles.
Montjoy, the French herald who carries the haughty messages from the French to Henry.
Pistol, a soldier, addicted to high-flown language and married to Mistress Quickly, once hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. Later, Fluellen proves him a coward. When he learns of his wife's death, he resolves to return to England to become a cutpurse.
Nell Quickly, once hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap and now married to Pistol. It is she who gives the famous account of the death of Falstaff. She dies while Pistol is in France.
Bardolph, now a soldier, formerly one of Henry's companions in his wild youth. In France, his is sentenced to be hanged for stealing a pax.
Fluellen, a Welsh soldier, tedious and long-winded. By a trick, the king forces him into a fight with Williams.
Michael Williams, a soldier who quarrels with Henry while the king is wandering incognito through the camp. They exchange gages to guarantee a duel when they next meet. When the meeting occurs, the king forgives Williams for the quarrel.
John, duke of Bedford, the "John of Lancaster" of the "Henry IV" plays and the younger brother of Henry V.
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, youngest brother of Henry V.


The Story

Once the toss-pot prince of Falstaff 's tavern brawls, Henry V was now king at Westminster, a stern but just monarch concerned with his hereditary claim to the crown of France. Before the arrival of the French ambassadors, the young king asked for legal advice from the Archbishop of Canterbury. The king thought that he was the legal heir to the throne of France through Edward III, whose claim to the French throne was, at best, questionable. The Archbishop assured Henry that he had as much right to the French throne as did the French king; consequently, both the Archbishop and the Bishop of Ely urged Henry to press his demands against the French.
When the ambassadors from France arrived, they came, not from Charles, the king, but from his arrogant eldest son, the Dauphin. According to the ambassadors, the Dauphin considered the English monarch the same hotheaded, irresponsible youth he had been before he ascended the throne. To show that he considered Henry an unfit ruler whose demands were ridiculous, the Dauphin presented Henry with some tennis balls. Enraged by the insult, Henry told the French messengers to warn their master that the tennis balls would be turned into gun-stones for use against the French.
The English prepared for war. The Dauphin remained contemptuous of Henry, but others, including the French Constable and the ambassadors who had seen Henry in his wrath, were not so confident. Henry's army landed to lay siege to Harfleur, and the king threatened to destroy the city, together with its inhabitants, unless it surrendered. The French governor had to capitulate because help promised by the Dauphin never arrived. The French, meanwhile, were—with the exception of King Charles— alarmed by the rapid progress of the English through France. That ruler, however, was so sure of victory that he sent his herald, Montjoy, to Henry to demand that the English king pay a ransom to the French, give himself up, and have his soldiers withdraw from France. Henry was not impressed by this bold gesture, and retorted that if King Charles wanted him, the Frenchman should come to get him.
On the eve of the decisive battle of Agincourt, the English were outnumbered five to one. Henry's troops were on foreign soil and ridden with disease. To encourage them, and also to sound out their morale, the king borrowed a cloak and in this disguise walked out among his troops, from watch to watch and from tent to tent. As he talked with his men, he told them that a king is but a man like other men, and that if he were a king he would not want to be anywhere except where he was, in battle with his soldiers. To himself, Henry mused over the cares and responsibilities of kingship. Again he thought of himself simply as a man who differed from other men only in ceremony, itself an empty thing.
Henry's sober reflections on the eve of a great battle, in which he thought much English blood would be shed, were quite different from those of the French, who were exceedingly confident of their ability to defeat their enemy. Shortly before the conflict began, Montjoy again appeared before Henry to give the English one last chance to surrender. Henry again refused to be intimidated. He was not discouraged by the numerical inferiority of his troops, for, as he reasoned in speaking with one of his officers, the fewer troops the English had, the greater would be the honor to them when they won.
The following day the battle began. Because of Henry's leadership, the English held their own. When French reinforcements arrived at a crucial point in the battle, Henry ordered his men to kill all their prisoners so that the energies of the English might be directed entirely against the enemy in front of them, not behind. Soon the tide turned. A much humbler Montjoy approached Henry to request a truce for burying the French dead. Henry granted the herald's request, and at the same time learned from him that the French had conceded defeat. Ten thousand French had been killed, and only twenty-nine English.
The battle over, nothing remained for Henry to do but to discuss with the French king terms of peace. Katharine, Charles's beautiful daughter, was Henry's chief demand, and while his lieutenants settled the details of surrender with the French, Henry made love to the princess and asked her to marry him. Though Katharine's knowledge of English was slight and Henry's knowledge of French little better, they were both acquainted with the universal language of love. French Katharine consented to become English Kate and Henry's bride.


Critical Evaluation

Henry the Fifth is the last play in the cycle including Richard the Second, Henry the Fourth, Part One and Part Two, and Henry the Fifth. The three plays dealing with the reign of King Henry VI, mentioned in the epilogue of Henry the Fifth, were written much earlier and are not ordinarily grouped with this cycle. Henry the Fifth is itself almost a break with this cycle. However, there are important, if in some ways superficial, elements of continuity.
These elements of continuity are the great historical transition represented by the movement from the reign of Richard II to that of Henry V. Richard and, progressively, the two Henrys, are associated by Shakespeare with the medieval, then the Renaissance, even modern, worldviews. The second dominant element is the formation of Prince Hal, who becomes Henry V, as a Renaissance king.
In Richard the Second, the king, Richard, is deposed by Bolingbroke, who becomes Henry IV. What is important is the act of rupturing, symbolized by this usurpation, of an entire conception of humanity governed by ritual and tradition. This conception is sometimes referred to as "the great chain of being." It asserts an utterly planned cosmos which is considered the manifestation of God. To challenge and finally replace this world is a force not clearly understood by its protagonists, but nevertheless defines their own practical and political ambitions as individuals.
The two Henry the Fourth plays are continuations of Shakespeare's exploration of the shift in political perspective. The rebellions which follow Henry IV 's usurpation had been predicted by Richard П, and seem, indeed, a kind of natural consequence to the break in the structure of authority.
But while his father is engaged morally by that break even to a death troubled by remorse for his "crime," the education of Prince Hal is pursued in a subplot mainly situated in taverns and places of public amusement. Hal's progress, in a few words, is between two extremes of individualism (characteristic of the Renaissance): the obsessive and bloody quest for glory in the person of Hotspur, and the pleasure-seeking, nearly total, incontinence of Falstaff. What he learns from each of them could be said to be the sense of valor and honor of the one, and the wittiness and humanity of the other. But this is so, in a way, only "theoretically," for the nature of the prince in Henry the Fifth, as king, is quite removed from either the thesis or the antithesis which precedes him.
An explanation for this can be found symbolically in the two scenes at the end of Henry the Fourth, Part Two, where Hal, after his father's death but before his own coronation, takes as his own his father's Lord High Justice, and banishes Falstaff. The Chief Justice had expected—among all who feared Hal would become an irresponsible king—the worst personal damage, as he had punished Hal's rebels in the name of Henry IV. Shakespeare seems to imply, in a very modern sense, that Hal was assuming fully his father's Law. In the historical perspective it is secular law, in contrast to the divine mandate of Richard II.
The opening scenes of Henry the Fifth show how secular, indeed, how free and easy, the new law has become. Individualism, in the form of self-interest, rules, but in an orderly, legalistic way. The bishops made the ancient laws fit the needs of their own financial interests and the ambition (concerning the French throne) of King Henry V.
These scenes already suggest a sense of fait accompli to the broad transitional process which is, at base, the rise of the bourgeoisie. Thus the play is a kind of break with the others. As a whole it is a kind of apotheosis of the powerful though incipient undercurrent of the times, the collective mentality we have come to ascribe to the bourgeoisie. This play has a lack of moral depth, which derives, perhaps, from a contradiction in bourgeois society. There is the economic base of cutthroat competition and an ideological superstructure of supposedly harmonious relations between men and nations. The loss of the sacred system of exploitation made the contradiction more apparent. The dynamic individualism of the new culture takes on the authority of the old order but sublimates the sense of responsibility into platitudes of doubtful logic.
The bishop is one example of this. The ease with which Henry allows his conscience to be soothed in those scenes is another. Later, he rather cavalierly blames the citizens of Harfleur for the impending destruction of their city, with all the barbaric effects he will not even try to control, by his invading army. Likewise, he shuns, by pure sophistry, any responsibility for the deaths, or souls, of his soldiers. He skirts the question of the justice of the king's cause with the assertion that, in any case, each man's soul is his own worry before God.
Shakespeare presents, then, a society in triumph, but one of atrophied moral sensitivity, escaping always in bad faith. The need to compensate for inner insecurity is shown in the aggressive, even hostile and puerile, clumsiness of Henry's wooing of Katharine. He tells her, on the one hand, that he will not be very hurt if she rejects him, and on the other hand, that she and her father are, in effect, his conquered subjects and have no real choice in the matter. This does not constitute a definite condemnation by Shakespeare of this society, but he does not wholly praise it either. In Henry the Fifth, more than in the other plays of the cycle, the moral opacity of the action leaves judgment to the reader's, or spectator's, understanding of history.




Туре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: 44 B.C.
Locale: Rome
First presented: 1601


The story of Brutus rather than of Caesar, this drama transforms history into a tragedy of character. Brutus emerges as a forerunner of Hamlet, while Caesar appears as a rather shallow individual and the so-called villain Cassius develops into a sympathetic figure.


Principal Characters

Marcus Brutus (mar'kus broo'tus), one of the leading conspirators who intend to kill Julius Caesar. Although defeated in the end, Brutus is idealistic and honorable, for he hopes to do what is best for Rome. Under Caesar, he fears, the Empire will have merely a tyrant. Something of a dreamer, he, unlike the more practical Cassius, makes a number of tactical errors, such as allowing Marcus Antonius to speak to the citizens of Rome. Finally, defeated by the forces under young Octavius and Antonius, Brutus commits suicide. He would rather accept death than be driven, caged, through the streets of Rome.
Caius Cassius (ka'yus kasTus), another leading conspirator, one of the prime movers in the scheme. A practical man, and a jealous one, he is a lean and ambitious person. Some of his advice to Brutus is good. He tells Brutus to have Antonius killed. When this is not done, the conspirators are doomed to defeat. Like Brutus, Cassius commits suicide when his forces are routed at Phi-lippi. To the last a brave man, he has fought well and courageously.
Julius Caesar (jool'yus se'zsr), the mighty ruler of Rome, who hopes to gain even more power. As portrayed in the play, he is a somewhat bombastic and arrogant man, possibly even a cowardly one. From the first he mistrusts men who, like Cassius, have "a lean and hungry look." Finally reaching for too much power, he is stabbed by a large number of conspirators led by Brutus and Cassius.
Marcus Antonius (mar'kus an-td'm-us), also Mark Antony, the close friend of Caesar. Although he denies it, he has a great ability to sway a mob and rouse them to a feverish pitch. As a result of his oratorical abilities, he, with the help of a mob, forces the conspirators to ride for their lives to escape the maddened crowd. Later, along with Octavius and Lepidus, he is to rule Rome.
Calpurnia (kal-per'nl-э), the wife of Caesar. Afraid because she has had frightful dreams about yawning graveyards and lions whelping in the streets, she begs her arrogant husband not to go to the Capitol on the day of the assassination.
Portia (por'sha), wife of Brutus. When she learns that her husband has been forced to flee for his life, she becomes frightened for his safety. As matters worsen, she swallows hot coals and dies.
Decius Brutus (de'shus broo'tus), one of the conspirators against Julius Caesar. When the others are doubtful that the superstitious Caesar will not come to the Capitol, Decius volunteers to bring him to the slaughter; for he knows Caesar's vanities and will play upon them until he leaves the security of his house.
Publius (pub'll-us), Cicero (sis'a-ro), and Popilius Lena (po-pil'i-us 1ё'пэ), Senators.
A Soothsayer. At the beginning of the play, he warns Caesar to beware the Ides of March. For his trouble he is called a dreamer.
Artemidorus of Cnidos (ar'ta-ml-do'rus of nl'dos), a teacher of rhetoric who tries to warn Caesar to beware of the conspirators led by Brutus and Cassius. Like the soothsayer, he is ignored.
Casca (каУкэ), Caius Ligarius (ka'yus li-ga'ri-us), Cinna (sin'a), and Metellus Cimber (тё-teTus sim'bar), the other conspirators.
Flavius (fla'vi-us) and Marullus (ma-rul'us), tribunes who speak to the crowd at the beginning of the play.
Pindarus (pfn'daa-rus), Cassius' servant. At his master's orders he runs Cassius through with a sword.
Strato (stra'to), servant and friend to Brutus. He holds Brutus' sword so that the latter could run upon it and commit suicide.
Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (mar'kus e-mfl'i-us lep'i-dus), the weakest member of the triumvirate after the deaths of Brutus and Cassius.
Lucius (loo'shl-us), Brutus' servant.
Young Cato, Messala (me-sa'la), and Titinius (trtin'rus), friends of Brutus and Cassius.


The Story

At the feast of Lupercalia all Rome rejoiced, for the latest military triumphs of Julius Caesar were being celebrated during that holiday. Yet tempers flared and jealousies seethed beneath this public gaiety. Flavius and Marallus, two tribunes, coming upon a group of citizens gathered to praise Caesar, tore down their trophies and ordered the people to go home and remember Pompey's fate at the hands of Caesar.
Other dissatisfied noblemen discussed with concern Caesar's growing power and his incurable ambition. A soothsayer, following Caesar in his triumphal procession, warned him to beware the Ides of March. Cassius, one of the most violent of Caesar's critics, spoke at length to Brutus of the dictator's unworthiness to rule the state. Why, he demanded, should the name of Caesar have become synonymous with that of Rome when there were so many other worthy men in the city?
While Cassius and Brutus were speaking, they heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd. From aristocratic Casca they learned that before the mob Marcus Antonius had three times offered a crown to Caesar and three times the dictator had refused it. Thus did the wily Antonius and Caesar catch and hold the devotion of the multitude. Fully aware of Caesar's methods and the potential danger that he embodied, Cassius and Brutus, disturbed by this new turn of events, agreed to meet again to discuss the affairs of Rome. As they parted, Caesar arrived in time to see them, and he became suspicious of Cassius. Cassius did not look content; he was too lean and nervous to be satisfied with life. Caesar much preferred to have fat, jolly men about him.
Cassius' plan was to enlist Brutus in a plot to overthrow Caesar. Brutus himself was one of the most respected and beloved citizens of Rome; if he were in league against Caesar, the dictator's power could by curbed easily. But it would be difficult to turn Brutus completely against Caesar, for Brutus was an honorable man and not given to treason, so that only the most drastic circumstances would make him forego his loyalty. Cassius plotted to have certain false papers denoting widespread public alarm over Caesar's rapidly growing power put into Brutus' hands. Then Brutus might put Rome's interests above his own personal feelings.
Secretly, at night, Cassius had the papers laid at Brutus' door. Their purport was that Brutus must strike at once against Caesar to save Rome. The conflict within Brutus was great. His wife Portia complained that he had not slept at all during the night and that she had found him wandering, restless and unhappy, about the house. At last he reached a decision. Remembering Tarquin, the tyrant whom his ancestors had banished from Rome, Brutus agreed to join Cassius and his conspirators in their attempt to save Rome from Caesar. He refused, however, to sanction the murder of Antonius, planned at the same time as the assassination of Caesar. The plan was to kill Caesar on the following morning, March fifteenth.
On the night of March fourteenth, all nature seemed to misbehave. Strange lights appeared in the sky, graves yawned, ghosts walked, and an atmosphere of terror pervaded the city. Caesar's wife Calpurnia dreamed she saw her husband's statue with a hundred wounds spouting blood. In the morning she told him of the dream and pleaded that he not go to the Senate that morning. When she had almost convinced him to remain at home, one of the conspirators arrived and persuaded the dictator that Calpurnia was unduly nervous, that the dream was actually an omen of Caesar's tremendous popularity in Rome, the bleeding wounds a symbol of Caesar's power going out to all Romans. The other conspirators then arrived to allay any suspicion that Caesar might have of them and to make sure that he attended the Senate that day.
As Caesar made his way through the city, more omens of evil appeared to him. A paper detailing the plot against him was thrust into his hands, but he neglected to read it. When the soothsayer again cried out against the Ides of March, Caesar paid no attention to the warning.
At the Senate chamber Antonius was drawn to one side. Then the conspirators crowded about Caesar as if to second a petition for the repealing of an order banishing Publius Cimber. When he refused the petition, the conspirators attacked him, and he fell dead of twenty-three knife wounds.
Craftily pretending to side with the conspirators, Antonius was able to reinstate himself in their good graces, and in spite of Cassius' warning he was granted permission to speak at Caesar's funeral after Brutus had delivered his oration. Before the populace Brutus, frankly and honestly explaining his part in Caesar's murder, declared that his love for Rome had prompted him to turn against his friend. Cheering him, the mob agreed that Caesar was a tyrant who deserved death. Then Antonius rose to speak. Cleverly and forcefully he turned the temper of the crowd against the conspirators by explaining that even when Caesar was most tyrannical, everything he did was for the people's welfare. Soon the mob became so enraged over the assassination that the conspirators were forced to flee from Rome.
Gradually the temper of the people changed, and they became aligned in two camps. One group supported the new triumvirate of Marcus Antonius, Octavius Caesar, and Aemilius Lepidus. The other group followed Brutus and Cassius to their military camp at Sardis.
At Sardis, Brutus and Cassius quarreled constantly over various small matters. In the course of one violent disagreement Brutus told Cassius that Portia, despondent over the outcome of the civil war, had killed herself. Cassius, shocked by this news of his sister's death, allowed himself to be persuaded to leave the safety of the camp at Sardis and meet the enemy on the plains of Philippi. The night before the battle Caesar's ghost appeared to Brutus in his tent and announced that they would meet at Philippi.
At the beginning of the battle the forces of Brutus were at first successful against those of Octavius. Cassius, however, was driven back by Antonius. One morning Cassius sent one of his followers, Titinius, to learn if approaching troops were the enemy or the soldiers of Brutus. When Cassius saw Titinius unseated from his horse by the strangers, he assumed that everything was lost and ordered his servant Pindarus to kill him. Actually, the troops had been sent by Brutus. Rejoicing over the defeat of Octavius, they were having rude sport with Titinius. When they returned to Cassius and found him dead, Titinius also killed himself. In the last charge against Antonius, the soldiers of Brutus, tired and discouraged by these new events, were defeated. Brutus, heartbroken, asked his friends to kill him. When they refused, he commanded his servant to hold his sword and turn his face away. Then Brutus fell upon his sword and died.


Critical Evaluation

The first of Shakespeare's so-called "Roman plays"— which include Coriolanus and Antony and Cleopatra— Julius Caesar also heralds the great period of his tragedies. The sharply dramatic and delicately portrayed character of Brutus is a clear predecessor of Hamlet and Othello. With Titus Andronicus and Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar is one of the three tragedies written before the beginning of the sixteenth century. It is, however, more historical than the four great tragedies—Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, and King Lear—being drawn in large part from Sir Thomas North's wonderfully idiomatic translation of Plutarch's Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans (1579). A comparison of the Shakespearean text with the passages from North's chapters on Caesar, Brutus, and Antony reveals the remarkable truth of T. S. Eliot's statement: "Immature poets borrow; mature poets steal." For in example after example, Shakespeare has done little more than rephrase the words of North's exuberant prose to fit the rhythm of his own blank verse. The thievery is nonetheless a brilliant one, and not without originality on Shakespeare's part.
Shakespeare's originality, found in all his "historical" plays, is analogous to that of the great classical Greek playwrights. Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides faced a dramatic challenge very unlike that offered to modern writers, who are judged by their capacity for sheer invention. Just as the Greek audience came to the play with full knowledge of the particular myth involved in the tragedy to be presented, so the Elizabethan audience knew the story of the assassination of Julius Caesar. Shakespeare, like his classical predecessors, had to work his dramatic art within the restrictions of known history. He accomplished this by writing "between the lines" of Plutarch, offering insights into the mind of the characters that Plutarch does not mention—insights which become, on the stage, dramatic motivations. An example is Caesar's revealing hesitation about going to the Senate because of Calpurnia's dream, and the way he is swayed by Decius into going after all. This scene shows the weakness of Caesar's character in a way not found in a literal reading of Plutarch. A second major "adaptation" by Shakespeare is a daring, dramatically effective telescoping of historical time. The historical events associated with the death of Caesar and the defeat of the conspirators actually took three years; Shakespeare condenses them into three tense days, following the Castolvetrian unity of time (though not of place).
Although prose is used in the play by comic and less important characters or in purely informative speeches or documents, the general mode of expression is Shakespeare's characteristic blank verse, with five stressed syllables per line and generally unrhymed. The iambic pentameter, a rhythm natural to English speech, has the effect of making more memorable lines such as Flavius' comment about the commoners ("They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness") or Brutus' observation, "Men at some time are masters of their fates." As in most of the tragedies, Shakespeare here follows a five-part dramatic structure, consisting of the exposition (to act 1, scene 2), complication (1.2 to 2.4), climax (3.1), consequence (3.1-5.2), and denouement (5.3-5.5).
The primary theme of Julius Caesar is a combination of political and personal concerns, the first dealing with the question of justifiable revolutions—revealing with the effectiveness of concentrated action the transition from a republic of equals to an empire dominated by great individuals (like Antony, influenced by the example of Caesar himself, and Octavius, who comes to his own at the end of the play). The personal complication is the tragedy of a noble spirit involved in matters it does not comprehend; that is, the tragedy of Brutus. For, despite the title, Brutus, not Caesar, is the hero of this play. It is true that Caesar's influence motivates the straightforward and ultimately victorious actions of Antony throughout the play, accounting for Antony's transformation from an apparently secondary figure into one of solid stature. But it is the presence of Brutus before the eyes of the audience as he gradually learns to distinguish ideals from reality that dominates the sympathy of the audience. Around his gentle character, praised at last even by Antony, Shakespeare weaves the recurrent motifs of honor and honesty, freedom and fortune, ambition and pride. Honor is the theme of Brutus' speech to the crowd in the Forum, honor as it interacts with ambition: "As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him, but, as he was ambitious, I slew him." After the deed Brutus comments, "Ambition's debt is paid." One of the great, dramatically successful ironies of the play is that Antony's Forum speech juxtaposes the same two themes: "Yet Brutus says he was ambitious/ And Brutus is an honourable man." By the time Antony is finished, the term "honour" has been twisted by his accelerating sarcasm until it becomes a curse, moving the fickle crowd to change their opinion entirely and call for death to the conspirators.
The conjunction of Brutus and Antony in this particular scene (act 3, scene 2) reveals the telling difference between their dramatic characterizations. Though Caesar may have had too much ambition, Brutus' problem is that he has too little; Brutus is a man of ideals and words, and therefore cannot succeed in the corridors of power. Cassius and Antony, in contrast, have no such concern with idealistic concepts or words like honor and ambition; yet there is a distinction even between them. Cassius is a pure doer, a man of action, almost entirely devoid of sentiment or principle; Antony, however, is both a doer of deeds and a speaker of words—and therefore prevails over all in the end, following in the footsteps of his model, Caesar. To underline the relationships among these similar yet different characters and the themes that dominate their actions Shakespeare weaves a complicated net of striking images: monetary (creating a tension between Brutus and Cassius); the tide image ("Thou are the ruins of the noblest man/ That ever lived in the tide of times") connected with the theme of fortune; the stars (Caesar compares himself, like Marlowe's Tamburlaine, to a fixed star while Cassius says, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,/ But in ourselves, that we are underlings"); and the wood and stones used to describe the common people by those who would move them to their own will. Julius Caesar, in yet another way, marks the advance of Shakespeare's artistry in its use of dramatic irony. In this play the Shakespearean audience becomes almost a character in the drama, as it is made privy to knowledge and sympathies not yet shared by all the characters on the stage. This pattern occurs most notably in Decius' speech interpreting Calpurnia's dream, showing the ability of an actor to move men to action by duplicity that is well managed. The pattern is also evident when Cinna mistakes Cassius for Metellus Cimber, foreshadowing the mistaken identity scene that ends in his own death; when Cassius, on two occasions, gives in to Brutus' refusal to do away with Mark Antony; and, most effectively of all, in the two Forum speeches when Antony addresses two audiences, the one in the theater (that knows his true intentions), and the other the Roman crowd whose ironic whimsicality is marked by the startling shift of sentiment, from admiration following Brutus' speech ("Let him be Caesar!") to the immediate and very opposite feeling after Antony's ("Die, honourable men!"). The effect of the irony is to suggest the close connection between functional politics and the art of acting. Antony, in the end, wins out over Brutus—as Bolingbroke does over Richard II—because he can put on a more compelling act.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: First century B.C.
Locale: Britain
First presented: с 1605


The theme of filial ingratitude is portrayed in two parallel stories with overwhelming pathos in this majestic achieve-ment, considered by many the greatest of Shakespeare's tragedies. The heights of terror and pity achieved through the poet's treatment of his story equal those of the great tragedies of antiquity. Although generally considered one of the noblest utterances of the human spirit, the play often proves to be difficult to stage. Its world is more legendary than concrete and its figures larger than life, although they are vehicles for universal feelings.


Principal Characters

Lear (ler), king of Britain. Obstinate, arrogant, and hot-tempered, he indiscreetly plans to divide his king¬dom among his daughters, giving the best and largest portion to Cordelia, his youngest and best-loved. When she refuses to flatter him with lavish and public protes¬tations of love, he casts her off with unreasoning fury. Disillusioned and abandoned by his older daughters, his age and exposure to internal and external tempests drive him to madness. During his suffering, signs of unsel-fishness appear, and his character changes from arro-gance and bitterness to love and tenderness. He is reu-nited with his true and loving daughter until her untimely murder parts them again.
Goneril (gon's-ril), Lear's eldest daughter. Savage and blunt as a wild boar, she wears the mask of hypocritical affection to gain a kingdom. She has contempt for her aged father, her honest sister, and her kindhearted hus-band. Her illicit passion for Edmund, handsome bastard son of the Earl of Gloucester, leads to Edmund's, Regan's, and her own death.
Regan (re'gsn), Lear's second daughter. Treacherous in a catlike manner, she seldom initiates the action of the evil sisters, but often goes a step further in cruelty. She gloats over Gloucester when his eyes are torn out and unintentionally helps him to see the light of truth. Her early widowhood gives her some advantage over Goneril in their rivalry for the person of Edmund, but she is poisoned by Goneril, who then commits suicide.
Cordelia (kor-deTya), Lear's youngest daughter. Endowed with her father's stubbornness, she refuses to flatter him as her sisters have done. In his adversity she returns to him with love and forgiveness, restoring his sanity and redeeming him from bitterness. Her untimely death brings about Lear's death.
The Earl of Kent, Lear's frank and loyal follower. Risking Lear's anger to avert his impetuous unreason, he accepts banishment as payment for truth. Like Cordelia, but even before her, he returns to aid Lear—necessarily in disguise—as the servant Caius. The impudence of Oswald arouses violent anger in him. For his master no service is too menial or too perilous.
The Earl of Gloucester, another father with good and evil children, a parallel to Lear and his daughters. Having had a gay past, about which he speaks frankly and with some pride, he believes himself a man of the world and a practical politician. He is gullible and superstitious and, deceived by Edmund, he casts off his loyal, legitimate son Edgar. His loyalty to the persecuted king leads to the loss of his eyes; but his inner sight is made whole by his blinding. He dies happily reconciled to Edgar.
Edgar (in disguise Tom o' Bedlam), Gloucester's legitimate son. He is forced into hiding by his credulous father and the machinations of his evil half brother. As Tom o' Bedlam he is with the king during the tempest, and later he cares for his eyeless father both physically and spiritually. Finally he reveals himself to Gloucester just before engaging in mortal combat with Edmund, who dies as a result of Edgar's wounding him.
Edmund, Gloucester's illegitimate younger son. A Machiavellian villain governed by insatiable ambition, he attempts to destroy his half brother and his father for his own advancement. Without passion himself, he rejoices in his ability to arouse it in others, particularly Lear's two evil daughters. He has a grim and cynical sense of humor. His heartlessness is demonstrated by his plotting the murders of Lear and Cordelia, in which he is only half successful. He shows signs of repentance at the time of his death, but hardly enough to color his villainy.
The Duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband. An inhuman monster, he aids in heaping hardships on the aged king and tears out Gloucester's eyes when the Earl is discovered aiding the distressed monarch. His death, brought on by his cruelty, leaves Regan free to pursue Edmund as a potential husband.
The Duke of Albany, Goneril's husband. Noble and kind, he is revolted by Goneril's behavior toward her father, by Gloucester's blinding, and by the murder of Cordelia. He repudiates Goneril and Regan and restores order to the kingdom.
The Fool, Lear's jester but "not altogether a fool." A mixture of cleverness, bitterness, and touching loyalty, he remains with the old king in his terrible adversity. His suffering rouses Lear's pity and leads to the major change from selfish arrogance to unselfish love in the old king. The fool's end is obscure; he simply vanishes from the play. The line which says "My poor fool is hanged" may refer to Cordelia.
Oswald, Goneril's doglike servant. Insolent, cowardly, and evil, he is still devoted to his mistress, whom ironically he destroys. His last act of devotion to her is to urge his slayer to deliver a letter from her to Edmund. Since the slayer is Edgar, the letter goes to the Duke of Albany as evidence of Goneril's and Edmund's falsehood.
The King of France, a suitor of Cordelia. Captivated by her character and loveliness, he marries her with only her father's curse for dowry. He sets up an invasion of England to restore the old king but is called back to France before the decisive battle, leaving the responsi-bility on his young queen.
The Duke of Burgundy, a suitor of Cordelia. Cautious and selfish, he rejects Cordelia when he finds out that she has been cast off by her father.
First Servant of Cornwall. Moved by Cornwall's inhuman cruelty, he endeavors to save Gloucester from being blinded. Although his appearance is brief, he makes a profound impression as a character, and his action in mortally wounding Cornwall alters the course of events and leads to the overthrow of the evil forces.
An Old Man, Gloucester's tenant. Helping the blinded man, he delivers him to the care of the supposed mad beggar, actually Edgar.
A Captain, employed by Edmund to murder Lear and Cordelia in prison. He hangs Cordelia but later is killed by the aged king, who is too late to save his beloved daughter.
A Doctor, employed by Cordelia to treat her father in his illness and madness. He aids in restoring Lear to partial health.
Curan, a courtier.


The Story

King Lear, in foolish fondness for his children, decided to divide his kingdom among his three daughters. Grown senile, he scoffed at the foresight of his advisers and declared that each girl's statement of her love for him would determine the portion of the kingdom she would receive as her dowry.
Goneril, the oldest and the duchess of Albany, spoke first. She said that she loved her father more than eyesight, space, liberty, or life itself. Regan, Duchess of Cornwall, announced that the sentiment of her love had been expressed by Goneril, but that Goneril had stopped short of the statement of Regan's real love. Cordelia, who had secretly confided that her love was more ponderous than her tongue, told her father that because her love was in her heart, not in her mouth, she was willing to sacrifice eloquence for truth. Lear angrily told her that truth alone could be her dowry and ordered that her part of the kingdom be divided between Goneril and Regan. Lear's disappointment in Cordelia's statement grew into a rage against Kent, who tried to reason Cordelia's case with his foolish king. Because of Kent's blunt speech he was given ten days to leave the country. Loving his sovereign, he risked death by disguising himself and remaining in Britain to care for Lear in his infirmity.
When Burgundy and France came as suitors to ask Cordelia's hand in marriage. Burgundy, learning of her dowerless fate, rejected her. France, honoring Cordelia for her virtues, took her as his wife, but Lear dismissed Cordelia and France without his benediction. Goneril and Regan, wary of their father's vacillation in his weakened mental state, set about to establish their kingdoms against change.
Lear was not long in learning what Goneril's and Regan's statements of their love for him had really meant. Their caustic comments about the old man's feebleness, both mental and physical, furnished Lear's Fool with many points for his philosophical recriminations against the king. Realizing that his charity to his daughters had made him homeless, Lear cried in anguish against his fate. His prayers went unanswered, and the abuse he received from his daughters hastened his derangement.
The Earl of Gloucester, like Lear, was fond of his two sons. Edmund, a bastard, afraid that his illegitimacy would deprive him of his share of Gloucester's estate, forged a letter over Edgar's signature, stating that the sons should not have to wait for their fortunes until they were too old to enjoy them. Gloucester, refusing to believe that Edgar desired his father's death, was told by Edmund to wait in hiding and hear Edgar make assertions which could easily be misinterpreted against him. Edmund, furthering his scheme, told Edgar that villainy was afoot and that Edgar should not go unarmed at any time.
To complete his evil design, he later advised Edgar to flee for his own safety. After cutting his arm, he then told his father that he had been wounded while he and Edgar fought over Gloucester's honor. Gloucester, swearing that Edgar would not escape justice, had his son's description circulated so that he might be apprehended.
Edmund, meanwhile, allied himself with Cornwall and Albany to defend Britain against the French army mobilized by Cordelia and her husband to avenge Lear's cruel treatment. He won Regan and Goneril completely by his personal attentions to them and set the sisters against each other by arousing their jealousy.
Lear, wandering as an outcast on the stormy heath, was aided by Kent, disguised as a peasant. Seeking protection from the storm, they found a hut where Edgar, pretending to be a madman, had already taken refuge. Gloucester, searching for the king, found them there and urged them to hurry to Dover, where Cordelia and her husband would protect Lear from the wrath of his unnatural daughters.
For attempting to give succor and condolence to the outcast Lear, Gloucester was blinded when Cornwall, acting on information furnished by Edmund, gouged out his eyes. While he was at his grisly work, a servant, rebelling against the cruel deed, wounded Cornwall. Regan killed the servant. Cornwall died later as the result of his wound. Edgar, still playing the part of a madman, found his father wandering the fields with an old retainer. Without revealing his identity, Edgar promised to guide his father to Dover, where Gloucester planned to die by throwing himself from the high cliffs.
Goneril was bitterly jealous because widowed Regan could receive the full attention of Edmund, who had been made Earl of Gloucester. She declared that she would rather lose the battle to France than to lose Edmund to Regan. Goneril's hatred became more venomous when Albany, whom she detested because of his kindliness toward Lear and his pity for Gloucester, announced that he would try to right the wrongs done by Goneril, Regan, and Edmund.
Cordelia, informed by messenger of her father's fate, was in the French camp near Dover. When the mad old king was brought to her by faithful Kent, she cared for her father tenderly and put him in the care of a doctor skilled in curing many kinds of ills. Regaining his reason, Lear recognized Cordelia, but the joy of their reunion was clouded by his repentance for his misunderstanding and mistreatment of his only loyal daughter.
Edgar, protecting Gloucester, was accosted by Oswald, Goneril's steward, on his way to deliver a note to Edmund. After Edgar had killed Oswald in the fight which fol¬lowed, Edgar delivered the letter to Albany. In it Goneril declared her love for Edmund and asked that he kill her husband. Gloucester died, feeble and brokenhearted after Edgar had revealed himself to his father.
Edmund, commanding the British forces, took Lear and Cordelia prisoners. As they were taken off to prison, he sent written instructions for their treatment.
Albany was aware of Edmund's ambition for personal glory and arrested him on a charge of high treason. Regan, interceding for her lover, was rebuffed by Goneril. Regan, suddenly taken ill, was carried to Albany's tent. When Edmund, as was his right, demanded a trial by combat, Albany agreed. Edgar, still in disguise, appeared and in the fight mortally wounded his false brother. Learning from Albany that he knew of her plot against his life, Goneril was desperate. She went to their tent, poisoned Regan, and killed herself.
Edmund, dying, revealed that he and Goneril had ordered Cordelia to be hanged and her death to be announced as suicide because of her despondency over her father's plight. Edmund, fiendish and diabolical always, was also vain. While he lay dying he looked upon the bodies of Goneril and Regan and expressed pleasure that two women were dead because of their jealous love for him.
Albany dispatched Edgar to prevent Cordelia's death, but he arrived too late. Lear refused all assistance when he appeared carrying her dead body in his arms. After asking forgiveness of heartbroken Kent, whom he recognized at last, Lear, a broken, confused old man, died in anguish. Edgar and Albany alone were left to rebuild a country ravaged by bloodshed and war.


Critical Evaluation

King Lear's first entrance in act 1 is replete with ritual and ceremony. He is full of antiquity, authority, and assurance as he makes his regal way through the ordered court. When he reveals his intention to divide his kingdom into three parts for his daughters, he exudes the confidence generated by his long reign. The crispness and directness of his language suggest a power, if not imperiousness, which, far from senility, demonstrate the stability and certainty of long, unchallenged sway. The rest of the play acts out the destruction of that fixed order and the emergence of a new, tentative balance.
In the opening scene Lear speaks as king and father. The absolute ruler has decided to apportion his kingdom as a gift rather than as a bequest to his three heirs. In performing this act, which superficially seems both reasonable and generous, Lear sets in motion a chain of events which lay bare his primary vulnerabilities not only as a king and a father but also as a man. In retrospect it is foolish to expect to divest oneself of power and responsibility and yet retain the trappings of authority. However, this is exactly what Lear anticipates because of his excessive confidence in the love of his daughters. He asks too much, he acts too precipitately, but he is punished, by an inexorable universe, out of all proportion to his errors in judgment.
When he asks his daughters for a declaration of love, as a prerequisite for a share of the kingdom, he is as self-assured and overbearing a parent as he is a monarch. It is thus partly his own fault that the facile protestations of love by Goneril and Regan are credited; they are what he wants to hear because they conform to the ceremonial necessities of the occasion. Cordelia's honest response, born of a genuine love, are out of keeping with the formalities. Lear has not looked beneath the surface. He has let the ritual appearances replace the internal reality or he has at least refused to distinguish between the two.
The asseverations of Goneril and Regan soon emerge as the cynical conceits that they are, but by then Lear has banished Cordelia and the loyal Kent, who saw through the sham. Lear is successively and ruthlessly divested of all the accoutrements of kingship by the villainous daughters, who finally reduce him to the condition of a ragged, homeless madman. Paradoxically, it is in this extremity, on the heath with Edgar and the Fool, that Lear comes to a knowledge of himself and of his community with all humanity that he had never achieved amid the glories of power. Buffeted by the natural fury of the storm, which is symbolic of the chaos and danger that come with the passing of the old order, Lear sees through his madness the common bond of humanity.
The experience of Lear is mirrored in the Gloucester subplot on a more manageable, human level. Gloucester too suffers filial ingratitude but it is not raised to a cosmic level. He too mistakes appearance for reality in trusting the duplicitous Edmund and disinheriting the honest Edgar, but his behavior is more clearly the outgrowth of an existing moral confusion reflected in his ambivalent and unrepentant affection for his bastard. His moral blindness leads to physical blindness when his faulty judgment makes him vulnerable to the villains. In his blindness he finally sees the truth of his situation, but his experience is merely as a father and a man.
Lear's experience parallels Gloucester's in that his figurative madness leads to a real madness in which he finally recognizes what he has lacked. He sees in Edgar, himself a victim of Gloucester's moral blindness, the natural state of man, stripped of all external decoration, and he realizes that he has ignored the basic realities of the human condition. His experience finally transcends Gloucester's because he is a king, preeminent among men. He not only represents the occupational hazards of kingship but also the broadly human disposition to prefer pleasant appearances to troubling realities. However, because of his position, Lear's failure brings down the whole political and social order with him.
Lear has violated nature by a culpable ignorance of it. The result is familial discord, physical suffering, and existential confusion. Brought low, Lear begins to fashion a new view of himself, of human love, and of human nature. In his insanity, Lear assembles the bizarre court of mad king, beggar, and fool which reasserts the common bonds of all men. Once these realizations have come, the evil characters, so carefully balanced against the good in this precarious world, begin to kill each other off and succumb to the vengeance of regenerated justice.
However, it is a mark of Shakespeare's uncompromising view of reality that there is no simple application of poetic justice to reward the good and punish the wicked, for the good die too. It is true that Edgar finishes off his brother in trial by combat and that the machinations of Goneril and Regan result in the destruction of both, but the redeemed Lear and Cordelia, the perfection of selfless love, also die. That Lear should die is perhaps no surprise. The suffering that he has endured in his con-frontation with the primal elements does not allow an optimistic return to normal life and prosperity. He has, on our behalf, looked into the eye of nature and there is nothing left but to die.
The death of Cordelia is more troublesome, at least tonally, because she is a perfectly innocent victim of the evil and madness that surround her. But Shakespeare refuses to save her. She dies gratuitously, not because of any internal necessity of the plot, but because the message to save her is too late. The dramatist has created his own inevitability in order to represent the ruthless consequences of the evil and chaos that have been loosed. When Lear enters with the dead Cordelia, he accomplishes the final expiation of his unknowing.
Out of these sufferings and recognitions comes a new moral stasis. Yet the purged world does not leave us with great confidence in future stability. Kent is old and refuses kingship. Edgar assumes authority but, despite his rectitude, there is an unsettling doubt that he has the force or stature to maintain the new order in a volatile world where evil and chaos are always rumbling beneath the surface.




Type of Work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: Eleventh century
Locale: Scotland
First presented: 1606


This shortest of Shakespeare's four major tragedies was written to be performed for King James I and was designed to appeal to the monarch's fascination with witchcraft and supernatural phenomena. The play explores the nature of ambition and the complexities of moral responsibility through the story of a nobleman driven to murder at the instigation of his power-hungry wife. Macbeth's doom is fixed at this first evil act, after which he descends deeper and deeper into degradation in an attempt to conceal the crime and guarantee the invulnerability of his new position of power


Principal Characters

Macbeth (mak-beth'), thane of Glamis, later thane of Cawdor and king of Scotland. A brave and successful military leader, potentially a good and great man, he wins general admiration as well as the particular gratitude of King Duncan, whose kinsman he is. Meeting the three weird sisters, he succumbs to their tempting prophecies; but he also needs the urging of his wife to become a traitor, a murderer, and a usurper. He is gifted, or cursed, with a powerful and vivid imagination and with fiery, poetic language. Gaining power, he grows more and more ruthless, until finally he loses even the vestiges of humanity. He dies desperately, cheated by the ambiguous prophecies, in full realization of the worthlessness of the fruits of his ambition.
Lady Macbeth, the strong-willed, persuasive, and charming wife of Macbeth. Ambitious for her husband's glory, she finds herself unable to kill King Duncan in his sleep, because he resembles her father. As Macbeth becomes more inhuman, she becomes remorseful and breaks under the strain. In her sleepwalking, she relives the events of the night of the king's murder and tries to wash her hands clean of imaginary bloodstains.
Banquo (ban'kwo, bang'ko), Macbeth's fellow commander. A man of noble character, seemingly unmoved by the prophecy of the three weird sisters that he will beget kings, he is not completely innocent; he does not disclose his suspicions of Macbeth, and he accepts a place in Macbeth's court. After being murdered by Macbeth's assassins, Banquo appears at a ceremonial banquet. His blood-spattered ghost, visible only to Macbeth, unnerves the king completely. In the final vision shown Macbeth by the three weird sisters, Banquo and his line of kings appear.
The Three Weird Sisters, the three witches, sinister hags who seem more closely allied to the Norns or Fates than to conventional witches. To Macbeth they make prophetic statements which are true but deceptive. Their prophecy of his becoming thane of Cawdor is immediately fulfilled, tempting him to take direct action to carry out the second prophecy, that he shall be king. They lull him into false security by telling him that he has nothing to fear until Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane, and that he cannot be killed by any man born of woman.
Macduff (mk-duf), thane of Fife. He and Lennox arrive at Macbeth's castle just after the murder of King Duncan, and Macduff discovers the body. A brave but prudent man, he flees Scotland and offers his help to Malcolm. Underestimating the villainy of Macbeth's character, he is thunderstruck at hearing of the atrocious murder of his wife and children. He becomes a steel-hearted avenger. Before killing Macbeth, he deprives him of his last symbol of security, for as a Cesarean child he was not actually born of woman. He presents Macbeth's head to Malcolm and proclaims the young prince king of Scotland.
Duncan (dung'kan), king of Scotland. Gentle and trusting, he shows great kindness to Macbeth. His murder by Macbeth is therefore almost incredibly fiendish.
Malcolm (ml'kam), King Duncan's eldest son. Far more cautious and shrewd than his father, he leaves for England to escape possible assassination. He is reluctant to give his trust to Macduff but finally, realizing his loyalty, accepts his aid in taking the throne of Scotland.
Donalbain (don'sl-ban), King Duncan's younger son. After consulting with Malcolm, he agrees to take a separate path, going to Ireland so that the potential heirs to the throne would not be accessible to a common assassination.
Fleance (fle'sns), the son of Banquo. He escapes the murderers who kill his father and lives to haunt Macbeth with the three weird sisters' prophecy that kings will spring from Banquo's line.
Ross, a nobleman of Scotland. He is Duncan's messenger to Macbeth, bringing him word of his new title, Thane of Cawdor. He also bears news to his kinswoman, Lady Macduff, of her husband's departure from Scotland. His third and most terrible office as messenger is to carry word to Macduff of the destruction of his entire family. He fights in Malcolm's army against Macbeth.
Lennox, a nobleman of Scotland. He is Macduff's companion when the latter brings the message to King Duncan at Macbeth's castle. He also deserts Macbeth and joins forces with Malcolm.
Lady Macduff, a victim of Macbeth's most horrible atrocity. She is human and pathetic.
A Boy, the son of Macduff, a brave and precocious child. He faces Macbeth's hired murderers without flinching and dies calling to his mother to save herself.
Siward (se'wsrd, se'srd), earl of Northumberland, the general of the English forces supporting Malcolm. He is the type of the noble father accepting stoically the death of a heroic son.
Young Siward, the general's courageous son. He dies fighting Macbeth hand to hand.
A Scottish Doctor. Called in to minister to Lady Macbeth, he is witness of her sleepwalking in which she relives the night of the murder.
A Gentlewoman, an attendant to Lady Macbeth. She is with the Doctor and observes Lady Macbeth during the sleepwalking scene.
A Sergeant (also called Captain in the Folio text), a wounded survivor of the battle at the beginning of the play. He reports to King Duncan the heroism of Macbeth and Banquo.
A Porter, a comical drunkard. Roused by the knocking on the castle door, he pretends to be the gatekeeper of Hell and imagines various candidates clamoring for admission. The audience, knowing of Duncan's murder, can realize how ironically near the truth is the idea of the castle as Hell.
Hecate (heVg-te, hek'st), patroness of the Witches. It is generally accepted among Shakespearean scholars that Hecate is an addition to the play by another author, perhaps Thomas Middleton, author of "The Witch."
A Messenger. He brings word that Birnam Wood is apparently moving. His message destroys one of Macbeth's illusions of safety.
Seyton, an officer attending Macbeth. He brings word of Lady Macbeth's death.
Menteith, Angus, and Caithness, Scottish noblemen who join Malcolm against Macbeth.


The Story

On a lonely heath in Scotland, three witches sang their riddling runes and said that soon they would meet Macbeth.
Macbeth was the noble thane of Glamis, recently victorious in a great battle against Vikings and Scottish rebels. For his brave deeds, King Duncan intended to confer upon him the lands of the rebellious thane of Cawdor. But before Macbeth saw the king, he and his friend Ban-quo met the three weird witches upon the dark moor. The wild and frightful women greeted Macbeth by first calling him thane of Glamis, then thane of Cawdor, and finally, King of Scotland. Too, they prophesied that Ban-quo's heirs would reign in Scotland in years to come.
When Macbeth tried to question the three hags, they vanished. Macbeth thought very little about the strange prophecy until he met one of Duncan's messengers, who told him that he was now thane of Cawdor. This piece of news stunned Macbeth, and he turned to Banquo to confirm the witches' prophecy. But Banquo, unduped by the witches, thought them evil enough to betray Macbeth by whetting his ambition and tricking him into fulfilling the prophecy. Macbeth did not heed Banquo's warning; the words of the witches as they called him king had gone deep into his soul. He pondered over the possibility of becoming a monarch and set his whole heart on the attainment of this goal. If he could be thane of Cawdor, perhaps he could rule all of Scotland as well. But as it was now, Duncan was king, with two sons to rule after him. The problem was great. Macbeth shook off his ambitious dreams to go with Banquo to greet Duncan.
A perfect ruler, Duncan was kind, majestic, gentle, strong; Macbeth was fond of him. But when Duncan mentioned that his son Malcolm would succeed him on the throne, Macbeth saw the boy as an obstacle in his own path, and he hardly dared admit to himself how this impediment disturbed him.
On a royal procession, Duncan announced that he would spend one night at Macbeth's castle. Lady Macbeth, who knew of the witches' prophecy, was even more ambitious than her husband, and she saw Duncan's visit as a perfect opportunity for Macbeth to become king. She determined that he should murder Duncan and usurp the throne.
That night there was much feasting in the castle. After everyone was asleep, Lady Macbeth told her husband of her plan for the king's murder. Horrified at first, Macbeth refused to do the deed. But on being accused of cowardice by his wife, and having bright prospects of his future dangled before his eyes, Macbeth finally succumbed to her demands. He stole into the sleeping king's chamber and plunged a knife into his heart.
The murder was blamed on two grooms whom Lady Macbeth had smeared with Duncan's blood while they were asleep. But the deed was hardly without suspicion in the castle, and when the murder was revealed, the dead king's sons fled, Malcolm to England, Donalbain to Ireland. Macbeth was proclaimed king. But Macduff, a nobleman who had been Duncan's close friend, also carefully noted the murder, and when Macbeth was crowned king, Macduff suspected him of the bloody killing.
Macbeth began to have horrible dreams; his mind was never free from fear. Often he thought of the witches' second prophecy, that Banquo's heirs would hold the throne, and the prediction tormented him. Macbeth was so determined that Banquo would never share in his own hard-earned glory that he resolved to murder Banquo and his son, Fleance.
Lady Macbeth and her husband gave a great banquet for the noble thanes of Scotland. At the same time, Macbeth sent murderers to waylay Banquo and his son before they could reach the palace. Banquo was slain in the scuffle, but Fleance escaped. Meanwhile in the large banquet hall Macbeth pretended great sorrow that Ban-quo was not present. But Banquo was present in spirit, and his ghost majestically appeared in Macbeth's own seat. The startled king was so frightened that he almost betrayed his guilt when he alone saw the apparition. Lady Macbeth quickly led him away and dismissed the guests.
More frightened than ever, thinking of Banquo's ghost which had returned to haunt him, and of Fleance who had escaped but might one day claim the throne, Macbeth was so troubled that he determined to seek solace from the witches on the dismal heath. They assured Macbeth that he would not be overcome by man born of woman, nor until the forest of Birnam came to Dunsinane Hill. They warned him to beware of Macduff. When Macbeth asked if Banquo's children would reign over the kingdom, the witches disappeared. The news they gave him brought him cheer. Macbeth felt he need fear no man, since all were born of women, and certainly the great Birnam forest could not be moved by human power.
Then Macbeth heard that Macduff was gathering a hostile army in England, an army to be led by Malcolm, Duncan's son, who was determined to avenge his father's murder. So terrified was Macbeth that he resolved to murder Macduff's wife and children in order to bring the rebel to submission. After this slaughter, however, Macbeth was more than ever tormented by fear; his twisted mind had almost reached the breaking point, and he longed for death to release him from his nightmarish existence.
Before long Lady Macbeth's strong will broke. Dark dreams of murder and violence drove her to madness. The horror of her crimes and the agony of being hated and feared by all of Macbeth's subjects made her so ill that her death seemed imminent.
On the eve of Macduff's attack on Macbeth's castle, Lady Macbeth died, depriving her husband of all courage she had given him in the past. Rallying, Macbeth summoned strength to meet his enemy. Meanwhile, Birnam Wood had moved, for Malcolm's soldiers were hidden behind cut green boughs, which from a distance appeared to be a moving forest. Macduff, enraged by the slaughter of his innocent family, was determined to meet Macbeth in hand-to-hand conflict.
Macbeth went to battle filled with the false courage given him by the witches' prophecy that no man born of woman would overthrow him. Meeting Macduff, Macbeth began to fight him, taunting him at the same time about his having been born of woman. But Macduff had been ripped alive from his mother's womb. The prophecy was fulfilled. Macbeth fought with waning strength, all hope of victory gone, and Macduff, with a flourish, severed the head of the bloody King of Scotland.


Critical Evaluation

Not only is Macbeth by far the shortest of William Shakespeare's great tragedies but also it is anomalous in several structural respects. Like Othello, and very few other Shakespearean plays, Macbeth is without the complications of a subplot. Consequently, the action moves forward in a swift and inexorable rush. More significantly, the climax, the murder of Duncan, takes place very early in the play. The result is that attention is focused on the manifold consequences of the crime rather than on the ambiguities or moral dilemmas which precede or occasion it.
Thus, the play is not like Othello, where the hero commits murder only after long plotting by the villain, nor is it like Hamlet, where the hero spends most of the play in moral indecision. It is more like King Lear, where destructive action flows from the central premise of the division of the kingdom. But Macbeth is much different from King Lear in that it does not raise monumental, cosmic questions of good and evil in nature; instead it explores the moral and psychological effects of evil in the life of one man. For all the power and prominence of Lady Macbeth, the drama remains essentially the story of the lord, who commits regicide and thereby enmeshes himself in a complex web of consequences.
When Macbeth first enters, he is far from the villain whose experiences the play subsequently describes. He has just returned from a military success that has covered him with glory in defense of the crown. He is rewarded by the grateful Duncan, with preferment as thane of Caw-dor. This excellence and honor, which initially qualify him for the role of hero, ironically intensify the horror of the murder Macbeth soon commits.
His fall is rapid, and his crime is more clearly a sin than is usually the case in tragedy. It is not mitigated by mixed motives or insufficient knowledge. Moreover, the sin is regicide, an action viewed by the Renaissance audience as exceptionally foul since it struck at God's representative on earth. The sin is so boldly offensive that many have tried to find extenuation in the impetus given Macbeth by the witches. However, the witches do not control behavior in the play. They are symbolic of evil and prescient of crimes which are to come, but they neither encourage nor facilitate Macbeth's actions. They are merely a reminder of the ambition which is already within Macbeth. Indeed, when he discusses the witches' prophecy with Lady Macbeth, it is clear that the possibility has been discussed before.
Nor can we shift responsibility to Lady Macbeth, despite her goading of her husband. In one, perhaps amoral, way, she is merely acting out the role of the good wife, encouraging her husband to do what she believes is in his best interests. In any case, she is rather a catalyst and supporter; she does not make the grim decision for Macbeth, and he never tries to lay the blame on her.
When Macbeth proceeds on his bloody course, there is little extenuation in his brief failure of nerve. He is an ambitious man, overpowered by his high aspirations. Nevertheless, we view Macbeth with much sympathy. Despite the clearcut evil of his actions, we never feel the distaste we deserve for villains such as Iago or Cornwall, perhaps because Macbeth is not evil incarnate, but a human being who has sinned, no matter how serious the transgression. In addition, we are as much affected by what Macbeth says about his actions as by the deeds themselves. Both substance and setting emphasize the great evil, but Macbeth does not go about his foul business easily. He knows what he is doing, but his agonizing reflections show a man increasingly out of control of his own moral destiny.
Although Lady Macbeth demonstrated greater courage and resolution at the time of the murder of Duncan, it is she who falls victim to the physical manifestations of remorse and literally dies of guilt. Macbeth, who starts more tentatively, becomes stronger, or perhaps more inured, as he faces the consequences of his initial crime. The play examines the effects of evil on Macbeth's character and on his subsequent moral behaviour. The later murders flow naturally out of the first. Evil breeds evil in that, to protect himself and consolidate his position, Macbeth is almost forced to murder again. Successively, he kills Banquo, attempts to murder Fleance, and brutally exterminates Macduff's family. As his crimes increase, Macbeth's freedom seems to decrease, but his moral responsibility does not. His actions become more coldblooded as his options disappear. His growing resolution and steadfastness in a precarious predicament are admirable, but his specific actions are repugnant.
Shakespeare does not allow Macbeth any convenient moral excuses. The dramatist is aware of the notion, from contemporary faculty psychology, of the dominant inclination. The idea is that any action performed makes it more likely that the person will perform other such actions. The operation of this phenomenon is apparent as, in the face of complications, Macbeth finds it increasingly easier to rise to the gruesome occasion. However, the dominant inclination never becomes a total determinant of behavior, so Macbeth is left without the excuse of loss of free will. But it does become ever more difficult to break the chain of events which are rushing him toward moral and physical destruction.
As he degenerates, he becomes more deluded about his invulnerability and more emboldened. What he gains in will and confidence is counterbalanced and eventually toppled by the iniquitous weight of the events he set in motion and felt he had to perpetuate. When he dies, he seems almost to be released from the imprisonment of his own evil.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Tragicomedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: Vienna
First presented: с 1603


Written when Shakespeare was also creating his major tragedies, Measure for Measure has been called the darkest of his dark comedies. The shape of the play is comic, but its substance veers very close to tragedy. Before they are allowed a happy ending, the characters must all face the truth of their own morality and the fact of their personal mortality.


Principal Characters

Angelo (an'je-lo), a Viennese nobleman, the duke's deputy, a man who is cold, arrogant, and unbending in the certainty of his own virtuous life. He refuses to look with sympathy upon the offense of Claudio and stands firm, like Shylock, for justice untempered with mercy. He is shocked to find himself tempted by Isabella, but he dismisses all moral scruples and attempts to seduce her, promising to free her brother if she will yield to him. Once he thinks he has had his will he orders Claudio's execution to take place. Faced with the duke's knowledge of his behavior, he, still in character, asks death as the fitting recompense for his sins; mercy is still no part of his character, although it is that quality, meted out by the duke in accord with the pleas of Isabella and Mariana, which ultimately saves him.
Vincentio (ven-chen'se-o), Duke of Vienna, a rather ambiguous figure who acts at times as a force of divine destiny in the lives of his subjects. He has wavered in the enforcement of his state's unjust laws, and, pretending to go on a trip to Poland, he leaves the government in Angelo's hands to try to remedy this laxity as well as to test Angelo's "pale and cloistered virtue." He himself moves quietly to counteract the effects of Angelo's strict law enforcement on Isabella, Claudio, and Mariana.
Isabella (ez-э-ЬёГэ), a young noblewoman who emerges from the nunnery where she is a postulant to try to save the life of her condemned brother. Her moral standards, like Angelo's, are absolute; she is appalled to find herself faced with two equally dreadful alternatives: to watch her brother die, knowing that it is in her power to save him, or to surrender herself to Angelo. She cannot entirely comprehend Claudio's passionate desire to live, no matter what the cost. Virtue is, for her, more alive than life itself, and she cannot help feeling a certain sense of justice in his condemnation, although she would save him if she could do so without causing her own damnation. She learns, as Angelo does not, to value mercy, and she is able at the end of the play to join Mariana on her knees to plead for the deputy's life.
Claudio (klo'di-б), Isabella's brother, condemned to death for getting his fiancee with child. He finds small consolation in the duke's description of death, and he makes a passionate defense of life, describing the horrors of the unknown.
Escalus (ёУкэ-lus), a wise old Viennese counselor, left by the duke as Angelo's adviser. He deals humorously and sympathetically with the rather incoherent testimony of Elbow, the volunteer constable.
Mariana (татё-a'na), a young woman betrothed to Angelo and legally his wife when he rejected her because of difficulties over her dowry. She agrees, at the duke's request, to take Isabella's place in the garden house where Angelo had arranged to meet her. Claiming him as her husband at the duke's reentry into the city, she asks mercy for his betrayal of Claudio and Isabella.
Lucio (lu'shi-o), a dissolute young man who brags of his desertion of his mistress and gives the disguised duke bits of malicious gossip about himself. He is condemned for his boasting and his slander to marry the prostitute he has abandoned.
Mrs. Overdone, a bawd.
Pompey, her servant.
Juliet, Claudio's fiancee.
Elbow, a clownish volunteer constable whose mala-propisms make enforcement of the law more than difficult.
Francisca (fran-sisf'kg), a nun of the order Isabella is entering.
Froth, a laconic patron of Mrs. Overdone's establishment.
Provost (prov'sst), an officer of the state who pities Claudio and helps the duke save him, thus disobeying Angelo's orders.
Abhorson, the hangman, a man of rather macabre humor.
Barnardine, a long-term prisoner freed by the merciful duke.
Friar Thomas and Friar Peter, religious men who aid the duke.


The Story

The growing political and moral corruption of Vienna were a great worry to its kindly, temperate ruler, Duke Vincentio. Knowing that he himself was as much to blame for the troubles as anyone because he had been lax in the enforcement of existing laws, the duke tried to devise a scheme whereby the old discipline of civic authority could be successfully revived.
Fearing that reforms instituted by himself might seem too harsh for his people to accept without protest, he decided to appoint a deputy governor and to leave the country for a while. Angelo, a respected and intelligent city official, seemed just the man for the job. The duke turned over the affairs of Vienna to Angelo for a time and appointed Escalus, a trustworthy old official, second in command. The duke than pretended to leave for Poland, but actually he disguised himself in the habit of a friar and returned to the city to watch the outcome of Angelo's reforms.
Angelo's first act was to imprison Claudio, a young nobleman who had gotten his betrothed, Juliet, with child. Under an old statute, now revived, Claudio's offense was punishable by death. The young man was paraded through the streets in disgrace and finally sent to prison. At his request, Lucio, a rakish friend, went to the nunnery where Isabella, Claudio's sister, was a young novice about to take her vows. Through his messenger, Claudio asked Isabella to plead with the new governor for his release. At the same time Escalus, who had known Claudio's father well, begged Angelo not to execute the young man. But the new deputy remained firm in carrying out the duties of his office, and Claudio's well-wishers held little hope for their friend's release.
The duke, disguised as a friar, visited Juliet and learned that the punishment of her lover was extremely unfair, even under the ancient statutes. The young couple had been very much in love, had been formally engaged, and would have been married, except for the fact that Juliet's dowry had become a matter of legal dispute. There was no question of seduction in the case at all.
Isabella, going before Angelo to plead her brother's cause, met with little success at first, even though she had been thoroughly coached by the wily Lucio. Nevertheless, the cold heart of Angelo was somewhat touched by Isabella's beauty, and by the time of the second interview he had become so passionately aroused as to forget his reputation for saintly behavior. After telling Isabella frankly that she could obtain her brother's release only by yielding herself to his lustful desires, Angelo threatened Claudio's death otherwise.
Shocked at these words from the deputy, Isabella asserted that she would expose him in public. Angelo, amused, asked who would believe her story. At her wit's end, Isabella rushed to the prison, where she told Claudio of Angelo's disgraceful proposition. When he first heard the deputy's proposal, Claudio was also revolted by the idea, but as images of death continued to terrify him he finally begged Isabella to placate Angelo and give herself to him. Isabella, horrified by her brother's cowardly attitude, lashed out at him with a scornful speech, but was interrupted by the duke in his disguise as a friar. Having overheard much of the conversation, he drew Isabella aside from her brother and confided that it would still be possible for her to save Claudio without shaming herself.
The friar told Isabella that, five years before, Angelo had been betrothed to Mariana, a high-born lady. The marriage had not taken place, however, because Mariana's brother, with her dowry, had been lost at sea. Angelo had consequently broken off his vows and hinted at supposed dishonor in the poor young woman. The friar suggested to Isabella that she plan the requested rendezvous with Angelo in a dark and quiet place and then let Mariana act as her substitute. Angelo would be satisfied, Claudio released, Isabella still chaste, and Mariana provided with the means to force Angelo into marriage.
Everything went as arranged, with Mariana taking Isabella's place at the assignation, but cowardly Angelo, fearing public exposure, broke his promise to release Claudio and ordered the young man's execution. Once again the good friar intervened. He persuaded the provost to hide Claudio and then to announce his death by sending Angelo the head of another prisoner who had died of natural causes.
On the day before the execution a crowd gathered outside the prison and discussed the coming events. One of the group was Lucio, who accosted the disguised duke as he wandered down the street. Very furtively Lucio told the friar that nothing like Claudio's execution would have taken place if the duke had been ruler. Lucio went on confidentially to say that the duke cared as much for the ladies as any other man and also drank in private. In fact, said Lucio, the duke bedded about as much as any man in Vienna. Amused, the friar protested against this gossip, but Lucio angrily asserted that every word was true.
To arouse Isabella so that she would publicly accuse Angelo of wrongdoing, the duke allowed her to believe that Claudio was dead. Then the duke sent letters to the deputy informing him that the royal party would arrive on the following day at the gates of Vienna and would expect a welcoming party there. Also, the command ordered that anyone who had had grievances against the government while the duke was absent should be allowed to make public pronouncement of them at that time and place.
Angelo grew nervous upon receipt of these papers from the duke. The next day, however, he organized a great crowd and a celebration of welcome at the gates of the city. In the middle of the crowd were Isabella and Mariana, heavily veiled. At the proper time the two women stepped forward to denounce Angelo. Isabella called him a traitor and virgin-violator; Mariana claimed that he would not admit her as his wife. The duke, pretending to be angry at these tirades against his deputy, ordered the women to prison and asked that someone apprehend the rascally friar who had often been seen in their company. Then the duke went to his palace and quickly changed to his disguise as a friar. Appearing before the crowd at the gates, he criticized the government of Vienna severely. Escalus, horrified at the fanatical comments of the friar, ordered his arrest and was seconded by Lucio, who maintained that the friar had told him only the day before that the duke was a drunkard and a frequenter of bawdy houses.
At last, to display his own bravado, Lucio tore away the friar's hood. When the friar stood revealed as Duke Vin-centio, the crowd fell back in amazement.
Angelo, realizing that his crimes would now be exposed, asked simply to be put to death without trial. The duke ordered him first to marry Mariana. After telling Mariana that Angelo's goods, legally hers, would secure her a better husband, the duke was surprised when she entreated for Angelo's pardon. Finally, because Isabella also pleaded for Angelo's freedom, the duke relented. He did, however, send Lucio to prison. Claudio was released and married to Juliet. The duke himself asked Isabella for her hand.


Critical Evaluation

Measure for Measure is one of those troubled plays, like All's Well That Ends Well and Troilus and Cressida, composed during the same years that Shakespeare was writing his greatest tragedies. Not tragedies, or comedies, or histories, these dark and often bitter dramas have frequently been described as problem plays. Not the least of the problems is that of literary classification, but the term generally refers to plays which examine a thesis. The main concern in this play is a rather grim consideration of the nature of justice and morality in both civic and psychological contexts.
The tone of this and the other problem plays is so gloomy and pessimistic that critics have tended to try to find biographical or historical causes for their bleakness. Some have argued that they reflect a period of personal disillusionment for the playwright, but there is no external evidence to corroborate this supposition. Others have laid the blame on the ghastly decadence of the Jacobean period. However, although other dramatists, such as Marston and Dekker, did write comparable plays around the same time, the historical evidence suggests that the period was, on the contrary, rather optimistic. What is clear is that Shakespeare has created a world as rotten as Denmark but without a tragic figure sufficient to purge and redeem it. The result is a threatened world, supported by comic remedies rather than purified by tragic suffering. Consequently, Measure for Measure remains a shadowy, ambiguous, and disquieting world even though it ends with political and personal resolutions.
The immediate source of the play seems to be George Whetstone's History of Promos and Cassandra or Whetstone's narrative version of the same story in his Hep-tameron of Civil Discourses. Behind Whetstone are narrative and dramatic versions by Cinthio, from whom Shakespeare derived the plot of Othello. However, Measure for Measure is such an eclectic amalgamation of items from a wide variety of literary and historical loci that a precise identification of sources is impossible. Indeed, the plot is essentially a conflation of three ancient folk tales, which J. W. Lever calls the Corrupt Magistrate, the Disguised Ruler, and the Substituted Bedmate. Shakespeare integrates these with disparate other materials into a disturbing, indeterminate analysis of justice, morality, and integrity.
The title of the play comes from the biblical text: "With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." As the play develops and expands on this quotation, we find that we cannot be satisfied with a simple but generous resolution "to do unto others what you would have them do unto you," because the play pursues its text so relentlessly that any easy confidence in poetic justice is undermined. We cannot be sure that good intentions and a clean heart will preserve us. In the final analysis, the action tends to support the admonition to "judge not that ye be not judged," a sentiment which can express either Christian charity or cynical irresponsibility.
Yet, we are in a world in which the civil authorities must judge others. Indeed, that is where the play begins. Vienna, as the duke himself realizes, is in a moral shambles. Bawdry and licentiousness of all sorts are rampant in the city, and the duke accepts responsibility for laxity in enforcing the law. Corruption seethes through the whole society down to the base characters, who are engaged less in a comic subplot than in a series of vulgar exemplifications of a pervasive moral decay. The duke intends to let Angelo, renowned for probity and puritanical stringency, act as vice-regent and, through stern measures, set the state right.
The chilling irony is that Angelo almost immediately falls victim to the sexual license he is supposed to eliminate. To compound the irony, Claudio, whom Angelo condemns for impregnating Juliet, had at least acted out of love with a full intention to marry. Things do not turn out to be as they seemed. Not only is justice not done, it is itself threatened and mocked. Perfect justice yields to temptation while apparent vice is extenuated by circumstances.
Isabella also does not behave as we would expect.
Called upon to intercede for her brother, she is faced with Angelo's harsh proposition. The dilemma is especially nasty since the choice is between her honor and С (audio's life. For her, neither is a noble alternative and, of course, Claudio is not strong enough to offer himself up for her and turn the play into a tragedy. Unfortunately, when Claudio is reluctant, she behaves petulantly rather than graciously. True, her position is intolerable, but she does spend more time speaking in defense of her virtue than acting virtuously. For all her religious aspirations, which are eventually abandoned, she is not large enough to ennoble her moral context.
The duke is always lurking in the background, watching developments, capable of intervening so as to avoid disaster. Indeed, we are tempted to blame him for being so slow to step in. Of course, if the duke had intervened earlier, or had never withdrawn, we would have had "business as usual" rather than a play which examines the ambiguities of guilt and extenuation, justice and mercy. He allows the characters to act out the complex patterns of moral responsibility which are the heart of the play.
For example, when Angelo, thinking that he is with Isabella, is in fact with Mariana, his act is objectively less evil than he thinks because he is really with the woman to whom he had earlier plighted troth. Yet, in intention, he is more culpable than Claudio, whom he had imprisoned. Such are the intricate complications of behavior in the flawed world of Measure for Measure.
The justice that the duke finally administers brings about a comic resolution. Pardons and marriages unravel the complications which varying degrees of evil have occasioned, but no one in the play escapes untainted. The duke, after a period of moral spectatorship which borders on irresponsibility, restores order. Angelo loses his virtue and reputation but gains a wife. Isabella abandons her extreme religious commitment but finds herself more human, and is rewarded with a marriage proposal. Everything works out—justice prevails, tempered with mercy—but we are left with the unsettling suggestion that tendencies toward corruption and excess may be inextricably blended with what is best and most noble in humankind.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Tragicomedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: Venice
First presented: с 1596


In The Merchant of Venice Shakespeare fuses a number of diverse, even contradictory, dramatic styles, ranging from folktale to romantic comedy to borderline tragedy, to create one of his most popular and moving plays. The encounter between the greedy Jew Shylock and the wise, fine Portia gives the play a grave beauty.


Principal Characters

Shylock (shi'lok), a rich Jewish moneylender. He hates Antonio for often lending money at lower interest than the usurer demands; hence, when Antonio wishes to borrow three thousand ducats to help Bassanio, Shylock prepares a trap. Seemingly in jest, he persuades Antonio to sign a bond stating that, should the loan not be repaid within three months, a pound of flesh from any part of his body will be forfeited to Shylock. Next, Shylock has bad news when he learns that his daughter, Jessica, has eloped with Lorenzo, taking with her much of his money; good news when he learns that Antonio's ships have been lost at sea. Antonio being ruined and the loan due, Shylock brings the case before the duke. He refuses Bassa-nio's offer of six thousand ducats and demands his pound of flesh. But Portia, Bassanio's wife, disguised as a lawyer, claims that Shylock must have the flesh but can take not a single drop of blood with it. Further, she maintains that Shylock, an alien, has threatened the life of a Venetian; therefore, half of his fortune goes to Antonio, the , other half to the state. However, Shylock is allowed to keep half for Jessica and Lorenzo if he will become a Christian. The character of Shylock has become one of the most controversial in Shakespearian drama. Is he a villain or a tragic figure? Does the author intend the audience to regard him as an example of Jewish malevolence or to sympathize with him as a persecuted man?
Portia (por'sha), an heiress whose father had stipulated in his will that any suitor must win her by choosing from among three caskets of gold, silver, and lead the one containing her portrait. The Prince of Morocco and the Prince of Aragon choose respectively the gold and the silver casket and find only mocking messages; Bassanio, whom she loves, selects the lead casket and wins her. Learning of Antonio's misfortune, she offers her dowry to buy off Shylock and goes to Venice disguised as a lawyer. When Shylock refuses the money and rejects her plea for mercy, she outwits him by showing that he is entitled to a pound of Antonio's flesh but cannot shed any blood in obtaining it, thus saving Antonio and ruining Shylock.
Antonio (an-to'ni-б), the merchant of Venice. Rich and generous, he wishes to aid his impecunious friend Bassanio to woo Portia. Having no ready money, he borrows three thousand ducats from Shylock with the proviso that if the debt cannot be repaid within three months, Shylock can have a pound of his flesh. His ships are apparently lost at sea, and he is saved from death only by Portia's cleverness. At the end of the play, he learns that some of his ships have returned and that he is not ruined.
Bassanio (ba-sa'm-o), the friend of Antonio, in need of money in order to woo Portia. To help him, Antonio concludes his almost fatal bargain with Shylock. Bassanio chooses the right casket at Portia's home and thus is able to marry her.
Gratiano (gra-shra'no, gra-tya'no), a friend of Bassanio. He marries Nerissa, Portia's waiting woman.
Nerissa (ne-ris'a), Portia's clever waiting woman. She marries Gratiano.
Jessica (jes-1'кэ), the daughter of Shylock. She elopes with Lorenzo, taking with her much of Shylock's money and jewels. Her marriage is a heavy blow to her father.
Lorenzo (16-ren'zd), a Venetian who marries Jessica.
The Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor, one of Portia's suitors. He chooses the gold casket, in which he finds a skull and some mocking verses.
The Prince of Aragon, another of Portia's wooers. He chooses the silver casket, in which he finds the portrait of a blinking idiot.
Tubal (tu'bal), a Jew and friend of Shylock.
Launcelot Gobbo (lon'sa-lot gob'bo), a clown, Shy-lock's comic servant. Hating his master, he changes to the service of Bassanio. He acts as a messenger between Jessica and Lorenzo.
Old Gobbo, Launcelot's father, "sand-blind."


The Story

Bassanio, meeting his wealthy friend Antonio, revealed that he had a plan for restoring his fortune, carelessly spent, and for paying the debts he had incurred. In the town of Belmont, not far from Venice, there lived a wealthy young woman named Portia, who was famous for her beauty. If he could secure some money, Bassanio declared, he was sure he could win her as his wife.
Antonio replied that he had no funds at hand with which to supply his friend, as they were all invested in the ships which he had at sea, but he would attempt to borrow some money in Venice.
Portia had many suitors for her hand. According to the strange conditions of her father's will, however, anyone who wished her for his wife had to choose among three caskets of silver, gold, and lead the one which contained a message that she was his. Four of her suitors, seeing that they could not win her except under the conditions of the will, departed. A fifth, a Moor, decided to take his chances. The unfortunate man chose the golden casket, which contained only a skull and a mocking message. For his failure he was compelled to swear never to reveal the casket he had chosen and never to woo another woman.
The Prince of Aragon was the next suitor to try his luck. In his turn he chose the silver casket, only to learn from the note it bore that he was a fool.
True to his promise to Bassanio, Antonio arranged to borrow three thousand ducats from Shylock, a wealthy Jew. Antonio was to have the use of the money for three months. If he should be unable to return the loan at the end of that time, Shylock was to have the right to cut a pound of flesh from any part of Antonio's body. In spite of Bassanio's objections, Antonio insisted on accepting the terms, for he was sure his ships would return a month before the payment would be due. He was confident that he would never fall into the power of the Jew, who hated Antonio because he often lent money to others without charging the interest Shylock demanded.
That night Bassanio planned a feast and a masque. In conspiracy with his friend Lorenzo, he invited Shylock to be his guest. Lorenzo, taking advantage of her father's absence, ran off with the Jew's daughter, Jessica, who did not hesitate to take part of Shylock's fortune with her.
Shylock was cheated not only of his daughter and his ducats but also of his entertainment, for the wind suddenly changed and Bassanio set sail for Belmont.
As the days passed, the Jew began to hear news of mingled good and bad fortune. In Genoa, Jessica and Lorenzo were making lavish use of the money she had taken with her. The miser flinched at the reports of his daughter's extravagance, but for compensation he had the news that Antonio's ships, on which the latter's fortune depended, had been wrecked at sea.
Portia, much taken with Bassanio when he came to woo her, would have had him wait before he tried to pick the right casket. Sure that he would fail as the others had, she hoped to have his company a little while longer. Bassanio, however, was impatient to try his luck. Not deceived by the ornateness of the gold and silver caskets, but philosophizing that true virtue is inward virtue, he chose the lead box. In it was a portrait of Portia. He had chosen correctly.
To seal their engagement, Portia gave Bassanio a ring. She declared he must never part with it, for if he did it would signify the end of their love.
Gratiano, a friend who had accompanied Bassanio to Belmont, spoke up. He was in love with Portia's waiting woman, Nerissa. With Portia's delighted approval, Gratiano planned that both couples should be married at the same time.
Bassanio's joy at his good fortune was soon blighted. Antonio wrote that he was ruined, all his ships having failed to return. The time for payment of the loan being past due, Shylock was demanding his pound of flesh. In closing, Antonio declared that he cleared Bassanio of his debt to him. He wished only to see his friend once more before his death.
Portia declared that the double wedding should take place at once. Then her husband, with her dowry of six thousand ducats, should set out for Venice in an attempt to buy off the Jew.
After Bassanio and Gratiano had gone, Portia declared to Lorenzo and Jessica, who had come to Belmont, that she and Nerissa were going to a nunnery, where they would live in seclusion until their husbands returned. She committed the charge of her house and servants to Jessica and Lorenzo.
Instead of taking the course she had described, however, Portia set about executing other plans. She gave her servant, Balthasar, orders to take a note to her cousin, Doctor Bellario, a famous lawyer of Padue, in order to secure a message and some clothes from him. She explained to Nerissa that they would go to Venice disguised as men.
The Duke of Venice, before whom Antonio's case was tried, was reluctant to exact the penalty which was in Shylock's terms. When his appeals to the Jew's better feelings went unheeded, he could see no course before him except to give the money-lender his due. Bassanio also tried to make Shylock relent by offering him the six thousand ducats, but, like the duke, he met with only a firm refusal.
Portia, dressed as a lawyer, and Nerissa, disguised as her clerk, appeared in the court. Nerissa offered the duke a letter from Doctor Bellario. The doctor explained that he was very ill, but that Balthasar, his young representative, would present his opinion in the dispute.
When Portia appealed to the Jew's mercy, Shy lock answered with a demand for the penalty. Portia then declared that the Jew, under the letter of the contract, could not be offered money in exchange for Antonio's release. The only alternative was for the merchant to forfeit his flesh.
Antonio prepared his bosom for the knife, for Shylock was determined to take his portion as close to his enemy's heart as he could cut. Before the operation could begin, however, Portia, examining the contract, declared that it contained no clause stating that Shylock could have any blood with the flesh.
The Jew, realizing that he was defeated, offered at once to accept the six thousand ducats, but Portia declared that he was not entitled to the money he had already refused. She stated also that Shylock, an alien, had threatened the life of a Venetian citizen. For that crime Antonio had the right to seize half of his property and the state the remainder.
Antonio refused that penalty, but it was agreed that one half of Shylock's fortune should go at once to Jessica and Lorenzo. Shylock was to keep the remainder, but it too was to be willed the couple. In addition, Shylock was to undergo conversion. The defeated man agreed to those terms.
Pressed to accept a reward, Portia took only a pair of Antonio's gloves and the ring which she herself had given Bassanio. Nerissa, likewise, managed to secure Gra-tiano's ring. Then the pair started back for Belmont, to be there when their husbands returned.
Portia and Nerissa arrived home shortly before Bassanio and Gratiano appeared in company with Antonio. Pretending to discover that their husbands' rings were missing, Portia and Nerissa at first accused Bassanio and Gratiano of unfaithfulness. At last, to the surprise of all, they revealed their secret, which was vouched for by a letter from Doctor Bellario. For Jessica and Lorenzo they had the good news of their future inheritance, and for Antonio a letter, secured by chance, announcing that some of his ships had arrived safely in port.


Critical Evaluation

Through the years The Merchant of Venice has been one of Shakespeare's most popular and most frequently acted plays. Not only has it an interesting and fast-moving plot, but also it evokes an idyllic, uncorrupted world reminiscent of folktale and romance. From the beginning, the play is bathed in light and music. The insistently improbable plot is complicated only by the evil influence of Shylock, and he is disposed of by the end of act 4. Yet Shakespeare uses this fragile vehicle to make some significant points about justice, mercy, and friendship, three typical topics of conversation during the Renaissance. Although some critics have suggested that the play contains all of the elements of tragedy only to be rescued by a comic resolution, the tone of the whole play creates a benevolent world in which, despite some opposition, we are always sure that things will work out for the best.
The story is based on ancient tales, which could have been drawn from many sources. It is actually two stories—the casket-plot, involving the choice by the suitor and his reward with Portia, and the bond-plot, involving the loan and the attempt to exact a pound of flesh. Shakespeare's genius here lies in the combination of the two. Although they intersect from the start in the character of Bassanio, who occasions Antonio's debt and is a suitor, they fully coalesce when Portia comes to Venice in disguise to make her plea and judgment for Antonio. At that point the bond-plot is unraveled by the casket-heroine and we have only the celebratory conclusion of the fifth act still to enjoy.
The most fascinating character to both audiences and critics has always been Shylock, the outsider, the anomaly in this felicitous world. Controversy rages over just what kind of villain Shylock is and just how villainous Shakespeare intended him to be. The matter has been complicated by a contemporary desire to try to absolve Shakespeare of the common medieval and Renaissance malady of anti-Semitism. Consequently, some commentators on the play have argued that in Shylock Shakespeare takes the stock character of the Jew, like Marlowe's Barabas in The Jew of Malta, and fleshes him out with complicating human characteristics. Some have gone so far as to argue that even in villainy he is represented as a victim of the Christian society, the grotesque product of hatred and ostracism. Regardless of Shakespeare's personal views, the fact remains that in his hands Shylock becomes much more than a stock character.
The more significant dramatic question is: just what sort of character is Shylock and what sort of role is he called upon to play? Certainly he is an outsider both in appearance and action, a stranger to the light and gracious world of Venice and Belmont. His language has a stridency and an unabashed materialism which isolate him from the other characters. He has no part in the network of beautiful friendships which unite the rest of the characters in the play. He is not wholly a comic character; despite his often appearing ridiculous, he poses too serious a threat to be dismissed lightly. Nor is he a cold and terrifying villain like Iago or Edmund, or even an engaging villain like Richard III; he is too ineffectual and too grotesque. He is a malevolent force, but he is finally overcome by the more generous world in which he lives. That he is treated so badly by the Christians is the kind of irony that ultimately protects Shakespeare from charges of mindless anti-Semitism. Still, on the level of the romantic plot, he is also the serpent in the garden, deserving summary expulsion and the forced conversion which is, ironically, both a punishment and a charity.
The rest of the major characters have much more in common with each other as sharers in the common civilization of Venice. As they come into conflict with Shy-lock and form relationships with one another, they act out the ideals and commonplaces of high Renaissance culture. Antonio, in his small but pivotal role, is afflicted with a fashionable melancholy and a gift for friendship. It is a casually generous act of friendship which sets the bond-plot in motion. Bassanio frequently comments on friendship and knows how to accept generosity gracefully. But Bassanio is also a Renaissance lover as well as a model Renaissance friend. He is quite frankly as interested in Portia's money as in her wit and beauty; he unselfconsciously represents a cultural integration of love and gain quite different from Shylock's materialism. And when he chooses the leaden casket, he does so for precisely the right traditional reason—a distrust of appearances, a recognition that the reality does not always correspond. To be sure, his success as suitor is never really in doubt, but is rather danced out like a ballet. Everyone knows, or ought to know, that lead should be preferred to gaudy gold and silver, and indeed the greatest treasure of all, a portrait of Portia, is inside. In addition, the third suitor is always the successful one in folktale. What the ballet provides is another opportunity for the expression of the culturally correct sentiments.
Portia too is a culture heroine. She is not merely an object of love, but a witty and intelligent woman whose ingenuity resolves the central dilemma. That she too is not what she seems to be in the trial scene is another reminder of the familiar appearance/reality theme. More important, she has the opportunity to discourse on the nature of mercy as opposed to strict justice and to give an object lesson that he who lives by the letter of the law will perish by it.
With Shylock safely, if a bit harshly, out of the way, the last act is an amusing festival of vindication of the cultural values. The characters have had their opportunity to comment on the proper issues—love, friendship, justice, and the disparity between appearance and reality. Now each receives his appropriate reward as the play concludes with marriages, reunions, and the pleasantly gratuitous recovery of Antonio's fortune. There is no more trouble in paradise among the people of grace.




Туре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic comedy
Time of plot: Remote antiquity
Locale: Athens
First presented: 1595


A Midsummer Night's Dream is probably the most purely romantic of Shakespeare's comedies. Although the magic of Puck explains the lovers' erratic behavior, they are really responding to the essential capriciousness of young love in this pastoral romp that spoofs not only the vagaries of romance but the nature of reality itself.


Principal Characters

Theseus (the'se-us), duke of Athens, a wise, temperate ruler, Although he mistrusts the fantasy and imagination of "lunatics, lovers and poets," he can perceive with good humor the love and duty inspiring the abortive dramatic efforts of his subjects, and he tries to teach his bride and queen, Hippolyta, the value of their good intentions.
Hippolyta (Ы-рбГНэ), Theseus' bride, queen of the Amazons, the maiden warriors whom he has conquered. She is a woman of regal dignity, less willing than her lord to be tolerant of the faults of Peter Quince's play, although she is more ready than he to believe the lovers' description of their night in the forest.
Titania (fl-ta'ni-э), the imperious queen of the fairies. She feuds with her husband Oberon over her "little changeling boy," whom the king wants as his page. Enchanted by Oberon's flower, "love in idleness," she becomes enamored of Bottom the Weaver in his ass's head and dotes on him until her husband takes pity on her and frees her from the spell. She is quickly reconciled with him and they join in blessing the marriage of Theseus and Hippolyta, their favorites among mortals.
Oberon (б'Ьэтбп), king of the fairies, who gleefully plots with Puck to cast a spell on the fairy queen and take away her changeling. Once he has stolen the child, he repents his mischief and frees Titania from her ridiculous dotage. He teases her for her fondness for Theseus and is, in return, forced to confess his own affection for Hippolyta.
Puck (puk), the merry, mischievous elf, Robin Good-fellow, of English folk legend and Oberon's servant. He brings about the confusion of the young Athenians on Midsummer Eve as he tries to carry out Oberon's wishes; the king has taken pity on Helena and hopes to turn Demetrius' scorn for her into love. Puck simply enchants the first Athenian he sees, Lysander, and with great amusement watches the confusion which follows, commenting, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"
Hermia (her'mi-э), a bright, bold young Athenian maiden. She defies her father and flees into the Athenian wood to elope with her beloved Lysander. She shows herself a small spitfire when she finds Demetrius and Lysander, through Puck's machinations, suddenly rivaling each other for Helena's affection rather than hers.
Helena (ЪёТэ-пэ), a maiden who mournfully follows Demetrius, spaniel-like, in spite of the scorn with which he repulses her affection. When she suddenly finds both Demetrius and Lysander at her feet, she can only believe that they are teasing her.
Demetrius (ds-me'trf-us), a rather fickle Athenian youth. He deserts his first love, Helena, to win the approval of Hermia's father for marriage with her, but he cannot win Hermia herself. His affections are returned, by Oberon's herb, to Helena, and he is wed to her on his duke's marriage day.
Lysander (ll-san'dar), Hermia's sweetheart, who plans their elopement to escape Theseus' decree that the girl must follow her father's will or enter a nunnery. He brashly argues with Demetrius, first over Hermia, then over Helena, before he is happily wed to his first love.
Nick Bottom, a good-natured craftsman and weaver. He is so enthralled by the prospect of Quince's play, "Pyramus and Thisbe," that he longs to play all the other parts in addition to his assigned role of the hero. He is supremely complacent as Titania's paramour and takes for granted the services of the fairies, who scratch the ass's ears placed on his head by Puck. He marvels at his "most rare vision" after his release from the fairy spell.
Peter Quince, a carpenter, director of the infamous play of "tragical mirth" presented in honor of Theseus' wedding. Completely well-meaning, he illustrates, as he mangles his prologue, the "love and tongue-tied simplicity" of which Theseus speaks.
Snug, a joiner, Snout, a tinker, Flute, a bellows-maker, and Starveling, a tailor, the other craftsmen-actors who portray, respectively, Lion, Wall, Thisbe, and Moonshine.
Egeus (ё-je'us), Hermia's father. He is determined that his daughter shall marry Demetrius, not Lysander, whom she loves.
Philostrate(fl'los-trat), Theseus' master of the revels. Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed,
Titania's fairy attendants, who wait on Bottom.


The Story

Theseus, the Duke of Athens, was to be married in four days to Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, and he ordered his Master of the Revels to prepare suitable entertainment for the nuptials. But other lovers of ancient Athens were not so happy as their ruler. Hermia, in love with Lysander, was loved also by Demetrius, who had her father's permission to marry her. When she refused his suit, Demetrius took his case to Theseus and demanded that the law be invoked. Theseus upheld the father, which meant that Hermia must marry Demetrius, be placed in a nunnery, or be put to death. Hermia swore that she would enter a convent before she would consent to become Demetrius' bride.
Lysander plotted with Hermia to steal her away from Athens, take her to the home of his aunt, and there marry her. They were to meet the following night in a woods outside the city. Hermia confided the plan to her good friend Helena. Demetrius had formerly been betrothed to Helena, and although he had switched his love to Hermia he was still desperately loved by the scorned Helena. Helena, willing to do anything to gain even a smile from Demetrius, told him of his rival's plan to elope with Hermia.
Unknown to any of the four young people, there were to be others in that same woods on the appointed night, Midsummer Eve. A guild of Athenian laborers was to meet there to practice a play the members hoped to present in honor of Theseus and Hippolyta's wedding. The fairies also held their midnight revels in the woods. Oberon, king of the fairies, desired for his page a little Indian prince, but Oberon's queen, Titania, had the boy. Loving him like a son, she refused to give him up to her husband. In order to force Titania to do his bidding, Oberon ordered his mischievous page, called Puck or Robin Goodfellow, to secure the juice of "love in idleness," a purple flower once hit by Cupid's dart. This juice, when placed in the eyes of anyone sleeping, caused that person to fall in love with the first creature seen on awakening. Oberon planned to drop some of the juice in Titania's eyes and then refuse to lift the charm until she gave him the boy.
While Puck was on his errand, Demetrius and Helena entered the woods. Making himself invisible, Oberon heard Helena plead her love for Demetrius and heard the young man scorn and berate her. They had come to the woods to find the fleeing lovers, Lysander and Hermia. Oberon, pitying Helena, determined to aid her. When Puck returned with the juice, Oberon ordered him to find the Athenian and place some of the juice in his eyes so that he would love the girl who doted on him.
Puck went to do as he was ordered, while Oberon squeezed the juice of the flower into the eyes of Titania as she slept. But Puck, coming upon Lysander and Hermia as they slept in the woods, mistook Lysander's Athenian dress for that of Demetrius and poured the charmed juice into Lysander's eyes. Lysander was awakened by Helena, who had been abandoned deep in the woods by Demetrius. The charm worked perfectly; Lysander fell in love with Helena. That poor girl, thinking that he was mocking her with his ardent protestations of love, begged him to stop his teasing and return to the sleeping Hermia. But Lysander, pursuing Helena, left Hermia alone in the forest. When she awakened she feared that Lysander had been killed, for she believed that he would never have deserted her otherwise.
Titania, in the meantime, awakened to a strange sight. The laborers, practicing for their play, had paused not far from the sleeping fairy queen. Bottom, the comical but stupid weaver who was to play the leading role, became the butt of another of Puck's jokes. The prankster clapped an ass's head over Bottom's own foolish pate and led the poor fool a merry chase until the weaver was at the spot where Titania lay sleeping. Thus when she awakened she looked at Bottom, still wearing the head of an ass. She fell instantly in love with him and ordered the fairies to tend his every want. This turn pleased Oberon mightily. When he learned of the mistake Puck had made in placing the juice in Lysander's eyes, however, he tried to right the wrong by placing love juice also in Demetrius' eyes, and he ordered Puck to have Helena close by when Demetrius awakened. His act made both girls unhappy and forlorn. When Demetrius, who she knew hated her, also began to make love to her, Helena thought that both men were taunting and ridiculing her. And poor Hermia, encountering Lysander, could not understand why he tried to drive her away, all the time protesting that he loved only Helena.
Again Oberon tried to set matters straight. He ordered Puck to lead the two men in circles until weariness forced them to lie down and go to sleep. Then a potion to remove the charm and make the whole affair seem like a dream was to be placed in Lysander's eyes. Afterward he would again love Hermia, and all the young people would be united in proper pairs. Titania, too, was to have the charm removed, for Oberon had taunted her about loving an ass until she had given up the prince to him. Puck obeyed the orders and placed the potion in Lysander's eyes.
The four lovers were awakened by Theseus, Hippolyta, and Hermia's father, who had gone into the woods to watch Theseus' hounds perform. Lysander again loved Hermia and Demetrius still loved Helena, for the love juice remained in his eyes. Hermia's father persisted in his demand that his daughter marry Demetrius, but since that young man no longer wanted her and all four were happy with their partners, he ceased to oppose LySander's suit. Theseus gave them permission to marry on the day set for his own wedding to Hippolyta.
Titania also awakened and, like the others, thought that she had been dreaming. Puck removed the ass's head from Bottom and that poor bewildered weaver made his way back to Athens, reaching there just in time to save the play from ruin, for he was to play Pyramus, the hero. The Master of the Revels tried to dissuade Theseus from choosing the laborer's play for the wedding night. Theseus, however, was intrigued by a play that was announced as both tedious and brief as well as merry and tragic. So Bottom and his troupe presented Pyramus and Thisbe, much to the merriment of all the guests.
After the play all the bridal couples retired to their suites, and Oberon and Titania sang a fairy song over them, promising that they and all their children would be blessed.


Critical Evaluation

Written at the same time as many of Shakespeare's sonnets (1594 -1595), A Midsummer Night's Dream shares with them the dual concerns of love and poetry. Like the sonnets, too, the play examines these issues from a variety of perspectives, though always with a light touch, in keeping with the festive mood of Midsummer Night (June 23).
Shakespeare's genius delights in variety. Romeo and Juliet (1594-1595) treats the tragedy of a pair of star-crossed lovers; here Shakespeare explores the comic possibilities of a similar situation. A Midsummer Night's Dream offers not one but five sets of ill-sorted lovers, their very multiplicity a comic device. Theseus has won Hippolyta in battle, wooing her with his sword. For him the four days before their marriage seem endless, but she, less eager to wed, fears that the time will pass all too quickly. Demetrius and Lysander both love Hermia, while Helena, in love with Demetrius, lacks a suitor. The fairy king and queen, Oberon and Titania, have become estranged, and Pyramus and Thisbe of the play-within-the-play are divided by parental animosity. Before the true lovers can be united, Shakespeare will reveal the odd metamorphoses, aptly symbolized by the transformation of Bottom into an ass, that love can work.
For love can, as readily as Puck, set an ass's head on anyone, or like a false light in the darkness waylay the unwary. Before the play ends Demetrius will pursue Hermia while Lysander seeks Helena, both men will woo Helena and flee from Hermia, and Titania will fall in love with a very odd-looking mortal. There is no logic to these shifts of fancy, for, as Lysander points out in the case of human lovers, the men are equal in birth and fortune, while Hermia and Helena differ only in height. In the typical Greek New Comedy (and its Roman counterparts) from which this play derives, a father wants to marry his child to a rich old suitor, while the child loves a poor, good-looking, young one. In such cases one can understand the motivation of each party. The parent seeks money, the son or daughter love. Here, however, Egeus behaves as arbitrarily as Helena or Demetrius, whimsically choosing one suitor over the other. Aptly, Theseus finally tells Egeus, "I will overbear your will." since it is mere willfulness that has prompted him to prefer Demetrius. As Titania's falling in love with the transmogrified Bottom reveals, under love's spell reason vanishes, and one behaves as if asleep.
Other images reinforce this message. Most of the action unfolds at night, when the rational world of daylight yields to dream. Just as Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet equates love with the enchantment of Queen Mab, so here the spells of Puck and Oberon. relying of drops squeezed into sleepers' eyes, highlight love's blindness. As Helena remarks on the traditional iconography of Cupid,

Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:
And therefore is Love said to be a child.
Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.

The thick fogs that Puck raises to mislead the quarreling lovers in act 3 provide yet another objective correlative to the lovers' muddled state of mind. Over all shines that symbol of fickleness, mutability, and lunacy, the moon, which in this play changes even more rapidly than usual— now full, now dark, now new.
Hearing the strange account of the night's adventures, Theseus rejects the story with the comment that "the lunatic, the lover and the poet/ Are of imagination all compact." Certainly that view has some merit, but so has Hippolyta's; she sees that from these strange fancies emerges "something of great constancy." In Romeo and Juliet, Mercutio puns on the fact "that dreamers often lie," to which Romeo replies, "In bed asleep, while they do dream things true." Though Helena is right when she says, "Love looks not with the eyes," from this confusion and seeming blindness the proper couples emerge united, and the fairy masque at the play's conclusion mirrors the dance of life that results. Even the dead lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, revive, for in the comic world death holds no sway; the very "graves all gaping wide,/ Every one lets forth his sprite,/ In the church-way paths to glide." As Theseus' comment about the lunacy of lovers is a valid but partial view, so, too, is his association of poets and madness. In literature as in love, he is a realist who regards even the finest theater as "but shadows." For the rude mechanicals, on the other hand, these shadows are reality. Bottom and Starveling worry that the staged death of Pyramus will be too gruesome for the spectators. Snout is concerned lest the lion frighten the ladies, and Peter Quince will not let Bottom have that part because he would roar so fiercely that he "would fight the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all." Since their play calls for moonlight, the would-be actors consult an almanac to be sure that the moon will shine on the night of the performance. Such literal-mindedness seems as foolishly naive as Theseus' utter rejection of illusion and imagination, but both attitudes confront the audience with the question of what is reality. Bottom wonders whether he was turned into an ass, whether he has been the lover of the fairy queen, or whether all that was a dream. The spectators feel more certain; after all, they have seen the action unfold. Or have they? In his last speech, Puck dismisses all that has happened as a sleeper's vision. The play's very title embodies this ambiguity. Is it a midsummer night's dream or A Midsummer Night's Dream, something that exists apart from the spectator's imagination or not? Theseus, that arch-rejecter of illusion, is himself the product of the poet's brain. And what of the spectators of the spectators of Peter Quince's play? Already in this early comedy Shakespeare suggests the view that Prospero will express in The Tempest (1611) when he rejects any distinction between fact and fancy: "We are such stuff/ As dreams are made on, and our little life/ Is rounded with a sleep."
In Shakespeare's capacious soul, and in the plays that emanate from it, contraries coexist. The title of the mechanicals' play, "The Most Lamentable Comedy, and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe," is but another indication of life's, and art's, motley web. Yet from such contradictions of comedy and tragedy, dream and reality, emerges something of great constancy, at once an entertainment and a view of life as a midsummer night's dream.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic comedy
Time of plot: Thirteenth century
Locale: Italy
First presented: 1598


Much Ado About Nothing focuses on two love affairs, the rivalry between the reluctant Beatrice and the confirmed bachelor Benedick, and the more serious courtship between Hero and Claudio. The former is one of the wittiest romantic conflicts in dramatic literature; the latter narrowly avoids catastrophe by means of a necessary, if contrived, manipulation of the plot to achieve a happy ending.


Principal Characters

Don Pedro (pa'dro, pe'dro), Prince of Aragon. A victorious leader, he has respect and affection for his follower Claudio, for whom he asks the hand of Hero. Deceived like Claudio into thinking Hero false, he angrily shares in the painful repudiation of her at the altar. On learning of her innocence, he is deeply penitent.
Don John, the bastard brother of Don Pedro. A malcontent and a defeated rebel, he broods on possible revenge and decides to strike Don Pedro through his favorite, Claudio. He arranges to have Don Pedro and Claudio witness what they think is a love scene between Hero and Borachio. When his evil plot is exposed, he shows his guilt by flight. All in all, he is a rather ineffectual villain, though his plot almost has tragic consequences.
Claudio (klo'dl-б), a young lord of Florence. A conventional hero of the sort no longer appealing to theater audiences, he behaves in an unforgivable manner to Hero when he thinks she is faithless; however, she—and apparently the Elizabethan audience—forgives him. He is properly repentant when he learns of her innocence, and he is rewarded by being allowed to marry her.
Benedick (Ьёп'э-dik), a witty young woman-hater. A voluble and attractive young man, he steals the leading role from Claudio. He spends much of his time exchanging sharp remarks with Beatrice. After being tricked by the Prince and Claudio into believing that Beatrice is in love with him, he becomes devoted to her. After Clau-dio's rejection of Hero, Benedick challenges him; but the duel never takes place. His witty encounters with Beatrice end in marriage.
Hero (he'ro), the daughter of Leonato. A pure and gentle girl, extremely sensitive, she is stunned by the false accusation delivered against her and by Claudio's harsh repudiation of her in the church. Her swooning is reported by Leonato as death. Her character contains humor and generosity. She forgives Claudio when he repents.
Beatrice (Ьё'э-tris), Hero's cousin. Although sprightly and witty, she has a serious side. Her loyal devotion to Hero permits no doubt of her cousin to enter her mind; she turns to her former antagonist, Benedick, for help when Hero is slandered and insists that he kill his friend Claudio. When all is clear and forgiven, she agrees to marry Benedick, but with the face-saving declaration that she does so for pity only.
Leonato (le-o-na'to), Governor of Messina, father of Hero. A good old man, he welcomes Claudio as a prospective son-in-law. He is shocked by the devastating treatment of his daughter at her wedding. Deeply angry with the Prince and Claudio, he at first considers trying to kill them but later consents to Friar Francis' plan to humble them. When Hero is vindicated, he forgives them and allows the delayed marriage to take place.
Conrade (kon'rad), a tale-bearing, unpleasant follower of Don John.
Borachio (bo-ra'ke-6), another of Don John's followers. He is responsible for the idea of rousing Claudio's jealousy by making him think Hero has received a lover at her bedroom window. He persuades Margaret to wear Hero's gown and pretend to be Hero. His telling Conrade of his exploit is overheard by the watch and leads to the vindication of Hero. Borachio is much disgruntled at being overreached by the stupid members of the watch; however, he confesses and clears Margaret of any willful complicity in his plot.
Friar Francis, a kindly, scheming cleric. He recommends that Hero pretend to be dead. His plan is successful in bringing about the repentance of Don Pedro and Claudio and in preparing the way for the happy ending.
Dogberry, a self-important constable. Pompous, verbose, and prone to solecisms, he fails to communicate properly with Leonato; hence he does not prevent Hero's humiliation, though his watchmen have already uncovered the villains.
Verges (ver'jes), a headborough. An elderly, bumbling man and a great admirer of his superior, the constable, he seconds the latter in all matters.
Margaret, the innocent betrayer of her mistress, Hero. She does not understand Borachio's plot and therefore is exonerated, escaping punishment.
Ursula (er'su-ls), a gentlewoman attending Hero. She is one of the plotters who trick the sharp-tongued Beatrice into falling in love with Benedick.
First Watchman and Second Watchman, plain, simple-minded men. Overhearing Borachio's boastful confession to Conrade, they apprehend both and bring them before the constable, thereby overthrowing clever malice and radically changing the course of events.
Antonio (an-to'm-o), Leonato's brother. He plays the role of father to Leonato's supposed niece (actually Hero), whom Claudio agrees to marry in place of his lost Hero.
Balthasar (bal'ths-zar), an attendant to Don Pedro.
A Sexton, who serves as recorder for Dogberry and the watch during the examination of Conrade and Borachio.


The Story

Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon, arrived in Messina accompanied by his bastard brother, Don John, and his two friends, Claudio and Benedick, young Italian noblemen. Don Pedro had been successful over his brother in battle. Reconciled, the brothers planned to visit Leonato before returning to their homeland. On their arrival in Messina, young Claudio was immediately smitten by the lovely Hero, daughter of Leonato. In order to help his faithful young friend in his suit, Don Pedro assumed the guise of Claudio at a masked ball and wooed Hero in Claudio's name. Thus he gained Leonato's consent for Claudio and Hero to marry. The bastard Don John tried to cause trouble by persuading Claudio that Don Pedro meant to betray him and keep Hero for himself, but the villain was foiled in his plot and Claudio remained faithful to Don Pedro.
Benedick, the other young follower of Don Pedro, was a confirmed and bitter bachelor who scorned all men willing to enter the married state. No less opposed to men and matrimony was Leonato's niece, Beatrice. These two were at each other constantly, each one trying to gain supremacy by insulting the other. Don Pedro, with the help of Hero, Claudio, and Leonato, undertook the seemingly impossible task of bringing Benedick and Beatrice together in matrimony in the seven days remaining before the marriage of Hero and Claudio.
Don John, thwarted in his first attempt to cause disharmony, now formed another plot. With the help of a servingman, he arranged to make it appear that Hero was unfaithful to Claudio. The servingman was to gain entrance to Hero's chambers when she was away. In her place would be her attendant, assuming Hero's clothes. Don John, posing as Claudio's true friend, would inform him of her unfaithfulness and lead him to Hero's window to witness her wanton disloyalty.
In the meantime Don Pedro carried out his plan to get Benedick and Beatrice to stop quarreling and fall in love with each other. When Benedick was close by, thinking himself unseen, Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato would talk of their great sympathy for Beatrice, who loved Benedick but was unloved by him. To each other, the three told sorrowful tales of the love letters Beatrice wrote to Benedick and then tore up. Sadly they said that Beatrice beat her breast and sobbed over her unrequited love for Benedick. Meanwhile Hero and her servingwoman would, when Beatrice was nearby but thought herself unseen, tell tales of poor Benedick, who pined and sighed for the heartless Beatrice. Thus both the unsuspecting young people decided not to let the other suffer. Each would sacrifice principles and accept the other's love.
As Benedick and Beatrice were ready to admit their love for each other, Don John was successful in his base plot to ruin Hero. He told Claudio that he had learned of Hero's duplicity and he arranged to take him and Don Pedro to her window that very night, when they might witness her unfaithfulness. Dogberry, a constable, and the watch apprehended Don John's followers and overheard the truth of the plot, but in their stupidity the petty officials could not get their story told in time to prevent Hero's disgrace. Although Don Pedro and Claudio did indeed witness the feigned betrayal, Claudio determined to let her get to the church on the next day still thinking herself beloved. There, instead of marrying her, he would shame her before all the wedding guests.
All happened as Don John had hoped. Before the priest and all the guests Claudio called Hero a wanton and forswore her love for all time. The poor girl protested her innocence, but to no avail. Claudio said that he had seen with his own eyes her foul act. Then Hero swooned and lay as if dead. Claudio and Don Pedro left her thus with Leonato, who also believed the story and wished his daughter really dead in her shame. But the priest, believing the girl guiltless, persuaded Leonato to believe in her too. The priest told Leonato to let the world believe Hero dead while they worked to prove her innocent. Benedick, also believing in her innocence, promised to help unravel the mystery. Then Beatrice told Benedick of her love for him and asked him to kill Claudio and so prove his love for her. Benedick challenged Claudio to a duel. Don John fled the country after the successful outcome of his plot, but Benedick swore that he would find Don John and kill him as well as Claudio.
At last Dogberry and the watch got to Leonato and told their story. Claudio and Don Pedro heard it also, and Claudio wanted to die and to be with his wronged Hero. Leonato allowed the two sorrowful men to continue to think Hero dead. In fact, they all attended her funeral. Leonato said that he would be avenged if Claudio would marry his niece, a girl who much resembled Hero. Although Claudio still loved the dead Hero, he agreed to marry the other girl in order to let Leonato have the favor he had so much right to ask.
When Don Pedro and Claudio arrived at Leonato's house for the ceremony, Leonato had all the ladies masked. He brought forth one of them and told Claudio that she was to be his wife. After Claudio promised to be her husband, the girl unmasked. She was, of course, Hero. At first Claudio could not believe his senses, but after he was convinced of the truth he took her to the church immediately. Then Benedick and Beatrice finally declared their true love for each other. They too went to the church after a dance in celebration of the double nuptials to be performed. Best of all, word came that Don John had been captured and was being brought back to Messina to face his brother, Don Pedro. But his punishment must wait the morrow. Tonight all would be joy and happiness.


Critical Evaluation

Much Ado About Nothing has in fact very much to do with "noting" (an intended pun on "nothing") or with half seeing, with perceiving dimly or not at all. Out of all the misperceptions arises the comedy of Shakespeare's drama. Indeed if it can be said that one theme preoccupies Shakespeare more than any other it is that of perception. It informs not only his great histories and tragedies but his comedies as well. For example, an early history such as Richard II, which also involves tragic elements, proceeds not only from the title character's inability to function as a king but also from his failure to apprehend the nature of the new politics. Both Othello and King Lear are perfect representatives of the tragic consequences of the inability to see. Hindered by their egos they act in their own small worlds, oblivious to the reality that demands recognition. When they fail to take the real into account, whether it is the nature of evil or their own limitation, they must pay the full cost—their lives.
Although in Much Ado About Nothing the blindness of Leonato, Don Pedro, Claudio and Benedick very nearly results in tragedy, it is the comic implications that emerge from mere noting rather than clear seeing which Shakespeare is concerned with. Yet if his mode is comic, his intention is serious. Besides the characters' inability to perceive Don John's obvious villainy, their superficial grasp of love, their failure to understand the nature of courtship and marriage, reveal their moral stupidity. Going further we see that the whole society is filled with a kind of civilized shallowness. The play begins as an unspecified war ends, and immediately we are struck by Leonato's and the messenger's lack of response to the casualty report. To the governor of Messina's question "How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?" the messenger replies "But few of any sort, and none of name." Leonato comments that "A victory is twice itself, when the achiever brings home full numbers." The heroes of the war, Don Pedro, Claudio, and Benedick, return in high spirits and good humor, seemingly untouched by their experiences, seeking comfort, games, and diversion.
Only Beatrice is unimpressed by the soldiers' grand entrance, for she knows what they are. Between their "noble" actions, they, like Benedick, are no more than seducers, "valiant trencher" men, or gluttons and leeches. Or like Claudio they are vain young boys ready to fall in love on a whim. Even the stately Don Pedro is a fool who proposes to Beatrice on impulse after he has wooed the childish Hero for the inarticulate Claudio. After witnessing their behavior we look back to Beatrice's initial cynicism—"I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me"—and applaud it as wisdom.
Yet at last, Beatrice is as susceptible to flattery as Benedick. Like her eventual lover and husband, she is seduced by Don Pedro's deception, the masque he arranges to lead both Beatrice and Benedick to the altar. Both of them, after hearing that they are adored by the other, pledge their love and devotion. To be sure the scenes in which they are duped are full of innocent humor; but the comedy must not lead us astray of Shakespeare's rather bitter observations on the foppery of human love—or at least courtship as it is pursued in Messina.
Nor is their foppery and foolishness the end of the matter. Don John realizes that a vain lover betrayed is a cruel and indeed inhuman tyrant. With little effort he convinces Claudio and Don Pedro that the innocent Hero is no more than a common jade. Yet rather than break off the engagement in private, they wait until all meet at the altar to accuse the girl of "savage sensuality." Without compunction they leave her in a swoon believing her dead. Even the father, Leonato, would have her dead rather than shamed. It is at this moment that the witty and sophisticated aristocrats of Messina are revealed as grossly hypocritical, for beneath their glittering and refined manners lies a moronic and vicious ethic.
In vivid contrast to the decorous soldiers and politicians are Dogberry and his watchmen, who function— we are well reminded—as more than a slapstick diversion. Hilarious clowns as they attempt to ape their social betters in manner and speech, they are yet possessed by a common sense or—as one critic has observed—by an instinctual morality that enable them immediately to uncover the villainy of Don John's henchmen, Conrade and Borachio. As the latter says to the nobleman, Don Pedro, "I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light." Like the outspoken and bawdy Margaret, who knows that underlying the aristocrats' courtly manners in the game of love is an unacknowledged lust, Dogberry and his bumbling followers get immediately to the issue and recognize villainy—even if they use the wrong words to describe it.
Still, Shakespeare does not force the point to any great conclusion. After all, we are not dealing here with characters of monumental stature; certainly they cannot bear revelations of substantial moral consequence. If they show compunction for their errors, they exhibit no significant remorse and are quite ready to get on with the rituals of their class. It finally does not seem to matter to Claudio that he marries Hero or someone who looks very much like her. And even Beatrice has apparently, once and for all, lost her maverick edge and joins the strutting Benedick in the marriage dance. At least all ends well for those involved, if through no very great fault of their own—for everyone, that is, except Don John; and one suspects he should be concerned, for Benedick promises "brave punishments." If our illustrious heroes can be cruel to a young virgin, what can a real villain hope for?





Туре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: Early sixteenth century
Locale: Venice and Cyprus
First presented: 1604


The Tragedy of Othello: The Moor of Venice is concerned with the nature of good and evil and the struggle between the two forces in the human soul. Alone of the four great tragedies, this play is weakly motivated in the sense that the obsessive hatred of the villain lago, perhaps the most sadistic and consummately evil character in any literature, is not sufficiently explained by his having been passed over for a promotion in Othello's army. Despite its tragic ending, Othello displays some optimism in its depiction of the triumph of love over hate and of the love of one woman for another, which is instrumental in bringing the villain to poetic justice.


Principal Characters

Othello (6-шёГб), a Moorish general in the service of Venice. A romantic and heroic warrior with a frank and honest nature, he has a weakness which makes him vulnerable to Iago's diabolic temptation. He becomes furiously jealous of his innocent wife and his loyal lieutenant. His judgment decays, and he connives with lago to have his lieutenant murdered. Finally he decides to execute his wife with his own hands. After killing her, he learns of her innocence, and he judges and executes himself.
lago (ё-a'go), Othello's ancient (ensign). A satirical malcontent, he is envious of the appointment of Michael Cassio to the position of Othello's lieutenant. He at least pretends to suspect his wife Emilia of having an illicit affair with the Moor. A demi-devil, as Othello calls him, he destroys Othello, Desdemona, Roderigo, his own wife, and himself. He is Shakespeare's most consummate villain, perhaps sketched in Aaron the Moor in Titus Andronicus, Richard of Gloucester in Henry VI and Richard III, and Don John in Much Ado about Nothing; and he is echoed in Edmund in King Lear and Iachimo in Cymbeline. He contains strong elements of the Devil and the Vice in the medieval morality plays.
Desdemona (dez-de-то'пэ), daughter of Brabantio and wife of Othello. An idealistic, romantic girl, she gives her love completely to her warrior husband. In her fear and shock at his violent behavior, she lies to him about her lost handkerchief, thus convincing him of her guilt. Even when she is dying, she tries to protect him from her kinsmen. One scholar has called her a touchstone in the play; each character can be judged by his attitude toward her.
Emilia (ё-тП'1-э), Iago's plainspoken wife. Intensely loyal to her mistress, Desdemona, she is certain that some malicious villain has belied her to the Moor. She does not suspect that her husband is that villain until too late to save her mistress. She is unwittingly the cause of Desdemona 's death; when she finds the lost handkerchief and gives it to lago, he uses it to inflame the Moor's insane jealousy. Emilia grows in stature throughout the play and reaches tragic dignity when she refuses to remain silent about Iago's villainy, even though her speaking the truth costs her her life. Her dying words, clearing Desdemona of infidelity, drive Othello to his self-inflicted death.
Michael Cassio (kas'1-б), Othello's lieutenant. Devoted to his commander and Desdemona, he is impervious to Iago's temptations where either is concerned. He is, however, given to loose living, and his behavior when discussing Bianca with lago fires Othello's suspicions, after lago has made Othello believe they are discussing Desdemona. Cassio's drinking on duty and becoming involved in a brawl lead to his replacement by lago. He escapes the plot of lago and Othello to murder him, and he succeeds Othello as Governor of Cyprus.
Brabantio (braban'shl-б), a Venetian senator. Infuriated by his daughter's elopement with the Moor, he appeals to the senate to recover her. Losing his appeal, he publicly casts her off and warns Othello that a daughter who deceives her father may well be a wife who deceives her husband. This warning plants a small seed of uncertainty in Othello's heart, which lago waters diligently. Brabantio dies brokenhearted at losing Desdemona and does not learn of her horrible death.
Roderigo (rodare'go), a young Venetian suitor of Desdemona. The gullible victim of lago, who promises him Desdemona's person, he aids in bringing about the catastrophe and earns a well-deserved violent death, ironically inflicted by lago, whose cat's-paw he is. The degradation of Roderigo is in striking contrast to the growth of Cassio. lago, who makes use of Roderigo, has profound contempt for him.
Bianca (be-ап'кэ), a courtesan in Cyprus. Cassio gives her Desdemona's handkerchief, which Iago has planted in his chambers. She thus serves doubly in rousing Othello's fury.
Montano (mon-ta'no), former Governor of Cyprus. He and Cassio quarrel in their cups (by Iago's machinations), and Montano is seriously wounded. This event causes Cassio's removal. Montano recovers and aids in apprehending Iago when his villainy is revealed.
Gratiano (gra-shi-a'no, gra-tya'no), the brother of Brabantio. He and Lodovico come to Cyprus from Venice and aid in restoring order and destroying Iago.
Lodovico (lo-do-ve'ko), a kinsman of Brabantio. As the man of most authority from Venice, he ends the play after appointing Cassio Governor of Cyprus to succeed the Othello.
The Clown, a servant of Othello. Among Shakespeare's clowns he has perhaps the weakest and briefest role.


The Story

Iago, an ensign serving under Othello, Moorish commander of the armed forces of Venice, was passed over in promotion, Othello having chosen Cassio to be his chief of staff. In revenge, Iago and his follower, Rode-rigo, aroused from his sleep Brabantio, senator of Venice, to tell him that his daughter Desdemona had stolen away and married Othello. Brabantio, incensed that his daughter would marry a Moor, led his serving-men to Othello's quarters.
Meanwhile, the Duke of Venice had learned that armed Turkish galleys were preparing to attack the island of Cyprus, and in this emergency he had summoned Othello to the senate chambers. Brabantio and Othello met in the streets, but postponed any violence in the national interest. Othello, upon arriving at the senate, was commanded by the duke to lead the Venetian forces to Cyprus. Then Brabantio told the duke that Othello had beguiled his daughter into marriage without her father's consent. When Brabantio asked the duke for redress, Othello vigorously defended his honor and reputation, and he was seconded by Desdemona, who appeared during the proceedings. Othello, cleared of all suspicion, prepared to sail for Cyprus immediately. For the moment, he placed Desdemona in the care of Iago, with Iago's wife, Emilia, to be attendant upon her during the voyage to Cyprus.
A great storm destroyed the Turkish fleet and scattered the Venetians. One by one the ships under Othello's command put in to Cyprus until all were safely ashore and Othello and Desdemona were once again united. Still vowing revenge, Iago told Roderigo that Desdemona was in love with Cassio. Roderigo, himself in love with Desdemona, was promised all of his desires by Iago if he would engage Cassio, who did not know him, in a personal brawl while Cassio was officer of the guard.
Othello declared the night dedicated to celebrating the destruction of the enemy, but he cautioned Cassio to keep a careful watch on Venetian troops in the city. Iago talked Cassio into drinking too much, so that when the lieutenant was provoked later by Roderigo, Cassio lost control of himself and engaged Roderigo. Cries of riot and mutiny spread through the streets. Othello, aroused by the commotion, demoted Cassio for permitting a fight to start. Cassio, his reputation all but ruined, welcomed Iago's promise to secure Desdemona's goodwill and through her have Othello restore Cassio's rank.
Cassio impatiently importuned Iago to arrange a meeting between him and Desdemona. While Cassio and Desdemona were talking, Iago brought Othello into view of the pair and spoke vague innuendoes to his commander. Afterward Iago would, from time to time, ask questions of Othello in such manner that he led Othello to believe that there may have been some intimacy between Cassio and Desdemona before Desdemona had married him. These seeds of jealousy having been sown, Othello began to doubt the honesty of his wife.
When Othello complained to Desdemona of a headache, she offered to bind his head with the handkerchief which had been Othello's first gift to her. She dropped the handkerchief, inadvertently, and Emilia picked it up. Iago, seeing an opportunity to further his scheme, took the handkerchief from his wife and hid it later in Cassio's room. When Othello asked Iago for proof that Desdemona was untrue to him, threatening his life if he could not produce any evidence, Iago said that he had slept in Cassio's room and had heard Cassio speak sweet words in his sleep to Desdemona. He reminded Othello of the handkerchief and said that he had seen Cassio wipe his beard that day with the very handkerchief. Othello, completely overcome by passion, vowed revenge. He ordered Iago to kill Cassio, and he appointed the ensign his new lieutenant.
Othello asked Desdemona to account for the loss of the handkerchief, but she was unable to explain its disappearance. She was mystified by Othello's shortness of speech and his dark moods.
Iago continued to work his treachery on Othello to the extent that the Moor fell into fits resembling epilepsy. He goaded Othello by every possible means into mad rages of jealousy. In the presence of an envoy from Venice, Othello struck Desdemona, to the consternation of all except Iago. Emilia swore to the honesty of her mistress, but Othello, in his madness, could no longer believe anything good of Desdemona, and he reviled and insulted her with harsh words.
One night Othello ordered Desdemona to dismiss her attendant and to go to bed immediately. That same night Iago persuaded Roderigo to waylay Cassio. When Rode-rigo was wounded by Cassio, Iago, who had been standing nearby, stabbed Cassio. In the scuffle Iago stabbed Roderigo to death as well, so as to be rid of his dupe. Then a strumpet friend of Cassio came upon the scene of the killing and revealed to the assembled crowd her relationship with Cassio. Although Cassio was not dead, Iago hoped to use this woman to defame Cassio beyond all hope of regaining his former reputation. Pretending friendship, he assisted the wounded Cassio to return to Othello's house. They were accompanied by Venetian noblemen who had gathered after the fight.
Othello, meanwhile, entered his wife's bedchamber and smothered her, after telling her, mistakenly, that Cassio had confessed his love for her and had been killed. Then Emilia entered the bedchamber and reported that Roderigo had been killed, but not Cassio. This information was made doubly bitter for Othello his murder of his wife. Othello told Emilia that he had learned of Des-demona's guilt from Iago. Emilia could not believe that Iago had made such charges.
When Iago and other Venetians arrived at Othello's house, Emilio asked Iago to refute Othello's statement. Then the great wickedness of Iago came to light and Othello learned how the handkerchief had come into Cas-sio's possession. When Emilia gave further proof of her husband's villainy, Iago stabbed her. Othello lunged at Iago and managed to wound him before the Venetian gentlemen could seize the Moor. Emilia died, still protesting the innocence of Desdemona. Mad with grief, Othello plunged a dagger into his own heart. The Venetian envoy promised that Iago would be tortured to death at the hand of the governor-general of Cyprus.


Critical Evaluation

Although Othello has frequently been praised as Shakespeare's most unified tragedy, uncluttered with subplots, many critics have found the central character to be the most unheroic of Shakespeare's heroes. Some have found him stupid beyond redemption; others have described him as a passionate being overwhelmed by powerful emotion; still others have found him self-pitying and insensitive to the enormity of his actions. But all of these denigrations pale before the excitement and sympathy generated in the action of the play for the noble Moor.
Othello is an exotic. It is unlikely that Shakespeare would have cared whether or not Othello was black. More to the point is the fact that he is a foreigner from a fascinating and mysterious land. Certainly he is a passionate man, but he is not devoid of sensitivity. Rather, his problem is that he is thrust into the sophisticated and highly cultivated context of Renaissance Italy, a land which had a reputation in Shakespeare's England for connivance and intrigue. If anything, Othello is natural man confronted with the machinations and contrivances of a super-civilized society. His instincts are to be loving and trusting, but he is cast into a society where these natural virtues make one extremely vulnerable
The prime source of that vulnerability is personified in the figure of Iago, perhaps Shakespeare's consummate villain. Iago is so evil, by nature, that he does not even need any motivation for his antagonism toward Othello. He has been passed over for promotion, but that is clearly a pretext for a malignant nature whose hatred for Othello needs no specific grounds. It is Othello, with his candor, his openness, his spontaneous and generous love, that Iago finds offensive. His suggestion that Othello has seduced his wife is an even flimsier fabrication to cover the essential corruption of his nature.
Iago sees other human beings only as victims or tools. He is the classic Renaissance atheist—an intelligent man, beyond moral scruple, who finds pleasure in the corruption of the virtuous and the abuse of the pliable. That he brings himself into danger is of no consequence, because, relying on wit, he believes that all can be duped and destroyed—and there is no further purpose to his life. For such a manipulator, Othello, a good man out of his cultural element, is the perfect target.
More so than in any other Shakespearean play, one character, Iago, is the stage manager of the whole action. Once he sets out to destroy Othello, he proceeds by plot and by innuendo to achieve his goal. He tells others just what he wishes them to know, sets one character against another, and develops an elaborate web of circumstantial evidence to dupe the vulnerable Moor. Edgar Stoll has argued that the extraordinary success of Iago in convincing other characters of his fabrications is simply a matter of the conventional ability of the Renaissance villain. Yet, there is more to the conflict than Iago's abilities, conventional or natural, for Othello is his perfect prey.
Othello bases his opinions and his human relationships on intuition rather than reason. His courtship with Desdemona is brief and his devotion absolute. His trust of his comrades, including Iago, is complete. It is not simply that Iago is universally believed. Ironically, he is able to fool everyone about everything except on the subject of Desdemona's chastity. On that subject it is only Othello that he is able to deceive. Roderigo, Cassio, and Emilia all reject Iago's allegations that Desdemona has been unfaithful. Only Othello is deceived, and he because Iago is able to make him play the game with unfamiliar rules.
Iago entices Othello to use Venetian criteria of truth rather than the intuition on which he should rely. Iago plants doubts in Othello's mind, but his decisive success comes when he gets Othello to demand "ocular proof." Although it seems that Othello is demanding conclusive evidence before jumping to the conclusion that his wife has been unfaithful, it is more important that he has accepted Iago's idea of concrete evidence. From that point on, it is easy for Iago to falsify evidence and create appearances that will lead to erroneous judgments. To be fair, Othello does not easily allow his jealousy to overpower his better judgment. Certainly, he gives vent to violent emotions in his rantings and his fits, but these are the result of his acceptance of what seems indisputable proof, documentary evidence. It takes a long time, and many falsifications, before Othello finally abandons his intuitive perception of the truth of his domestic situation. As Othello himself recognizes, he is not quick to anger, but, once angered, his natural passion takes over. Iago's contrivances eventually loose that force.
The crime that Othello commits is made to appear all the more heinous because of the extreme loyalty of his wife. It is not that she is an innocent. Her conversation reflects that she is a sophisticate, but there is no question of her total fidelity to her husband. The moral horror of the murder is intensified by the contrast between our perception of the extreme virtue of the victim with Othello's perception of himself as an instrument of justice. His chilling conviction reminds us of the essential probity of a man deranged by confrontation with an evil he cannot comprehend.
Some critics, such as T. S. Eliot, have argued that Othello never comes to an understanding of the gravity of his crime—that he realizes his error, but consoles himself in his final speech with cheering reminders of his own virtue. But that does not seem consistent with the valiant and honest military character who has thus far been depicted. Othello may have been grossly deceived, and he may be responsible for not clinging to the truth of his mutual love with Desemona, but, in his final speech, he does seem to face up to his error with the same passion that had followed his earlier misconception. As he had believed that his murder of Desdemona was divine retribution, he believes that his suicide is a just act. His passionate nature believes it is meting out justice for the earlier transgression. We are promised that Iago will be tortured unto death, but Shakespeare dismisses Iago's punishment in order to focus on Othello's final act of expiation.




Тyре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Historical tragedy
Time of plot: Fourteenth century
Locale: England
First presented: с 1595


Richard II is profound both as a political vision and as a personal tragedy. Richard is an inept king—erratic, willful, arrogant, susceptible to flattery, blind to good advice—but a sensitive, deeply moving poet. The play demonstrates the inevitable result of his bad qualities (his dethroning by Bolingbroke), yet also reveals his growth as a human being. Richard II contains some of Shakespeare's most beautiful and moving verse.


Principal Characters

King Richard II, a self-indulgent and irresponsible ruler. He neglects the welfare of his country and brings on his own downfall. He is insolent in his treatment of his dying uncle, John of Gaunt, and greedy in his seizure of the property of his banished cousin, Henry Bolingbroke. To his lovely young queen he gives sentimental devotion. Being forced to give up the crown, he wallows in poetic self-pity, playing with his sorrow and theatrically portraying himself as a Christ-figure. But he dies well.
Henry Bolingbroke (bol'nv brook), duke of Hereford (afterward King Henry IV), the son of John of Gaunt. Able and ambitious, roused to anger by Richard's injustice and ineptitude, he forces the latter to abdicate. Although as king he desires the death of his deposed and imprisoned cousin, he laments the death and banishes the murderer permanently from his presence.
John of Gaunt (gant, g6nt), duke of Lancaster, the uncle of King Richard. Grieved by the banishment of his son and his country's decline, he delivers a beautiful and impassioned praise of England and a lament for its degradation under Richard. Angered by Richard's insulting behavior, he dies delivering a curse on the young king which is later carried out.
Edmund of Langley, duke of York, uncle of the king. Eager to do right and imbued with patriotism and loyalty, he is torn and troubled by the behavior of Richard as king and Bolingbroke as rebel. As Protector of the Realm in Richard's absence, he is helpless before Bolingbroke's power and yields to him. He bestows his loyalty on Bolingbroke when he becomes King Henry IV.
Queen to King Richard, a gentle, loving wife. Grief-stricken, she angrily wishes that her gardener, from whom she hears the news of Richard's downfall, may henceforth labor in vain. She shares with the king a tender and sorrowful parting.
The Gardener, a truly Shakespearean creation, unlike any character in Marlowe's Edward the Second, source of much in Shakespeare's play. A homely philosopher, he comments on the king's faults and his downfall and is overheard by the queen. Tenderly sympathetic, he wishes the queen's curse on his green thumb might be carried out if it could give her any comfort; however, confident that it will not be, he memorializes her sorrow by planting flowers where her tears fell.
The Duke of Aumerle (6-тёгГ), son of the duke of York. One of Richard's favorites, scornful of Bolingbroke, he is accused of complicity in the murder of the Duke of Gloucester. His father discovers a document linking him to a plot to assassinate King Henry IV. Aumerle outrides his father to King Henry and gains promise of pardon, which is confirmed after the duchess pleads for her son.
The Duchess of York, the indulgent mother of Aumerle. She is frantic at her husband's determination to report their son's treason, and she pleads to King Henry on her knees.
Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk, an enemy of Bolingbroke. Accused of plotting the Duke of Gloucester's death, he and Bolingbroke are prepared for combat in the lists when Richard breaks off the combat and banishes both. Mowbray dies in exile.
The Duchess of Gloucester, widow of the murdered duke. She pleads with John of Gaunt to avenge his dead brother and prays that Bolingbroke may destroy Mowbray as part of the revenge. York receives news of her death.
Bushy and Green, unpopular favorites of King Richard. They are captured and executed by Bolingbroke's followers.
Bagot (bag'at), another of the king's unpopular favorites. At his trial before Bolingbroke, he declares Aumerle guilty of having Gloucester murdered.
The Earl of Northumberland, a strong supporter of Bolingbroke. He aids in the overthrow of Richard.
Henry Percy (Hotspur), the son of Northumberland.
At Bagot's trial he challenges Aumerle to combat, but nothing comes of it.
The Lord Marshall, who officiates at the abortive duel of Mowbray and Bolingbroke.
The Bishop of Carlisle, a supporter of King Richard. Objecting to Bolingbroke's seizure of the crown, he is accused of treason and banished.
The Abbot of Westminster, a conspirator against King Henry IV. He dies before he can be tried.
Sir Stephen Scroop, a loyal follower of King Richard. He brings unwelcome tidings of Bolingbroke's success to the king.
A Keeper, King Richard's jailer, who angers the king and is beaten by him.
A Groom, a devoted servant of King Richard who visits the deposed monarch in prison.
The Earl of Salisbury, a follower of Richard executed by Northumberland.
The Duke of Surrey, a Yorkist and a friend of Aumerle.
Lord Berkeley, a follower of the Duke of York.
Lord Fitzwater, Lord Ross, and Lord Willoughby, supporters of Bolingbroke.
Sir Pierce of Exton, a savage and ambitious knight. He kills King Richard in hope of a splendid career under King Henry IV, but is disappointed, cast off, and banished by the king.


The Story

During the reign of Richard П, two young dukes, Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas Mowbray, quarreled bitterly; and in the end the king summoned them into his presence to settle their differences publicly. Although Bolingbroke was the oldest son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and therefore a cousin of the king, Richard was perfectly fair in his interview with the two men and showed neither any favoritism.
Bolingbroke accused Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, of mismanaging military funds and of helping to plot the murder of the dead Duke of Gloucester, another of the king's uncles. All these charges Mowbray forcefully denied. At last Richard decided that to settle the dispute the men should have a trial by combat at Coventry, and the court adjourned there to witness the tournament.
Richard, ever nervous and suspicious, grew uneasy as the contest began. Suddenly, just after the beginning trumpet sounded, the king declared that the combat should not take place. Instead, calling the two men to him, he banished them from the country. Bolingbroke was to be exiled for six years and Mowbray for the rest of his life. At the same time Richard exacted promises from them that they would never plot against him. Still persistent in his accusations, Bolingbroke tried to persuade Mowbray to plead guilty, before he left England, to the charges against him. Mowbray, refusing to do so, warned Richard against the cleverness of Bolingbroke.
Not long after his son had been banished, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, became ill and sent for Richard to give him his dying advice. Although the Duke of York pointed out that giving advice to Richard was too often a waste of time, John of Gaunt felt that perhaps a dying man would be heeded while a living one would not. From his deathbed he criticized Richard's extravagance, for the mishandling of public funds had almost impoverished the nation. John of Gaunt warned Richard also that the kingdom would suffer for his selfishness.
Richard paid no attention to his uncle's advice. After the death of John of Gaunt, the king seized his lands and wealth to use for capital in backing his Irish wars. His uncle, the aged Duke of York, attempted to dissuade the king from these moves because of Bolingbroke's anger and influence among the people. York's fears were soon confirmed. Bolingbroke, hearing that his father's lands had been seized by the king's officers, used the information as an excuse to terminate his period of banishment. Gathering about him troops and supplies, he landed in the north of England. There other unruly lords, the Earl of Northumberland and his son, Henry Percy (known as Hotspur) Lord Ross, and Lord Willoughby joined him.
Richard, heedless of all warnings, had set off for Ireland to pursue his foreign war. He left his tottering kingdom in the hands of the weak Duke of York, who was no match for the wily Bolingbroke. When the exiled traitor reached Gloucestershire, the Duke of York visited him at his camp. Caught between loyalty to Richard and his despair over the bankrupt state of the country, York finally yielded his troops to Bolingbroke. Richard, returning to England and expecting to find an army of Welshmen under his command, learned that they, after hearing false reports of his death, had gone over to Bolingbroke. Moreover, the strong men of his court, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, and Green, had all been executed.
Destitute of friends and without an army, the sorrowing Richard took refuge in Flint Castle, where Bolingbroke went pretending to pay homage to the king. Making his usurped titles and estates his excuse, Bolingbroke took Richard prisoner and carried him to London. There Richard broke completely, showing little interest in anything, philosophizing constantly on his own downfall. Brought before Bolingbroke and the cruel and unfeeling Earl of Northumberland, Richard was forced to abdicate his throne and sign papers confessing his political crimes. Bolingbroke, assuming royal authority, ordered Richard imprisoned in the Tower of London.
During a quarrel among the young dukes of the court, the Bishop of Carlisle announced that Mowbray had made a name for himself while fighting in the Holy Land, had then retired to Venice, and had died there. When Bol-ingbroke affected great concern over that news, the Bishop of Carlisle turned on him and denounced him for his part in depriving Richard of the throne. Nevertheless, Bol-ingbroke, armed with numerous legal documents he had collected to prove his rights, ascended the throne. Richard predicted to the Earl of Northumberland that Bolingbroke would soon distrust his old aide because the nobleman had practice in unseating a king. Soon afterward Richard was sent to the dungeons at Pomfret Castle and his queen was banished to France.
At the Duke of York's palace the aging duke sorrowfully related to his duchess the details of the coronation procession of Henry IV. When the duke discovered, however, that his son Aumerle and other loyal followers of Richard were planning to assassinate Henry IV at Oxford, York immediately started for the palace to warn the new monarch. The duchess, frantic because of her son's danger, advised him to reach the palace ahead of his father, reveal his treachery to the king, and ask the royal pardon.
She herself finally pleaded for her son before the king and won Aumerle's release.
Having punished the conspirators, Henry IV grew uneasy at the prospect of other treasonable activities, for while Richard lived there was always danger that he might be restored to power. Henry IV, plotting the death of the deposed monarch, suggested casually to Sir Pierce Exton, a faithful servant and courtier, that he murder Richard at Pomfret.
There in his dungeon Richard quarreled with his keeper, according to Exton's plan, and in the struggle that ensued the knight drew his sword and struck down his unhappy prisoner. He then placed Richard's body in a coffin, carried it to Windsor Castle, and there presented it to Henry IV. Distressed over the news of mounting insurrection in the country, King Henry pretended innocence of the murder of Richard and vowed to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to atone for the death of his fallen cousin.


Critical Evaluation

Part of Shakespeare's second tetralogy of historical plays (with 1-2 Henry IV and Henry V), Richard II is also his second experiment in the de casibus genre of tragedy—dealing with the fall of an incompetent but not unsympathetic king. It is also part of the "lyrical group" of plays written between 1593 and 1596, in which Shakespeare's gradual transformation from poet to playwright can be traced. The sources of the play include The Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland by Raphael Hol-inshed (second edition, 1587); the chronicles of Frois-sart, and Edward Hall; the Mirror for Magistrates; Samuel Daniels' poetic account, The Civil Wars; and an earlier play by an unknown author, Thomas of Woodstock. Nonetheless, RichardIIdemonstrates Shakespeare's own inventiveness, especially in the female roles.
Thematic interests in the play are associated, in one way or another, with the question of sovereignty. Bol-ingbroke's challenge to Richard brings into focus the divine right of kings, its historical basis, its social implications. Connected with this is the matter of a subject's duty of passive obedience, especially as seen in the character of Gaunt and of York. Richard's arbitrariness in the opening scenes suggests the dangers of irresponsible despotism; as we follow his thoughts and strange behavior through the play, contrasted with the caginess and certainty of Bolingbroke (whose thoughts are seen only as translated into effective action), he becomes a study of the complex qualities of the ideal ruler. In this last respect the play reflects the Renaissance fascination with defining optimum behavior in various social roles (for example, Machiavelli's The Prince, Ascham's The Schoolmaster, Elyot's The Governour). Yet Shakespeare's psychological realism does not reach a falsely definitive conclusion. This uncertainty creates a tragic aura around Richard which makes him a most attractive character. In many ways, the play is not so much a contest for power as a struggle within Richard himself to adjust to his situation.
In this first play where Shakespeare makes his central figure an introspective, imaginative, and eloquent man, it is not surprising that some of his finest lyrical passages appear. Richard II is the only play Shakespeare wrote entirely in verse, supported by a regal formality of design and manner and a profuse and delicate metaphorical base. Intricately interwoven throughout the play are image-patterns centered on the eagle, the lion, the rose, the sun (which begins with Richard but moves to Bolingbroke), the state as theater, the earth as a neglected or well-tended garden, and the rise and fall of Fortune's buckets. The complicated imagery illustrates the subconscious workings of Shakespeare's imagination that will enrich the great tragedies to follow. As Henry Morley comments, the play is "full of passages that have floated out of their place in the drama to live in the minds of the people"— including Gaunt's great apostrophe to England (act 2, scene 1), York's description of "our two cousins coming into London," Richard's prison soliloquy (5,4), and his monologues on divine right (3,2) and on the irony of kingship (3,2).
So poetic is Richard II that critics speculate Shakespeare may have written the part for himself. As a lover of music, spectacle, domestic courtesy, and dignified luxury, Richard would be the ideal host to Castiglione's courtier. His whimsical personality is balanced, to great dramatic effect, by his self-awareness. Richard seems fascinated with the contradictory flow of his own emotions; and this very fascination is a large part of his tragic flaw. Similarly, Richard's sensitivity is combined with a flair for self-dramatization that reveals only too clearly his ineptitude as a strong ruler. He plays to the wrong audience, seeking the approval of his court rather than of the common people; he seems to shun the "vulgar crowd" in preference to the refined taste of a court that can appreciate his delicate character. The last three acts, emphasizing Richard's charm as a man, are obviously more central to the play's aesthetic than the first two, which reveal his weakness as a king. His sentimental vanity in the abdication scene is so effective that it was censored during Elizabeth's lifetime. The alternation of courage and despair in Richard's mind sets the rhythm of the play; Coleridge observes that "the play throughout is a history of the human mind." Richard's character is drawn with a skill equaled only by Shakespeare's depiction of King Lear.
When the king speaks of "the unstooping firmness of my upright soul" we understand that he is compensating verbally for his inability to act. Richard insists upon the sacramental nature of kingship, depending for his support on the formal, legal rituals associated with the throne; he is all ceremony and pathetically fatal pomp. Yet, from the outset, Richard contradicts even the logic of sovereign ceremony when he arbitrarily changes his decision and banishes the two opponents in the joust. Bolingbroke is quick to note the king's weakness, and steps into the power vacuum it creates. For Bolingbroke is the consummate actor who can be all things to all men by seeming so. He is impressed by the kingly power Richard wields: "Four lagging winters and four wanton springs/ End in a word: such is the breath of kings." He likes what he sees and, in deciding to imitate it, surpasses Richard. Even when Bolingbroke is ceremonious, as he is when he bows his knee to Richard before the abdication, he is acting. And the difference is that he knows the most effective audience. Richard laments that he has seen Bolingbroke's courtship of the common people, "how he did seem to dive into their hearts." He recognizes the actor in Bolingbroke and fears its power. It is not coincidental that York compares the commoners to the fickle theater audience. As in so many plays of Shakespeare—Hamlet, Richard III, King Lear—the theater itself becomes a central image; Richard's monologues are a stark contrast to Bolingbroke's speeches not only because they reveal internal states but also because they are narcissistically oriented. They reach inward, toward secrecy and communicative impotency; Bolingbroke speaks actively, reaching outward toward the audience he wishes to influence . His role can be compared usefully to that of Antony inJulius Caesar, Richard's to that of Brutus. The tension between the two styles of speaking, moreover, no doubt reflects the transformation in Shakespeare himself that will make the plays to follow much more strikingly dramatic then they are sheerly poetic. The Bolingbroke of Henry IV is born in Richard II, his realistic, calculating, efficient, politically astute performance directly antithetical to Richard's impractical, mercurial, meditative, and inept behavior. Bolingbroke is an opportunist, favored by fortune. A man of action and of few words, Bolingbroke presents a clear alternative to Richard, when the two men appear together. If Richard is the actor as prima donna, Bolingbroke is the actor as director.





Туре of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Historical chronicle
Time of plot: Fifteenth century
Locale: England
First presented: с 1593


Richard III is one of the most fascinating villains in all literature. Despite his personal deformity, he exudes charm and wit, demonstrates a potent rhetorical power, and possesses a tactical ability that deceives and manipulates his adversaries with an ease that is as awesome as his ruthlessness is repugnant. In the end he is doomed by his own excessive ambition, but even in defeat his courage and style are impressive.


Principal Characters

Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterward King Richard Ш, sinister and Machiavellian brother of King Edward IV. A fiendish and ambitious monster, he shows the grisly humor of the medieval Devil or the Vice of the morality plays. An effective hypocrite, he successfully dissembles his ambition and his ruthlessness until he has won his kingdom. His character in this play is consistent with that established in King Henry VI. The role furnishes great opportunities for an acting virtuoso and has long been a favorite with great actors.
King Edward IV, eldest son of the deceased Duke of York. An aging and ailing monarch with a sin-laden past and a remorseful present, he struggles futilely to bring about peace between the hostile factions of this court. Tricked by Richard into ordering the death of his brother Clarence, he tries too late to countermand the order. His grief over Clarence's death hastens his own.
George, Duke of Clarence, brother of King Edward and Richard. Guilty of treachery and perjury in placing his brother Edward on the throne, he is bewildered by his imprisonment and death. In prison he is troubled by terrible dreams, partly begotten by his guilty conscience, and he fears being alone. He has no idea that his fair-seeming brother Richard is responsible for his miseries until his murderers tell him so at the moment of his death.
Queen Margaret, the maleficent widow of the murdered King Henry VI. Her long curse delivered near the beginning of the play, in which she singles out her enemies, is almost a scenario of the play, which might well bear the subtitle of "The Widowed Queen's Curse."
The Duke of Buckingham, Richard's kinsman and powerful supporter. A cold and masterful politician, he is instrumental in placing Richard on the throne. Unwilling to consent to the murder of the helpless young princes, he loses favor, flees the court, rebels, and is captured and executed. As he goes to his death, he recalls the curses and prophecies of Queen Margaret, whose warning to him he has earlier ignored.
Edward, Prince of Wales, afterward King Edward V,
older son of King Edward IV. A bright and brave boy, he furnishes pathos by his conduct and by his early violent death.
Richard, Duke of York, King Edward's second son. Impish and precocious, he bandies words even with his sinister uncle. He dies with his brother in the Tower of London.
Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, afterward King Henry VII, King Richard's major antagonist. A heroic figure, he leads a successful invasion against King Richard and kills him in hand-to-hand combat at the Battle of Bos worth Field. His concluding speech promises the healing of the wounds of civil war and the union of the houses of York and Lancaster by his forthcoming marriage with Elizabeth, daughter of King Edward IV.
Lord Thomas Stanley, Earl of Derby, stepfather of Richmond. Suspicious of Richard of Gloucester from the beginning, he remains a token supporter through fear. His heart is with Richmond; at the Battle of Bosworth Field he risks the life of his son George, a hostage to Richard, by failing to bring up his troops against Richmond. George Stanley's death is prevented by the killing of King Richard.
Lord Hastings, Lord Chamberlain under Edward IV. He is devoted to King Edward and his sons, though an enemy to Queen Elizabeth and her family. His loyalty prevents his becoming a tool of Richard in the campaign to set aside the claims of small Edward V. He trusts Richard to the point of gullibility and pays for his trust and his loyalty to Edward with his life.
Queen Elizabeth, wife of King Edward IV. A haughty and self-willed woman during her husband's reign, she has powerful enemies at court, including Hastings and Richard of Gloucester. After the murder of her small sons, she is a grieving, almost deranged mother. Her terror for her daughter's safety drives her to appear to consent to Richard's monstrous proposal for the hand of her daughter, his niece. The horrible match is prevented by Richard's death.
Elizabeth, daughter of Edward IV. Although she is not listed in the cast and has no lines, she is an important political pawn in the play. Richard seeks her hand to clinch his claim to the throne, and Richmond announces his forthcoming union with her.
Lady Anne, daughter-in-law of Henry VI. Although she hates Richard, murderer of her father-in-law and her husband, she succumbs to his wiles and marries him, becoming a pale, wretched victim. She shares sympathy with the Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth. After Richard has had her murdered, her ghost appears to him and to Richmond, to daunt the one and encourage the other.
The Duchess of York, mother of Edward IV, Clarence, and Richard III. A loving grandmother to the children of Edward and Clarence, she hates and despises her son Richard, whom she sends to his last battle with a heavy curse, prophesying and wishing for him a shameful death.
Cardinal Bourchier (bou'chsr, boor'-shl-a), Archbishop of Canterbury. He enables Richard to gain possession of the little Duke of York in order to confine him in the Tower with his brother.
Thomas Rotherham (roth'er'sm), Archbishop of York. He conducts Queen Elizabeth and the little Duke of York to sanctuary, but his kind action turns out to be in vain.
John Morton, Bishop of Ely. His gift to King Richard of strawberries from his garden is in grim contrast to the immediately following arrest and execution of Hastings.
The Duke of Norfolk (Jockey of Norfolk), a loyal follower of Richard III. In spite of a warning that Richard has been betrayed, Norfolk remains faithful and dies in battle.
Anthony Woodville (Earl Rivers), brother of Queen Elizabeth. An enemy of Hastings, he becomes reconciled with him at King Edward's entreaty. He is arrested and executed at Richard's commands.
The Marquess of Dorset and Lord Grey, Queen Elizabeth's sons by her first husband. Dorset escapes to join Richmond; Grey is executed by Richard's orders.
Sir Thomas Vaughan, one of Richard's victims. He is beheaded with Earl Rivers and Lord Grey.
Sir Thomas, Lord Lovel, Sir Richard Ratcliff, and Sir William Catesby, Richard's loyal henchmen. Catesby remains with the king almost to his death, leaving him only to try to find a horse for him.
Sir James Tyrrel, a malcontent. Ambitious and haughty, he engineers for Richard the murder of the little princes in the Tower. He is later remorseful for his crime.
Sir Robert Brackenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower. He resigns the keys to the murderers of Clarence when he sees their warrant. He is killed at Bosworth Field.
The Keeper in the Tower, a kind man. He does his best to ease Clarence's captivity.
Christopher Urswick, a priest. He acts as a messenger from Lord Derby to Richmond to inform him that young George Stanley is held as a hostage by the king.
The Lord Mayor of London. He allows himself to be used by Richard and his followers to help replace Edward V with Richard III.
Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, the young son of Clarence.
Margaret Plantagenet, the young daughter of Clarence.
The Earl of Surrey, the son of the Duke of Norfolk. He remains with King Richard's army.
The Earl of Oxford (John De Vere), one of the lords who join Richmond in his rebellion.
The Sheriff of Wiltshire. He conducts Buckingham to execution.
Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending Lady Anne and the body of Henry VI.
Sir William Brandon, Sir James Blunt, and Sir Walter Herbert, supporters of Richmond.
Ghosts of Richard's Victims. These include, in addition to the characters killed in this play, King Henry VI and his son Edward, Prince of Wales. All appear to both Richard and Richmond. They rouse uncharacteristic terror in Richard and give refreshing encouragement to Richmond.


The Story

After the conclusion of the wars between the Houses of York and Lancaster, Edward IV was firmly established on the throne once again. Before long, however, his treacherous brother Richard, the hunchbacked Duke of Gloucester, resumed his own plans for gaining the throne. Craftily he removed one obstacle in his path when he turned the king's hatred against the third brother, the Duke of Clarence. Telling the king of an ancient prophecy that his issue would be disinherited by one of the royal line whose name began with the letter G, Richard directed suspicion against the Duke of Clarence, whose name was George. Immediately Clarence was arrested and taken to the Tower. Richard, pretending sympathy, advised him that the jealousy and hatred of Queen Elizabeth were responsible for his imprisonment. After promising every aid in helping his brother to secure his freedom, Richard, as false in word as he was cruel in deed, gave orders that Clarence be stabbed in his cell and his body placed in a barrel of malmsey wine.
Hoping to insure his position more definitely, Richard then made plans to marry Lady Anne, widow of Prince Edward, son of the murdered Henry VI. The young Prince of Wales had also been slain by Richard and his brothers after the battles had ended; Lady Anne and Queen Margaret, Henry's widow, were the only remaining members of the once powerful House of Lancaster still living in England. Intercepting Lady Anne at the funeral procession of Henry VI, Richard attempted to woo her. In spite of her hatred and fear of her husband's murderer, she was finally persuaded to accept an engagement ring when Richard insisted that it was for love of her that he had murdered the Prince of Wales.
Richard went to the court, where Edward IV lay ill. There he affected great sorrow and indignation over the news of the death of Clarence, thus endearing himself to Lord Hastings and the Duke of Buckingham, who were friends of Clarence. Insinuating that Queen Elizabeth and her followers had turned the wrath of the king against Clarence and thus brought about his death, Richard managed to convince everyone except Queen Margaret, who knew well what had really happened. Openly accusing him, she attempted to warn Buckingham and the others against Richard, but they ignored her.
Edward IV, meanwhile, ailing and depressed, tried to make peace among the enemy factions in his realm, but before this end could be accomplished he died. His son, Prince Edward, was sent for from Ludlow to take his father's place. At the same time Richard imprisoned Lord Grey, Lord Rivers, and Lord Vaughan, followers and relatives of the queen, and subsequently had them executed.
Queen Elizabeth, frightened, sought refuge for herself and her second son, the young Duke of York, with the Archbishop of Canterbury. Richard, upon hearing of the queen's action, pretended much concern over the welfare of his brother's children and set himself up as their guardian. Managing to remove young York from the care of his mother, he had him placed in the Tower, along with Prince Edward. He announced that they were under his protection and that they would remain there only until Prince Edward had been crowned.
Learning from Sir William Catesby, a court toady, that Lord Hastings was a loyal adherent of the young prince, Richard contrived to remove the influential nobleman from the court. He summoned Hastings to a meeting called supposedly to discuss plans for the coronation of the new king. Although Lord Stanley warned Hastings that ill luck awaited him if he went to the meeting, the trusting nobleman paid no attention but kept his appointment with Richard in the Tower. There, in a trumped-up scene, Richard accused Hastings of treason and ordered his immediate execution. Then Richard and Buckingham dressed themselves in rusty old armor and pretended to the lord mayor that Hastings had been plotting against them; the lord mayor was convinced by their false protestations that the execution was justified.
Richard, with Buckingham, plotted to seize the throne for himself. Buckingham, speaking in the Guildhall of the great immorality of the late King Edward, hinted that both the king and his children were illegitimate. Shocked, a citizens' committee headed by the lord mayor approached Richard and begged him to accept the crown. They found him, well coached by Buckingham, in the company of two priests, with a prayer book in his hand. So impressed were they with his seeming piety that they repeated their offer after he had hypocritically refused it. Pretending great reluctance, Richard finally accepted, after being urged by Buckingham, the lord mayor, and Catesby. Immediate plans for the coronation were made.
Lady Anne, interrupted during a visit to the Tower with Queen Elizabeth and the old Duchess of York, was ordered to Westminster to be crowned Richard's queen. The three women heard with horror that Richard had ascended the throne, and they were all the more suspicious of him because they had been refused entrance to see the young princes. Fearing the worst, they sorrowed among themselves and saw only doom for the nation.
Soon after his coronation Richard suggested to Buckingham that the two princes must be killed. When Buckingham balked at the order, Richard refused to consider his request for elevation to the earldom of Hereford. Proceeding alone to secure the safety of his position, he hired Sir James Tyrrel, a discontented nobleman, to smother the children in their sleep. Then, to make his position still more secure, Richard planned to marry Elizabeth of York, his own niece and daughter of the deceased Edward IV. Spreading the news that Queen Anne was mortally ill, he had her secretly murdered. He then removed the threat from Clarence's heirs by imprisoning his son and by arranging a marriage for the daughter whereby her social position was considerably lowered.
But all these precautions could not stem the tide of threats that were beginning to endanger Richard. In Brittany, the Earl of Richmond, Henry Tudor, gathered an army and invaded the country. When news of Richmond's landing at Milford reached London, Buckingham fled from Richard, whose cruelty and guilt were finally becoming apparent to his closest friends and associates. Buckingham joined the forces of Richmond, but shortly afterward he was captured and executed by Richard.
In a tremendous final battle, the armies of Richmond and Richard met on Bos worth Field. There, on the night before the encounter, all the ghosts of Richard's victims appeared to him in his sleep and prophesied his defeat. At the same time they foretold the coming victory and success of the Earl of Richmond. These predictions held true, for the next day Richard, fighting desperately, was slain in battle by Richmond, after crying out the offer of his ill-gotten kingdom for a horse, his own having been killed under him. The earl mounted the throne and married Elizabeth of York, thus uniting the houses of York and Lancaster and ending the feud of those noble families forever.


Critical Evaluation

Richard III is the last of a series of four plays which began with the three parts of Henry VI. These plays, though not strictly speaking a tetralogy, trace the bloody conflicts between the Houses of Lancaster and York and interpret the events leading up to the establishment of the Tudor dynasty. Despite the painful experiences of Richard, the drama remains a history rather than a tragedy. Richard does not have the moral stature to be a tragic hero. A tragic hero may murder, but he does so in violation of his own nature; Richard, however, is quite at home when intriguing and slaughtering. Even as bloody a character as Macbeth implies an earlier Macbeth of nobler behavior. Richard is too intelligent and self-aware, too much in control of himself and those around him to raise any of the moral ambiguities or dilemmas which are necessary to tragedy. Nor does Richard come to any transcendent understanding of his actions.
Richard is, nevertheless, the dominating figure in the play and a fascinating character. All the other characters pale before him, and the play becomes primarily a series of encounters between Richard and the opponents who surround him. Physically, Richard is a small man with a humpback. Many commentators have suggested that his behavior is a compensation for his physical deformity. But Richard is not a paranoid; everyone really does hate him. The deformity, which is a gross exaggeration of the historical reality, is more likely a physical representation of the grotesque shape of Richard's soul in a Renaissance world which took seriously such correspondences. In any case, it makes for good theater by representing Richard and his plots as all the more grotesque.
Richard is also the master rhetorician in a play in which Shakespeare shows for the first time the full power of his language. In Richard's speeches and in the staccato exchanges among characters, there appears the nervous energy that informs the more ambitious later plays. From his opening soliloquy, Richard fascinates us not only with his language but also with his intelligence and candor. Up until the very end, he is the stage manager of all that occurs. As a villain, he is unique in his total control and in the virtuosity of his performance. Even Iago pales before him, for Richard, in soliloquies and asides, explains to the audience exactly what he is going to do and then carries it off expeditiously.
In his opening speech it is immediately clear that Richard will preside if not eventually prevail. He reveals not only his self-confident awareness of his own physical limitations and intellectual superiority, but also a disarming perception of his own evil and isolation. His honest villainy is more total than lago's both in the way that he is able to convince every character that he is his only friend and in the full step-by-step disclosure of his intentions to the audience. Since everyone is against him, he almost generates our sympathy against our will. Anyway, there is no one else in the play to turn to.
The plot is the relentless working out of Richard's schemes to his final destruction. His first confrontation, with Anne, the widow of Henry VI's son, whom Richard had killed, is a model for Richard's abilities. The exchange begins with Anne heaping abuse on her husband's murderer and ends with Richard extracting from her a promise of marriage. Anne is overwhelmed more by the brilliance and audacity of Richard's rhetorical wit than by the logic of his arguments. Yet, the audience is left with the extreme improbability of the short time it takes Richard to be successful. The violation of probability, however, is as much a convention as Richard's speaking to the audience in soliloquy. It is one of the givens of the play. It is part of the definition of this villain that he could succeed in such a wildly improbable adventure. And repeatedly Richard is able to put those who hate him to his own uses in a perverse gratification of his ostensible desire for power and his submerged desire to be loved. Only his own mother is painfully able to see through to the total corruption of his heart.
For Richard, the path to kingship is clear: it is simply a matter of ingratiating himself to the right people and of murdering all of those who stand in his way. He contracts the murder of Clarence in the tower amid a good bit of gallows humor, which appropriately sets the grim tone. Like a good Machiavel, he both builds on past success and takes advantage of any fortuitous circumstances. Thus, he uses the death of Clarence to cast suspicion on Elizabeth and her party and to get the support of Buckingham, and he seizes on the death of Edward IV to have the influential nobles imprisoned and killed. Richard is clearing the political scene and the stage of obstacles. Nothing happens except at Richard's instigation, except for coincidences which he turns to his advantage. He eliminates Hastings and choreographs his own reluctant acceptance of the throne by implying that Edward's sons are bastards. Then he accomplishes the murder of the boys of his wife, Anne, the imprisonment of Clarence's son, and the discrediting of his daughter. He has efficiently removed all near claims to the throne by lies, innuendoes, and vigorous action.
So appealing is his virtuosity and so faithful is he in informing the audience of his plans that we share his apprehension as the tide of opposition swells under the leadership of Richmond. Shakespeare neatly figures the balance of power by setting up the opposing camps on opposite sides of the stage. The ominous appearances of the ghosts, to Richmond as well as Richard, portend that retribution is at hand. Although he is unnerved for the first time, Richard behaves with martial valor and struggles determinedly to the last. This show of courage, amid all of the recognitions of evil, is the final complication of our complex admiration for a consummate villain.




Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Тyре of plot: Romantic tragedy
Time of plot: Fifteenth century
Locale: Verona, Italy
First presented: с 1595


This famous story of star-crossed lovers, one of Shakespeare's most popular, is his great youthful tragedy. The play is passionate, witty, rapid, intensely lyrical, and romantically beautiful. Romeo and Juliet are personifications of young love; they are also the innocent victims of an angry, foolish society, embodied in the feuding families, and a malevolent providence that uses their deaths to force the feuding factions to reconciliation.


Principal Characters

Romeo (ro'mro), the only son of old Montague, a nobleman of Verona. A romantic youth, inclined to be in love with love, he gives up his idealized passion for Rosaline when Juliet rouses in him a lasting devotion. His star-crossed young life ends in suicide.
Juliet (joo'lret), the only daughter of old Capulet. Little more than a child at the beginning of the play, she is quickly matured by love and grief into a young woman of profound grace and tragic dignity. Unable to find sympathy in her family and unable to trust her nurse, she risks death to avoid a forced marriage, which would be bigamous. Awakening in the tomb to find Romeo's body, she too commits suicide.
Montague (mon'ta'gu), Romeo's father, head of the house of Montague. An enemy of the Capulets, he is a good, reasonable man and father. In the family feud he seems more provoked than provoking. After the deaths of Romeo and Juliet he becomes reconciled with the Capulets.
Lady Montague, Romeo's gentle mother. Tenderhearted and peace-loving, she breaks down under the fury of the clashing houses and the banishment of her son and dies of grief.
Capulet (кар'п-let), Juliet's fiery father. Essentially good-hearted but furiously unreasonable when thwarted in the slightest thing, he destroys the happiness and the life of his dearly loved daughter. He joins his former enemy in grief and friendship after her death.
Lady Capulet, Juliet's mother. Dominated by her husband, she fails to offer Juliet the understanding and affection the girl desperately needs.
The Nurse, Juliet's good-hearted, bawdy-tongued mentor. She aids the young lovers to consummate their marriage; but, lacking in moral principle, when Romeo is banished, she urges Juliet to marry Paris. Hence, Juliet has no one to turn to in her great distress and need.
Friar Laurence, a kindly, timorous priest. He marries the young lovers and tries to help them in their fearful adversity, but fails, thwarted by fate.
Benvolio (ben-vo'li 6), old Montague's nephew, the friend of Romeo and Mercutio. Less hot-headed than Mercutio, he tries to avoid quarrels even with the irreconcilable Tybalt. His account of the deaths of Mercutio and Tybalt saves Romeo from execution, but not from banishment.
Mercutio (mer-ku'shl-o), Romeo's volatile and witty friend. Poetically fanciful and teasing, he can be a savage foe. His angry challenge to Tybalt after Romeo has behaved with humility leads to various deaths and the final catastrophe. He has a superb death scene.
Paris (pa'rls), a young nobleman in love with Juliet. The hasty marriage planned by the Capulets between Paris and Juliet forces her to counterfeit death in order to avoid a bigamous union. The counterfeit becomes real for her—and for Paris and Romeo.
Escalus (es'ks-lus), Duke of Verona, kinsman of Mercutio and Paris. A just, merciful ruler, he tries to arrange a peace between the feuding families. He joins them at the tomb which holds their dead children and presides over their reconciliation.
Peter, Capulet's stupid servant. Unable to read, he asks Romeo and Mercutio to help him with Capulet's invitation list, thus bringing about the meeting between Romeo and Juliet.
Friar John, a friend of Friar Laurence. Caught in a home visited by the plague, he is delayed too long to deliver Friar Laurence's letter to Romeo informing him about Juliet's counterfeit death. This is another of the fatal events that work constantly against the young lovers.
An Apothecary, a poverty-stricken old wretch. He illegally sells Romeo poison.
Balthasar (bal'ths-zar), Romeo's servant. He brings Romeo news of Juliet's supposed death and actual interment in the Capulet vault. He accompanies Romeo to the tomb and remains nearby, though ordered to leave the area by Romeo. His testimony added to that of Friar Laurence and Paris' page enables Duke Escalus and the others to reconstruct the events.


The Story

Long ago in Verona, Italy, there lived two famous families, the Montagues and the Capulets. These two houses were deadly enemies, and their enmity did not stop at harsh words, but extended to bloody duels and sometimes death.
Romeo, son of old Montague, thought himself in love with haughty Rosaline, a beautiful girl who did not return his affection. Hearing that Rosaline was to attend a great feast at the house of Capulet, Romeo and his trusted friend, Mercutio, donned masks and entered the great hall as invited guests. But Romeo was no sooner in the ballroom than he noticed the exquisite Juliet, Capulet's daughter, and instantly forgot his disdainful Rosaline. Romeo had never seen Juliet before, and in asking her name he aroused the suspicion of Tybalt, a fiery member of the Capulet clan. Tybalt drew his sword and faced Romeo. But old Capulet, coming upon the two men, parted them, and with the gentility that comes with age requested that they have no bloodshed at the feast. Tybalt, however, was angered that a Montaque should take part in Capulet festivities, and afterward nursed a grudge against Romeo.
Romeo spoke in urgent courtliness to Juliet and asked if he might kiss her hand. She gave her permission, much impressed by this unknown gentleman whose affection for her was so evident. Romeo then begged to kiss her lips and when she had no breath to object, he pressed her to him. They were interrupted by Juliet's nurse, who sent the young girl off to her mother. When she had gone, Romeo learned from the nurse that Juliet was a Capulet. He was stunned, for he was certain that this fact would mean his death. He could never give her up. Juliet, who had fallen instantly in love with Romeo, discovered that he was a Montague, the son of a hated house.
That night Romeo, too much in love to go home to sleep, stole to Juliet's house and stood in the orchard beneath a balcony that led to her room. To his surprise, he saw Juliet leaning over the railing above him. Thinking herself alone, she began to talk of Romeo and wished aloud that he were not a Montague. Hearing her words, Romeo could contain himself no longer but spoke to her. She was frightened at first, and when she saw who it was she was confused and ashamed that he had overheard her confession. But it was too late to pretend reluctance, as was the fashion for sweethearts in those days. Juliet freely admitted her passion, and the two exchanged vows of love. Juliet told Romeo that she would marry him and would send him word by nine o'clock the next morning to arrange for their wedding.
Romeo then went off to the monastery cell of Friar Laurence to enlist his help in the ceremony. The good friar was much impressed with Romeo's devotion. Thinking that the union of a Montague and a Capulet would dissolve the enmity between the two houses, he promised to marry Romeo and Juliet.
Early the next morning, while he was in company with his two friends, Benvolio and Mercutio, Romeo received Juliet's message, brought by her nurse. He told the old woman of his arrangement with Friar Laurence and bade her carry the word back to Juliet. The nurse kept the secret and gave his mistress the message. When Juliet appeared at the friar's cell at the appointed time, she and Romeo were married. But the time was short and Juliet had to hurry home. Before she left, Romeo promised that he would meet her in the orchard underneath the balcony after dark that night.
That same day, Romeo's friends Mercutio and Benvolio were loitering in the streets when Tybalt came by with some other members of the Capulet house. Tybalt, still holding his grudge against Romeo, accused Mercutio of keeping company with the hateful and villainous young Montague. Mercutio, proud of his friendship with Romeo, could not take insult lightly, for he was as hot-tempered when provoked as Tybalt himself. The two were beginning their heated quarrel when Romeo, who had just returned from his wedding, appeared. He was appalled at the situation because he knew that Juliet was fond of Tybalt, and he wished no injury to his wife's people. He tried in vain to settle the argument peaceably. Mercutio was infuriated by Romeo's soft words, and when Tybalt called Romeo a villain, Mercutio drew his sword and rushed to his friend's defense. But Tybalt, the better swordsman, gave Mercutio a mortal wound. Romeo could ignore the fight no longer. Enraged at the death of his friend, he rushed at Tybalt with drawn sword and killed him quickly. The fight soon brought crowds of people to the spot. For his part in the fray, Romeo was banished from Verona.
Hiding out from the police, he went, grief-stricken, to Friar Laurence's cell. The friar advised him to go to his wife that night, and then at dawn to flee to Mantua until the friar saw fit to publish the news of the wedding. Romeo consented to follow this good advice. As darkness fell, he went to meet Juliet. When dawn appeared, heartsick Romeo left for Mantua.
Meanwhile, Juliet's father decided that it was time for his daughter to marry. Having not the slightest idea of her love for Romeo, the old man demanded that she accept her handsome and wealthy suitor, Paris. Juliet was horrified at her father's proposal but dared not tell him of her marriage because of Romeo's part in Tybalt's death. She feared that her husband would be instantly sought out and killed if her family learned of the marriage.
At first she tried to put off her father with excuses. Failing to persuade him, she went in dread to Friar Laurence to ask the good monk what she could do. Telling her to be brave, the friar gave her a small flask of liquid which he told her to swallow the night before her wedding to Paris. This liquid would make her appear to be dead for a certain length of time; her seemingly lifeless body would then be placed in an open tomb for a day or two, and during that time the friar would send for Romeo, who should rescue his bride when she awoke from the powerful effects of the draught. Then, together, the two would be able to flee Verona. Juliet almost lost courage over this desperate venture, but she promised to obey the friar. On the way home she met Paris and modestly promised to be his bride.
The great house of the Capulets had no sooner prepared for a lavish wedding than it became the scene of a mournful funeral. For Juliet swallowed the strong liquid and seemed as lifeless as death itself. Her anguished family sadly placed her body in the tomb.
Meanwhile Friar Laurence wrote to Romeo in Mantua, telling him of the plan by which the lovers could make their escape together. But these letters failed to reach Romeo before word of Juliet's death arrived. He determined to go to Verona and take his last farewell of her as she lay in her tomb and there, with the help of poison procured from an apothecary, to die by her side.
Reaching the tomb at night, Romeo was surprised to find a young man there. It was Paris, who had come to weep over his lost bride. Thinking Romeo a grave robber, he drew his sword. Romeo, mistaking Paris for a hated Capulet, warned him that he was desperate and armed.
Paris, in loyalty to Juliet, fell upon Romeo, but Romeo with all the fury of his desperation killed him. By the light of a lantern, Romeo recognized Paris and, taking pity on one who had also loved Juliet, drew him into the tomb so that Paris too could be near her. Then Romeo went to the bier of his beautiful bride. Taking leave of her with a kiss, he drank the poison he had brought with him and soon died by her side.
It was near the time for Juliet to awaken from her deathlike sleep.The friar, hearing that Romeo had never received his letters, went himself to deliver Juliet from the tomb. When he arrived, he found Romeo dead. Juliet, waking, asked for her husband. Then, seeing him lying near her with an empty cup in his hands, she guessed what he had done. She tried to kiss some of the poison from his lips that she too might die, but failing in this, she unsheathed his dagger and without hesitation plunged it into her breast.
By this time a guard had come up. Seeing the dead lovers and the body of Paris, he rushed off in horror to spread the news. When the Capulets and Montagues arrived at the tomb, the friar told them of the unhappy fate which had befallen Romeo and Juliet, whose only sin had been to love. His account of their tender and beautiful romance shamed the two families, and over the bodies of their dead children they swore to end the feud of many years.


Critical Evaluation

One of the most popular plays of all time, Romeo and Juliet was Shakespeare's second tragedy (after Titus Andronicus, 1594, a failure), written during his first transitional period. Consequently, the play shows the sometimes artificial lyricism of early comedies such as Love's Labour's Lost (c. 1594) and A Midsummer Night's Dream (1595) while its character development predicts the direction of the playwright's artistic maturity. In his usual fashion, he bases his story on common sources: Ma-succio Salernitano's Novellino (1476), William Painter's The Palace of Pleasure (1566-1567), and, especially, Arthur Brooke's poetic The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet (1562). Shakespeare reduces the time of the action from the months it takes in Brooke to a few days.
In addition to following the conventional five-part structure of a tragedy, Shakespeare also employs his characteristic alternation, from scene to scene, between taking the action forward and retarding it, often with comic relief (as when the ribald musicians follow the "death" scene in act 4, scene 5), to heighten the dramatic impact. Although in many respects the structure recalls that of the de casibus genre (dealing with the fall of powerful men), its true prototype is Boethian tragedy as employed by Chaucer in Troilus and Criseyde—a fall into unhappiness, on the part of more or less ordinary people, after a fleeting period of happiness. The fall is caused both traditionally and in the play by the workings of fortune. Insofar as Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, it is a tragedy of fate rather than of tragic flaw. Although the two lovers have weaknesses, it is not their faults but their unlucky stars that destroy them. As the friar comments at the end, "A greater power than we can contradict/ Hath thwarted our intents."
Shakespeare succeeds in having the thematic structure closely parallel the dramatic form of the play. The principal theme is that of the tension between the two houses, and all the other oppositions of the play derive from that central one. Thus romance is set against revenge, love against hate, day against night, sex against war, youth against age, and "tears to fire." Juliet's soliloquy in act 3, scene 2 makes it clear that it is the strife between her family and Romeo's that has turned Romeo's love to death. If at times Shakespeare seems to forget the family theme in his lyrical fascination with the lovers, that fact only sets off their suffering all the more poignantly against the background of the senseless and arbitrary strife between the Capulets and Montagues. For the families, after all, the story has a classically comic ending; their feud is buried with the lovers—which seems to be the intention of the indefinite fate that compels the action.
The lovers, of course, never forget their families; their consciousness of the conflict leads to another central theme in the play, that of identity. Romeo questions his identity to Benvolio early in the play, and Juliet asks him, "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" At her request he offers to change his name and to be defined only as one star-crossed with her. Juliet, too, questions her identity, when she speaks to the slaying of Tybalt. Romeo later asks the friar to help him locate the lodging of his name so that he may cast it from his "hateful mansion," bringing a plague upon his own house in an ironic fulfillment of Mercutio's dying curse. Only when they are in their graves together, do the two lovers find peace from the persecution of being Capulet and Montague; they are remembered by their first names only, an ironic proof that their story had the beneficial political influence the prince wishes at the end.
Likewise, the style of the play alternates between poetic gymnastics and pure and simple lines of deep emotion. The unrhymed iambic pentameter is filled with conceits, puns, and wordplays, presenting both lovers as very literate youngsters. Their verbal wit, in fact, is not Shakespeare's rhetorical excess but part of their characters. It fortifies the impression we have of their spiritual natures, showing their love as an intellectual appreciation of beauty combined with a pure physical passion. Their first dialogue, for example, is a sonnet divided between them. In no other early play is the imagery as lush and complex, making unforgettable the balcony speech in which Romeo describes Juliet as the sun, Juliet's nightingale-lark speech, her comparison of Romeo to the "day in night," which Romeo then develops as he observes, at dawn, "more light and light, more dark and dark our woes."
At the beginning of the play Benvolio describes Romeo as a "love-struck swain" in the typical pastoral fashion. He is, as the cliche has it, in love with love (Rosaline's name is not even mentioned until much later). He is sheer energy seeking an outlet, sensitive appreciation seeking a beautiful object. Both Mercutio and the friar comment on his fickleness. But the sight of Juliet immediately transforms Romeo's immature and purely erotic infatuation to true and constant love. He matures more quickly than anyone around him realizes; only the audience understands the process, since Shakespeare makes Romeo as introspective and verbal as Hamlet in his monologues. Even in love, however, Romeo does not reject his former romantic ideals. When Juliet comments, "You kiss by th' book," she is being astutely perceptive; Romeo's death is the death of an idealist, though not of a foolhardy youth. He knows what he is doing, his awareness growing from his comment after slaying Tybalt, "O, I am Fortune's fool."
Juliet is equally quick-witted, and also has early premonitions of their sudden love's end. She is made uniquely charming by her combination of girlish innocence with a winsome foresight that is "wise" when compared to the superficial feelings expressed by her father, mother, and Count Paris. Juliet, moreover, is realistic as well as romantic. She knows how to exploit her womanly softness, making the audience feel both poignancy and irony when the friar remarks at her arrival in the wedding chapel "O, so light a foot/ Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint!" It takes a strong person to carry out the friar's strategem after all; Juliet succeeds in the ruse partly because everyone else considers her weak both in body and will. She is a subtle actress, telling us after dismissing her mother and the nurse, "My dismal scene I needs must act alone." Her quiet intelligence makes our tragic pity all the stronger when her "scene" becomes reality.
Shakespeare provides his lovers with effective dramatic foils in the characters of Mercutio, the nurse, and the friar, but the play remains forever that of "Juliet and her Romeo."





Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Comedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: Padua, Italy
First presented: с 1593


A lusty, witty, well-crafted comedy, The Taming of the Shrew abounds in vigorous, often ribald wordplay. Too farcical to be taken seriously as antifeminist, the work is a romp on the hoary subject of the battle of the sexes.


Principal Characters

Katharina (kat-этё'пэ), the shrew, the spirited elder daughter of Baptista, a well-to-do Paduan gentleman. She storms at her father, her mild young sister, and her tutors until she meets Petruchio, who ignores her protests of rage and marries her while she stands by in stunned amazement. She continues to assert her will, but she finds her husband's even stronger than her own and learns that submission is the surest means to a quiet life. Her transformation is a painful revelation to Lucentio and Hortensio, who must pay Petruchio their wagers and, in addition, live with wives who are less dutiful than they supposed.
Petruchio (рё-troochTo, pe-troo'ke-o), her masterful husband, who comes from Verona to Padua frankly in search of a wealthy wife. He is easily persuaded by his friend Hortensio to court Katharina and pave the way for her younger sister's marriage. Katharine's manners do not daunt him; in truth, his are little better than hers, as his long-suffering servants could testify. He meets insult with insult, storm with storm, humiliating his bride by appearing at the altar in his oldest garments and keeping her starving and sleepless, all the while pretending the greatest solicitude for her welfare. Using the methods of training hawks, he tames a wife and ensures a happy married life for himself.
Bianca (Ьё-ап'кэ, Ьё-an'ka), Katharina's pretty, gentle younger sister, for whose hand Lucentio, Hortensio, and Gremio are rivals. Although she is completely charming to her suitors, she is, in her own way, clever and strong-willed, and she chides her bridegroom for being so foolish as to lay wagers on her dutifulness.
Baptista (bap-tes'ta), her father, a wealthy Paduan. Determined to treat his shrewish daughter fairly, he refuses to let Bianca marry before her. Petruchio's courtship is welcome, even though its unorthodoxy disturbs him, and he offers a handsome dowry with Katharina, doubling it when he sees the results of his son-in-law's "taming," which gives him "another daughter." Bianca's marriage without his consent distresses and angers him, but his good nature wins out and he quickly forgives her, watching with delight as Petruchio demonstrates his success with Katharina.
Lucentio (loo-chen'se-o), the son of a Pisan merchant, who comes to Padua to study. He falls in love with Bianca when he first hears her speak and disguises himself as Cambio, a schoolmaster, in order to gain access to her, while his servant masquerades as Lucentio. He reveals his identity to his lady and persuades her to wed him secretly, but he finds his happiness somewhat marred when she costs him one hundred crowns by refusing to come at his call.
Hortensio (hor-ten'shi-o), Petruchio's friend, who presents himself, disguised as a musician, as a teacher for Bianca. Convinced that Katharina is incorrigible, he watches Petruchio's taming of his wife with amusement and skepticism. He weds a rich widow after becoming disillusioned when he sees Bianca embracing the supposed Cambio. Thus he finds himself, like Lucentio, with a wife more willful than he has expected.
Gremio (gre'ml-o, gre'me-6), an aging Paduan who hires the disguised Lucentio to forward his courtship of Bianca. His hopes are dashed when Tranio, as Lucentio, offers Baptista a large settlement for his daughter, and he is forced to become an observer of others' romances.
Vincentio (ven-chen'se-o), Lucentio's father. He is first bewildered, then angry, when he arrives in Padua to find an impostor claiming his name, his son missing, and his servant Tranio calling himself Lucentio. Overjoyed to find the real Lucentio alive, he quickly reassures Baptista that an appropriate settlement will be made for Bianca's marriage, saving his anger for the impostors who tried to have him imprisoned.
Tranio (tra'ne-б), Lucentio's servant, who advises his master to follow his inclinations for pleasure, rather than study. He plays his master's part skillfully, courting Bianca to draw her father's attention away from her tutor and even providing himself with a father to approve his courtship. He recognizes trouble in the form of the real Vincentio and attempts to avert it by refusing to recognize his old master and ordering him off to jail. His ruse is unsuccessful, and only nuptial gaiety saves him from the force of Vincentio's wrath.
Grumio (groo'me-6) and Curtis (kar'tis), Petruchio's long-suffering servants.
Biondello (be-dn-deTo), Lucentio's servant, who aids in the conspiracy for Bianca's hand.
A Pedant, an unsuspecting traveler who is persuaded by Tranio to impersonate Vincentio.
Christopher Sly, a drunken countryman, found unconscious at a tavern by a lord and his huntsmen. They amuse themselves by dressing him in fine clothes and greeting him as a nobleman, newly recovered from insanity. Sly readily accepts their explanations, settles himself in his new luxury, and watches the play of Katharina and Petruchio with waning interest.
A Lord, the eloquent nobleman who arranges the jest.
Bartholomew, his page, who pretends to be Sly's noble wife.


The Story

As a joke, a beggar was carried, while asleep, to the house of a noble lord and there dressed in fine clothes and waited on by many servants. The beggar was told that he was a rich man who in a demented state had imagined himself to be a beggar, but who was now restored to his senses. The lord and his court had great sport with the poor fellow, to the extent of dressing a page as the beggar's rich and beautiful wife and presenting the supposed woman to him as his dutiful and obedient spouse. The beggar, in his stupidity, assumed his new role as though it were his own, and he and his lady settled down to watch a play prepared for their enjoyment.
Lucentio and Tranio, his serving man, had journeyed to Padua so that Lucentio could study in that ancient city. Tranio persuaded his master, however, that life was not all study and work and that he should find pleasures also in his new residence. On their arrival in the city, Lucentio and Tranio encountered Baptista and his daughters, Katharina and Bianca. These three were accompanied by Gremio and Hortensio, young gentlemen both in love with gentle Bianca. Baptista would not permit his younger daughter to marry, however, until someone should take Katharina off his hands. Although Katharina was wealthy and beautiful, she was such a shrew that no suitor would have her. Baptista, not knowing how to control his sharp-tongued daughter, announced that Gremio or Hortensio must find a husband for Katharina before either could woo Bianca. He charged them also to find tutors for the two girls, that they might be skilled in music and poetry.
Unobserved, Lucentio and Tranio witnessed this scene. At first sight Lucentio also fell in love with Bianca and determined to have her for himself. His first act was to change clothes with Tranio, so that the servant appeared to be the master. Lucentio then disguised himself as a tutor in order to woo Bianca without her father's knowledge.
About the same time, Petruchio came to Padua. He was a rich and noble man of Verona, come to Padua to visit his friend Hortensio and to find for himself a rich wife. Hortensio told Petruchio of his love for Bianca and of her father's decree that she could not marry until a husband had been found for Katharina. Petruchio declared that the stories told about spirited Katharina were to his liking, particularly the account of her great wealth, and he expressed a desire to meet her. Hortensio proposed that Petruchio seek Katharina's father and present his family's name and history. Hortensio, meanwhile, planned to disguise himself as a tutor and thus plead his own cause with Bianca.
The situation grew confused. Lucentio was disguised as a tutor and his servant Tranio was dressed as Lucentio. Hortensio was also disguised as a tutor. Petruchio was to ask for Katharina's hand. Also, unknown to anyone but Katharina, Bianca loved neither Gremio nor Hortensio and swore that she would never marry rather than accept one or the other as her husband.
Petruchio easily secured Baptista's permission to marry Katharina, for the poor man was only too glad to have his older daughter off his hands. Petruchio's courtship was a strange one indeed, a battle of wits, words, and wills. Petruchio was determined to bend Katharina to his will, but Katharina scorned and berated him with a vicious tongue. Nevertheless, she was obliged to obey her father's wish and marry him, and the nuptial day was set. Then Gremio and Tranio, the latter still believed to be Lucentio, vied with each other for Baptista's permission to marry Bianca. Tranio won because he claimed more gold and vaster lands than Gremio could declare. In the meantime, Hortensio and Lucentio, both disguised as tutors, wooed Bianca.
As part of the taming process, Petruchio arrived late for his wedding, and when he did appear he wore old and tattered clothes. Even during the wedding ceremony Petruchio acted like a madman, stamping, swearing, cuffing the priest. Immediately afterward, he dragged Katharina away from the wedding feast and took her to his country home, there to continue his scheme to break her to his will. He gave her no food and no time for sleep, while always pretending that nothing was good enough for her. In fact, he all but killed her with kindness. Before he was through, Katharina agreed that the moon was the sun, and that an old man was a woman.
Bianca fell in love with Lucentio, whom she thought to be her tutor. In chagrin, Hortensio threw off his disguise, and he and Gremio forswore their love for any woman so fickle. Tranio, still hoping to win her for himself, found an old pedant to act the part of Vincentio, Lucentio's father. The pretended father argued his son's cause with Baptista until that lover of gold promised his daughter's hand to Lucentio, as he thought, but in reality to Tranio. When Lucentio's true father appeared on the scene, he was considered an impostor and almost put in jail for his deceit. The real Lucentio and Bianca, meanwhile, had been secretly married. Returning from the church with his bride, he revealed the whole plot to Baptista and the others. At first Baptista was angry at the way in which he had been duped, but Vincentio spoke soothingly and soon cooled his rage.
Hortensio, in the meantime, had married a rich widow. To celebrate these weddings, Lucentio gave a feast for all the couples and the fathers. After the ladies had retired, the three newly married men wagered one hundred pounds each that his own wife would most quickly obey his commands. Lucentio sent first for Bianca, but she sent word that she would not come. Then Hortensio sent for his wife, but she too refused to obey his summons. Petru-chio then ordered Katharina to appear, and she came instantly to do his bidding. At his request, she also forced Bianca and Hortensio's wife to go to their husbands. Baptista was so delighted with his daughter's meekness and willing submission that he added another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry. Katharina told them all that a wife should live only to serve her husband and that a woman's heart and tongue ought to be as soft as her body. Petruchio's work had been well done. He had tamed the shrew forever.


Critical Evaluation

The Taming of the Shrew is one of Shakespeare's most popular plays. The reasons for its enduring appeal are simple to determine: It has a well-crafted plot which moves briskly and engagingly through a variety of entertaining circumstances; its language is brilliant and witty, abounding with the wordplay and verbal virtuosity so characteristic of Shakespearean comedy; and its characters are appealing and believable, drawn from life and based on a keen understanding of human nature.
The plot of The Taming of the Shrew is more complex than many believe. The "taming" of Katharina (also called Kate) is not a simple matter of male dominance over the female through the institution of marriage but is rather related to the intricate Renaissance concern with degree, order, and the proper arrangement of the entire cosmos. E. M. W. Tillyard's classic study Elizabethan World Picture demonstrated that the Elizabethans were firmly committed to a belief in a hierarchy that ran through the entire course of nature. This hierarchy was mirrored in the larger world of politics and in the more intimate sphere of marriage: Just as the prince was ruler of the realm, so the husband was predestined to be lord of the family. In this sense, Petruchio's taming of Kate is actually her return into the proper order of things, and so, far from breaking her spirit, Petruchio actually frees her to achieve the utmost of her nature.
Petruchio's method was one that Shakespeare's audience would have found familiar; today we would call it "fighting fire with fire." Since Kate is willful, ill-tempered, and difficult, Petruchio pretends to be even more willful, more ill-tempered, and more difficult than she could ever conceive of being. At the same time, he counterpoises this approach by constant praise of those virtues which she conspicuously lacks during most of the play: patience, modesty, and gentleness. Once again, the title of the play can mislead, for Kate is not so much tamed as educated, and in the end she is a better and more fulfilled person for the lesson.
This development is paralleled in the plot of Lucentio and Bianca, Katharina's sister, as they struggle through difficulties to become and remain wed. The ironic counterpoint here is that while Kate is rather easily wed but slowly tamed, Bianca, who needs no taming, is a difficult marital prize for Lucentio to seize and hold. The expert fashion in which Shakespeare weaves these parallel plots closely together and has them comment upon one another is one of his finest dramatic achievements.
The plot of The Taming of the Shrew is not without its quirks, however, and the attentive reader will note numerous instances where the overt message of order and decorum is subverted. The questions must arise: Is Kate really "tamed?" Is Bianca actually the dutiful wife she appears to be? While subtle touches throughout the play cause doubts on these points, the most telling undercutting comes in the induction to the play, in which a beggar, Christopher Sly, is made to believe that he is a nobleman who has been out of his wits for fourteen years. This gulling, or fooling, of Christopher Sly frames the entire play and so casts doubts on the validity of the concepts of order and degree. If beggars can become lords, even in jest, then where is proper place, where is the great chain of being? Certainly it raises the possibility that Kate, while seeming to be tamed and submissive to Petruchio, might actually retain control of the situation.
The induction also includes two elements that will interest the careful reader of Shakespeare: It is a sequence of a play within (or actually before) a play, performed by a company of strolling actors, and thus looks forward to a similar but tragic performance in Hamlet; it contains numerous references to magic, dreams, and fairyland, themes which constitute the very atmosphere of Shakespearean comedy.
The language of The Taming of the Shrew is Shakespeare at his antic, comic acme. The words wing across the stage with a lively and darting air, as in act 2, scene 1, where Petruchio and Katharina exchange insults, or in the marvelous scene of act 4, scene 5, where the taming is complete and Katharina accepts her lord's assertion that the sun is the moon and a man is a woman. The verbal artistry alone rates The Taming of the Shrew as one of Shakespeare's prime accomplishments.
Highest accolades, however, must be awarded to Shakespeare's fashioning of the characters of this drama. Petruchio and Kate stamp themselves indelibly upon the reader or viewer, and even Christopher Sly, in his relatively brief moment upon the stage, becomes a full-blooded and believable figure. With Kate, in particular, Shakespeare has achieved the most difficult task of a dramatist, that of altering a person's character during the course of a play. The transformation of Kate from a shrew to a loving wife can be explained in many ways, from the Elizabethan love of order to the necessities of a five-act drama, but in the end the change can only be regarded as the finest example of the perfect control Shakespeare exercised over his noisy, wonderful play.





Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare
Type of plot: Romantic fantasy
Time of plot: Fifteenth century
Locale: An island in the sea
First presented: 1611


The Tempest, written toward the end of Shakespeare's career, is a work of fantasy and courtly romance. The story of a wise old magician, his beautiful, unworldly daughter, a gallant young prince, and a cruel, scheming brother, it contains all the elements of a fairy tale in which ancient wrongs are righted and true lovers live happily ever after. The play is also one of poetic atmosphere and allegory. Beginning with a storm and peril at sea, it ends on a note of serenity and joy. No other of Shakespeare's dramas holds so much of the author's mature reflection on life.


Principal Characters

Prospero, the former and rightful duke of Milan, now living on an island in the distant seas. Years before, he was deposed by his treacherous younger brother, Antonio, to whom he gave too much power, for Prospero was always more interested in his books of philosophy and magic than in affairs of state. Antonio had the aid of Alonso, the equally treacherous king of Naples, in his plot against his brother, and the conspirators set Prospero and his infant daughter, Miranda, adrift in a small boat. They were saved from certain death by the faithful Gon-zalo, who provided the boat with food and Prospero's books. Eventually the craft drifted to an island which was formerly the domain of the witch Sycorax, whose son, the monster Caliban, still lived there. Through the power of his magic, Prospero subdued Caliban and freed certain good spirits, particularly Ariel, whom Sycorax had imprisoned. Now in a terrible storm the ship, carrying the treacherous king of Naples, his son Ferdinand, and Antonio, is wrecked; they with their companions are brought ashore by Ariel. Using Ariel as an instrument, Prospero frustrates the plots of Antonio and Sebastian against the king and of Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano against himself. He also furthers the romance between Miranda and Ferdinand. Convinced at last that Antonio and Alonso have repented of the wrongs they have done him Prospero has them brought to his cell, where he reveals his identity and reclaims his dukedom. At the end of the story he has the satisfaction of releasing Ariel, abandoning his magic, and returning to Milan for the marriage of Miranda and Ferdinand. In the figure of Prospero, some readers have found Shakespeare's self-portrait; and in Prospero's burying of his books on magic, they have found a symbol of Shakespeare's renunciation of the stage.
Miranda, Prospero's daughter. Brought up on the island where her aged father is the only man she has ever seen, she falls instantly in love with Ferdinand. At the end of the play, they are to be married. The character of Miranda has often been taken as the depiction of complete innocence, untouched by the corruption of sophisticated life.
Ferdinand, prince of Naples, son of King Alonso. Separated from his father when they reach the island, he is capture by Prospero, who, to test him, puts him at menial tasks. He falls in love with Miranda and she with him. Prospero finally permits their marriage.
Alonso, king of Naples and father of Ferdinand. He aided the treacherous Antonio in deposing Prospero. When the castaways reach Prospero's island, Alonso is so grief-stricken by the supposed loss of his son that he repents of his wickedness and is forgiven by Prospero.
Antonio, Prospero's treacherous brother, who has usurped the dukedom of Milan. He is finally forgiven for his crime.
Sebastian, brother of Alonso. On the island he plots with Antonio to usurp the throne of Naples. Prospero discovers and frustrates the plot.
Gonzalo, a faithful courtier who saved the lives of Prospero and Miranda.
Ariel, a spirit imprisoned by Sycorax and released by Prospero, whom he serves faithfully. At the conclusion of the play, having carried out all Prospero's commands, he is given complete freedom.
Caliban, the monstrous son of Sycorax, now a servant of Prospero. He represents brute force without intelligence and can be held in check only by Prospero's magic. Some have seen in him Shakespeare's conception of the "natural man."
Stephano, a drunken butler who plots with Caliban and Trinculo against Prospero and is foiled by Ariel.
Trinculo, a clown, a companion of Stephano and later of Caliban.


The Story

When Alonso, king of Naples, was returning from the wedding of his daughter to a foreign prince, his ship was overtaken by a terrible storm. In his company were Duke Antonio of Milan and other gentlemen of the court. As the gale rose in fury, and it seemed certain the vessel would split and sink, the noble travelers were forced to abandon ship and trust to fortune in the open sea.
The tempest was no chance disturbance of wind and wave. It had been raised by a wise magician Prospero, as the ship sailed close to an enchanted island on which he and his lovely daughter Miranda were the only human inhabitants. Theirs had been a sad and curious history. Prospero was rightful duke of Milan. Being devoted more to the study of philosophy and magic than to affairs of state, he had given much power to ambitious Antonio, his brother, who twelve years before had seized the dukedom with the aid of the crafty Neapolitan king. The conspirators set Prospero and his small daughter adrift in a boat, and they would have perished miserably had not Gonzalo, an honest counselor, secretly stocked the frail craft with food, clothing, and the books Prospero valued most.
The helpless exiles drifted at last to an island which had been the refuge of Sycorax, an evil sorceress. There Prospero found Caliban, her son, a strange, misshapen creature of brute intelligence, able only to hew wood and draw water. Also obedient to Prospero's will were many good spirits of air and water, whom he had freed from torments to which the sorceress Sycorax had condemned them earlier. Ariel, a lively sprite, was chief of these.
Prospero, having used his magic arts to draw the ship bearing King Alonso and Duke Antonio close to his enchanted island, ordered Ariel to bring the whole party safely ashore, singly or in scattered groups. Ferdinand, King Alonso's son, was moved by Ariel's singing to follow the sprite to Prospero's rocky cell. Miranda, who remembered seeing no human face but her father's bearded one, at first sight fell deeply in love with the handsome young prince, and he with her. Prospero was pleased to see the young people so attracted to each other, but he concealed his pleasure, spoke harshly to them, and to test Ferdinand's mettle commanded him to perform menial tasks.
Meanwhile Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo wandered sadly along the beach, the king in despair because he believed his son drowned. Ariel, invisible in air, played solemn music, lulling to sleep all except Sebastian and Antonio. Drawing apart, they planned to kill the king and his counselor and make Sebastian tyrant of Naples. Watchful Ariel awakened the sleepers before the plotters could act. On another part of the island Caliban, carrying a load of wood, met Trinculo, the king's jester, and Ste-phano, the royal butler, both drunk. In rude sport they offered drink to Caliban. Tipsy, the loutish monster bewailed his thralldom to the "tyrant," Prospero. Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano then schemed to kill Prospero and become rulers of the island—just as Sebastian and Antonio had plotted to murder Alonso. Stephano was to be king, Miranda his consort; Trinculo and Caliban would be viceroys. Unseen, Ariel listened to their evil designs and reported the plan to Prospero.
Meanwhile Miranda had disobeyed her father to interrupt Ferdinand's task of rolling logs and, the hidden magician's commands forgotten, the two exchanged lovers' vows. Satisfied by the prince's declarations of devotion and constancy, Prospero left them to their own happy company. He, with Ariel, went to mock Alonso and his followers by showing them a banquet which vanished before the hungry castaways could taste the rich dishes. Then Ariel, disguised as a harpy, reproached them for their conspiracy against Prospero. Convinced that Ferdinand's death was punishment for his own crime, Alonso was moved to repentance for his cruel deed.
Returning to his cave, Prospero released Ferdinand from his hard toil. While spirits dressed as Ceres, Iris, Juno, nymphs, and reapers entertained Miranda and the prince with a pastoral masque, Prospero suddenly remembered the schemes which had been devised by Caliban and the drunken servants. Told to punish the plotters, Ariel first tempted them with a display of kingly garments; then, urging on his fellow spirits in the shapes of fierce hunting dogs, he drove them howling with pain and rage through bogs and brier patches.
Convinced at last that the king of Naples and his false brother Antonio had repented their evil deed of years before, Prospero commanded Ariel to bring them into the enchanted circle before the magician's cell. Ariel soon returned, luring by strange, beautiful music the king, Antonio, Sebastian, and Gonzalo. At first they were astonished to see Prospero in the appearance and dress of the wronged duke of Milan. Prospero confirmed his identity, ordered Antonio to restore his dukedom, and severely warned Sebastian not to plot further against the king. Finally, he took the repentant Alonso into the cave, where Ferdinand and Miranda sat playing chess. There was a joyful reunion between father and son at this unexpected meeting, and the king was completely captivated by the beauty and grace of Miranda. During this scene of reconciliation and rejoicing, Ariel appeared with the master and boatswain of the wrecked ship; they reported the vessel safe and ready to continue the voyage. The three grotesque conspirators were driven in by Ariel, and Prospero released them from their spell. Caliban was ordered to prepare food and set it before the guests. Prospero invited his brother and the king of Naples and his train to spend the night in his cave.
Before he left the island, Prospero dismissed Ariel from his service, leaving that sprite free to wander as he wished. Ariel promised calm seas and auspicious winds for the voyage back to Naples and Milan, where Prospero would journey to take possession of his lost dukedom and to witness the marriage of his daughter and Prince Ferdinand.


Critical Evaluation

Earlier critics of The Tempest concerned themselves with meaning and attempted to establish symbolic representations for Prospero, Ariel, Caliban, and Miranda, suggesting such qualities as imagination, fancy, brute man, and innocence. Many considered the play in terms of its spectacle and music, comparing it to the masque or commedia del I'arte. A major group have read into Prospero's control and direction of all the characters, climaxed by the famous speech in which he gives up his magic wand, Shakespeare's own dramatic progress and final farewell to the stage.
Contemporary criticism seems to explore different levels of both action and meaning. Attention has been directed to various themes, such as illusion-reality, freedom-slavery, revenge-forgiveness, time and self-knowledge. Some Shakespearean scholars of the latter half of the twentieth century suggest that the enchanted isle upon which the shipwreck occurs is a symbol of life itself: an enclosed arena wherein are enacted the passions, dreams, conflicts, and self-discoveries of man. Such a wide-angled perspective satisfies both the casual reader who wishes to be entertained and the serious scholar who desires to examine different aspects of Shakespeare's art and philosophy.
This latter view is consonant with one of Shakespeare's major techniques in all his work: the microcosm-macrocosm analogy. The Elizabethans believed that the world of man (microcosm) mirrored the universe (macrocosm). In the major tragedies, this correspondence is shown in the pattern of order-disorder, usually with man's violent acts (such as Brutus' murder of Caesar, the usurpation of the throne by Richard III, Claudius' murder of Hamlet's father, Macbeth's killing of Duncan) being mirrored by a sympathetic disruption of order in the world of nature. Attendant upon such events are happenings such as unnatural earthquakes, appearance of strange beasts at midday, unaccountable storms, voices from the sky, witches, and other strange phenomena.
The idea that the world is but an extension of man's mind, and that the cosmic order in turn is reflected in man himself, gives validity to diverse interpretations of The Tempest. The initial storm, or "tempest," invoked by Prospero, which wrecks the ship, finds analogy in Antonio's long-past usurpation of Prospero's dukedom and his setting Prospero and his small daughter, Miranda, adrift at sea in a storm in the hope they would perish. Now, years later, the court party, including Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, and Ferdinand, along with the drunken Ste-phano and Trinculo, are cast upon the island which will prove, with its "meanderings," pitfalls, and enchantments, a place where everyone will go through a learning process and most will come to greater self-knowledge.
Illusions upon this island, such as Ariel's disguises, the disappearing banquet, and the line of glittering costumes deluding Stephano, Trinculo, and Caliban, find counterparts in the characters' illusions about themselves. Antonio has come to believe he is the rightful duke; Sebastian and Antonio, deluded by ambition, plan to kill Alonso and Gonzalo and make Sebastian tyrant of Naples. The drunken trio of court jester, butler, and Caliban falsely see themselves as future conquerors and rulers of the island. Ferdinand is tricked into believing his father is drowned and that Miranda is a goddess. Miranda, in turn, nurtured upon illusions by her father, knows little of human beings and their evil. Even Prospero must come to see he is not master of the universe, and that revenge is no answer for injustice but that justice must be tempted by mercy.
It has been noted that the island is different things to different people. Here again is an illustration of the microcosm-macrocosm analogy. The characters of integrity see it as a beautiful place; for honest Gonzalo it is a possible Utopia. Sebastian and Antonio, whose outlook is soured by their villainy, characterize the island's air as perfumed by a rotten swamp. In like manner, the sense of freedom or slavery each character feels is again conditioned by his view of the island and his own makeup as well as by Prospero's magic. The most lovely expressions of the island's beauty and enchantment come from the half-human Caliban, who knew its offering far better than any before his enslavement by Prospero.
In few of his other plays has Shakespeare effected a closer relationship between the human and natural universe. Human beauty and ugliness, good and evil, gentleness and cruelty are matched with the external environment. Fortunately, in The Tempest, everything works toward a reconciliation of the best in both man and nature. This harmony is expressed, for example, by the delightful pastoral masque Prospero stages for the young lovers, Ferdinand and Miranda. In this entertainment, reapers and nymphs join in dancing, indicating the union of natural and supernatural, the coming marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda—the union of the children of two former enemies, signifying reunion, reconciliation, and a return to order after chaos—also foreshadows such harmony, as do the general repentance and forgiveness among the major characters. It may be true, as Prospero states in act 5, that upon the island "no man was his own," but he also confirms that understanding has come like a 'swelling tide'; and promises calm seas for the homeward journey, after which each man will take up the tasks and responsibilities of his station with improved perspective. As Prospero renounces his magic, Ariel is free to return to the elements, and Caliban, true child of nature, is left to regain harmony with his unspoiled world. Perhaps the satisfaction Shakespeare's audience feels results from the harmony between man and nature that illumines the close of the play—a figurative return to innocence after the sins of the Fall. In this latter sense, The Tempest is Shakespeare's most idealistic play: a plea for the forgiveness, mercy, and love which are the only forces that can absolve man's sins and set the world right again.





Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic comedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: Ilyria
First presented: 1600


The principal charm of Twelfth Night, one of Shakespeare's most delightful comedies, lies in its gallery of characters; the dour Puritan Malvolio; the clownish Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek; and the witty Maria. The original source of the plot was a novella by Bandello, based on an earlier work by Cinthio, but the story was translated into various secondary sources which Shakespeare probably used.


Principal Characters

Viola (ve'o-b), who, with her twin brother Sebastian, is shipwrecked upon the coast of Ilyria. The twins are separated, and a friendly sea captain helps Viola to assume male clothes and to find service as the page Cesario (se-za'ri-o), with Orsino, duke of Ilyria. Her new master is pleased with her and sends the disguised girl to press his suit for the hand of the Countess Olivia, with whom the duke is in love. Olivia, who has been in mourning for her brother, finally admits the page and instantly falls in love with the supposed young man. Cesario, meanwhile, has been falling in love with Orsino. So apparent is Olivia's feeling for Cesario that the countess' admirer, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, is persuaded that he must send a challenge to the page, which challenge Cesario reluctantly accepts. A sea captain, Antonio, a friend of Sebastian, chances upon the duel and rescues Viola, mistaking her for her brother whom he had found after the wreck and to whom he had entrusted his purse. In the ensuing confusion, Olivia marries the real Sebastian, thinking him to be Cesario. Viola and her brother are finally reunited. Viola marries Orsino, and all ends happily.
Sebastian (se-bas'tyan), Viola's twin brother. Separated from her during the shipwreck, he makes his way to Duke Orsino's court, where he is befriended by Antonio. He is involved in a fight with Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who mistakes him for Cesario. When Olivia interferes and takes Sebastian to her home, she marries him, also thinking him to be Cesario. Thus he and Viola are reunited.
Orsino (or-se'no), duke of Ilyria (HIr'-I-э), in love with Olivia. He sends the disguised Viola to press his suit, not realizing that Viola is falling in love with him. But when Viola reveals herself as a girl, the duke returns her love and marries her.
Olivia (d-lJv'i-э), a rich countess, living in retirement because of the death of her brother. Orsino courts her through Cesario, but she rejects his suit and falls in love with the disguised Viola. When Sebastian, whom she mistakes for Cesario, is brought to her after the fight with Sir Andrew, she marries him.
Malvolio (mal-vo'11-б), Olivia's pompous steward. Considering himself far above his station, he dreams of marrying the countess. He so angers the other members of her household by his arrogance that they play a trick on him. Maria, imitating Olivia's handwriting, plants a note telling him that to please the countess he must appear always smiling and wearing yellow stocking cross-gartered, affectations that Olivia hates. The countess considers him insane and has him locked in a dark room. He is finally released and leaves the stage vowing revenge. Some critics have seen Malvolio as Shakespeare's satiric portrait of the Puritan, but this interpretation is disputed by others.
Maria (татё'э), Olivia's lively waiting woman. It is she who, angered by the vanity of Malvolio, imitates Olivia's handwriting in the note that leads him to make a fool of himself. She marries Sir Toby Belch.
Sir Toby Belch (to'bi belsh), Olivia's uncle and a member of her household. His conviviality is constantly threatened by Malvolio so that he gladly joins in the plot against the steward. Sir Toby marries Maria.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek (agu'chek), a cowardly, foolish drinking companion of Sir Toby and suitor of Olivia. He is forced into a duel with Cesario but mistakenly becomes involved with Sebastian, who wounds him.
Antonio (an-to'ni-o), a sea captain who befriends Sebastian, though at great risk, for he has been forbidden to enter Ilyria. Having entrusted Sebastian with his purse, he is involved in the confusion of identities between Sebastian and Cesario. When he is confronted with the twins, Antonio helps to clear up the mystery of the mistaken identities.
Feste (fes'ta), a clown. He teases Malvolio during his confinement, but brings to Olivia the steward's letter explaining the trick that had been played on him.


The Story

Viola and Sebastian, identical twin brother and sister, were separated when the ship on which they were passengers was wrecked during a great storm at sea. Each, thinking the other dead, set out into the world alone, with no hope of being reunited.
The lovely and charming Viola was cast upon the shores of Ilyria, where she was befriended by a kind sea captain. Together they planned to dress Viola in men's clothing and have her take service as a page in the household of young Duke Orsino. This course was decided on because there was no chance of her entering the service of the Countess Olivia, a rich noblewoman of the duchy. Olivia, in deep mourning for the death of her young brother, would admit no one to her palace and would never think of interviewing a servant. So Viola, dressed in man's garb, called herself Cesario and became the duke's personal attendant. Orsino, impressed by the youth's good looks and pert but courtly speech, sent him as his envoy of love to woo the countess Olivia.
That wealthy noblewoman lived in a splendid palace with a servant, Maria, a drunken old uncle, Sir Toby Belch, and her steward, Malvolio. These three made a strange combination. Maria and Sir Toby were a happy-go-lucky pair who drank and caroused with Sir Andrew Aguecheek, an ancient nobleman who was much enamored of Olivia. In return for the grog supplied by Sir Andrew, Sir Toby was supposed to press Sir Andrew's suit of love with Olivia. Actually, however, Sir Toby never sobered up long enough to maintain his part of the bargain. All these affairs were observed with a great deal of disapproval by Malvolio, the ambitious, narrow-minded steward. This irritable, pompous individual could brook no jollity in those about him.
When Cesario arrived at the palace, Olivia finally decided to receive a messenger from Orsino. Instantly Olivia was attracted to Cesario and paid close attention to the page's addresses, but it was not love for Orsino that caused Olivia to listen so carefully. When Cesario left, the countess, feeling in a flirtatious mood, sent Malvolio after the page with a ring. With an abrupt shock, Viola, who enjoyed playing the part of Cesario, realized that Olivia had fallen in love with her disguise.
Meanwhile Maria with Sir Toby and Sir Andrew decided to stop Malvolio's constant prying into their affairs. Maria devised a scheme whereby Malvolio would find a note, supposedly written by Olivia, in which she confessed her secret love for the steward and asked him to wear yellow stockings tied with cross garters and to smile continually in her presence. Malvolio, discovering the note, was overjoyed. Soon he appeared in his strange dress, capering and bowing before the countess. Olivia, startled by the sight of her usually dignified steward behaving in such a peculiar fashion, decided he had lost his wits. Much to the amusement of the three conspirators, she had him confined to a dark room.
As the days went by in the duke's service, Viola fell deeply in love with that sentimental nobleman, but he had eyes only for Olivia and pressed the page to renew his suit with the countess. When Cesario returned with another message from the duke, Olivia openly declared her love for the young page. Cesario insisted, however, that his heart could never be won by any woman. So obvious were Olivia's feelings for Cesario that Sir Andrew became jealous. Sir Toby and Maria insisted that Sir Andrew's only course was to fight a duel with the page. Sir Toby delivered Sir Andrew's blustering challenge, which Cesario reluctantly accepted.
While these events were taking place, Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, had been rescued by Antonio, a sea captain, and the two had become close friends. When Sebastian decided to visit the court of Duke Orsino at Ilyria, Antonio, although he feared that he might be arrested because he was the duke's enemy and had once fought a duel with Orsino, decided to accompany his young friend. Upon arrival in Ilyria, Antonio gave Sebastian his purse for safekeeping, and the two men separated for several hours.
During his wanderings about the city, Antonio happened upon the trumped-up duel between the unwilling Cesario and Sir Andrew. Mistaking the page for Sebastian, Antonio immediately went to the rescue of his supposed friend. When police officers arrived on the scene, one of them recognized Antonio and arrested him in the name of the duke.
Antonio, mistaking Viola in disguise for Sebastian, asked for the return of his purse, only to be surprised and hurt because the page disclaimed all knowledge of the captain's money. As Antonio was dragged protesting to jail, he shouted invectives at Sebastian for refusing him his purse. Thus Viola learned for the first time that her brother still lived.
The real Sebastian, meanwhile, had been followed by Sir Andrew, who never dreamed that the young man was not the same Cesario with whom he had just been fighting. Egged on by Sir Toby and Maria, Sir Andrew engaged Sebastian in a duel and was promptly wounded, along with Sir Toby. Olivia then interfered and had Sebastian taken to her home. There, having sent for a priest, she married the surprised but not unwilling Sebastian.
The officers were escorting Antonio past Olivia's house as Duke Orsino, accompanied by Cesario, appeared at the gates. Instantly Orsino recognized Antonio and demanded to know why the sailor had returned to Ilyria, a city filled with his enemies. Antonio explained that he had rescued and befriended the duke's present companion Sebastian, and because of his deep friendship for the lad had accompanied him to Ilyria despite the danger his visit involved. Then pointing to Cesario, he sorrowfully accused the supposed Sebastian of violating their friendship by not returning his purse.
The duke was protesting against this accusation when Olivia appeared and saluted Cesario as her husband. The duke also began to think his page ungrateful, especially since Cesario had been told to press Orsino's suit with Olivia. Just then Sir Andrew and Sir Toby came running looking for a doctor because Sebastian had wounded them. Seeing Cesario, Sir Andrew began to rail at him for his violence. Olivia dismissed the two old men quickly. As they left, the real Sebastian appeared and apologized for the wounds he had given the old men.
Spying Antonio, Sebastian joyfully greeted his friend. Antonio and the rest of the amazed group, unable to believe what they saw, stared from Cesario to Sebastian. Viola then revealed her true identity, explained her disguise, and told how she and her brother had been separated. The mystery cleared up, Sebastian and Viola affectionately greeted each other. The duke, seeing the page whom he had grown so fond was in reality a woman, asked that Viola dress again in feminine attire. She was unable to do as he desired, she explained, because the kind sea captain to whom she had entrusted her clothes was held in prison through the orders of Malvolio. This difficulty was cleared up quickly, for Olivia's clown, Feste, pitying Malvolio, visited him in his confinement and secured a long letter in which the steward explained the reasons for his actions. The plot against him revealed, Malvolio was released. Then followed the freeing of the sea captain, the marriage of Viola and Orsino, and also that of Sir Toby and Maria. Only Malvolio, unhappy in the happiness of others remained peevish and disgruntled.


Critical Evaluation

Twelfth Night: Or, What You Will, was apparently written to be performed on that feast day, the joyous climax of the Renaissance Christmas season, although the feast has nothing intrinsic to do with the substance of the play. The subtitle perhaps suggests that it is a festive bagatelle to be lightly, but artfully, tossed off. Indeed, the play may have been written earlier and revised for the occasion; surely there are many signs of revision, as in the assignment of some songs to Feste which must originally have been intended for Viola. The tone of the play is consistently appropriate to the high merriment of the season. This is Shakespeare at the height of his comic powers, with nine comedies behind him, in an exalted mood to which he never returned, for this play immediately precedes the great tragedies and the problem plays. In Twelfth Night, he recombines many elements and devices from earlier plays, particularly Two Gentlemen of Verona and The Comedy of Errors, into a new triumph, unsurpassed in its deft execution.
It is a brilliant irony that this most joyous play should be compounded out of the sadnesses of the principal characters. Yet the sadnesses are, for the most part, the mannered sadnesses that the Elizabethans so much savored. Orsino particularly revels in a sweet melancholy which is reminiscent of that which afflicted Antonio at the beginning of The Merchant of Venice. His opening speech, which has often been taken too seriously, is not a grief-stricken condemnation of love. It owes much more to Petrarch. Orsino revels in love-longing and the bittersweet satiety of his romantic self-indulgence. He is in love with love, and he is loving every minute of it.
Set up at the other end of town, in balance with Orsino and his establishment, is the household of Olivia. Although her sadness for her brother's death initially seems more substantial than Orsino's airy fantasies, the fact is that she too is a Renaissance melancholic who is wringing the last ounce of enjoyment out of her grief. Her plan to isolate herself for seven years of mourning is an excess, as is wittily pointed out by Feste among others. This plan, though, does provide an excellent counterbalance to Orsino's fancy and sets the plot in motion, since Orsino's love-longing is frustrated, or should we say gratified, by Olivia's being a recluse.
The point of contact, ferrying back and forth between the two, is Viola—as Cesario. She too is sad, but her sadness, like the rest of her behavior, is more direct and human. The sweet beauty which shines through her disguise is elevated beyond a vulgar joke by the immediate, though circumstantially ridiculous, response of Olivia to her human appeal. Viola's grief is not stylized and her love is for human beings rather than abstractions. She seems destined to unite the two melancholy dreamers, but what the play in fact accomplishes is the infusion of Viola, in her own person and in her alter ego, her brother, into both households. The outcome is a glorious resolution. It is, of course immaterial to the dreamy Orsino that he gets Viola instead of Olivia—the emotion is more important than the person. And Olivia, already drawn out of her study by the disguised Viola, gets the next best thing—Sebastian.
The glittering plot is reinforced by some of Shakespeare's best, most delicate dramatic poetry. Moreover, the drama is suffused with bittersweet music. The idyllic setting in Ilyria cooperates with language and imagery to create a most delightful atmosphere wholly appropriate to the celebration of love and the enjoyment of this world.
There is one notable briar in the rose garden, Malvolio, but he is perhaps the most interesting character in the play. Malvolio is called a puritan, and, though he is not a type, he does betray characteristics contemporarily associated with that sect. He is the sort of self-important, serious-minded person with high ideals who cannot bear the happiness of others. As Sir Toby puts it, "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Malvolio is in a tough spot in this joyous world and, against his will, he becomes part of the fun when he is duped and made to appear ridiculous. He is, however, the representative of a group, growing in power, whose earnestness threatened to take the joy out of life (and, incidentally, close the theaters). Yet, Shakespeare does not indulge in a satire on puritanism. As Dover Wilson has noted, he does not characteristically, avail himself of the critical powers of comedy except in a most indirect way.
Malvolio is ridiculous, but so are the cavaliers who surround him. The absurd Aguecheek and the usually drunken Sir Toby Belch are the representatives, on the political level, of the old order which Malvolio's confreres in the real world were soon to topple. Yet, if these characters are flawed, they are certainly more engaging
than the inflated Malvolio. Shakespeare does not set up the contrast as a political allegory, with right on one side and wrong on the other. Nevertheless, Malvolio is an intrusion in the idyllic world of the play. He cannot love; his desire for the hand of Olivia is grounded in an earnest will to get ahead. He cannot celebrate; he is too pious and self-involved. What is left for him but to be the butt of the joke? That is his role in the celebration. Some critics have suggested that he has been treated too harshly. However, a Renaissance audience would have understood how ludicrous and indecorous it was for a man of his class to think for a moment of courting Olivia. His pompous and blustery language are the key to how alien he is to this festive context. When he has done his bit, Olivia casually mentions that perhaps he has been put upon, but this is the only gesture he deserves. He is the force that can ruin the celebration of all that is good and refined and joyful in Elizabethan society.





Type of work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Romantic comedy
Time of plot: Sixteenth century
Locale: Italy
First presented: 1594


An early and comparatively immature romantic comedy, The Two Gentlemen of Verona is charming and witty; but the characters seem superficial, and the hero's quick and sympathetic forgiveness of the friend who had betrayed him strikes a false note.


Principal Characters

Valentine (val'sn-tin), a witty young gentleman of Verona. Scoffing at his lovesick friend Proteus, he goes with his father to Milan, where he enters the court of the duke and promptly falls in love with Silvia, the ruler's daughter. Planning to elope with her, he finds his plot betrayed to the duke, and he flees to a nearby forest to save his life. There he joins a band of outlaws and becomes their leader, a sort of Robin Hood. His concept of the superior claims of friendship over love is uncongenial to the modern reader, who finds it hard to forgive him when he calmly bestows Silvia upon Proteus, from whose clutches he has just rescued her, to testify to the depth of his renewed friendship for the young man.
Proteus (pro'te-us), his friend, a self-centered youth who fancies himself a lover in the best euphuistic tradition. He forgets his strong protestations of undying affection for Julia when he meets Valentine's Silvia in Milan. No loyalties deter him from betraying his friend's planned elopement to the duke, then deceiving the latter by trying to win the girl for himself while he pretends to be furthering the courtship of Sir Thurio. When Silvia resists his advances, he carries her off by force. Stricken with remorse when Valentine intervenes to protect her, he promises to reform. The constancy of his cast-off sweetheart, Julia, makes him recognize his faithlessness and her virtue, and they are happily reunited.
Julia (jool'ya), a young noblewoman of Verona. She criticizes her suitors with the humorous detachment of a Portia before she confesses to her maid her fondness for Proteus. She follows him to Milan in the disguise of the page Sebastian, and with dogged devotion she even carries Proteus' messages to her rival Silvia, in order to be near him. She reveals her identity almost unwittingly by fainting when Valentine relinquishes Silvia to Proteus as a token of his friendship. She regains the love of her fiance by this demonstration of her love.
Silvia (sil'vi-э), daughter of the Duke of Milan. She falls in love with Valentine and encourages his suit; she asks him to copy a love letter for her—directed to himself, although he does not realize this fact at first. Proteus' fickle admiration annoys rather than pleases her, and she stands so firm in her love for Valentine that his generous offer of her to Proteus seems almost intolerable.
Speed, Valentine's exuberant, loquacious servant, cleverer than his master at seeing through Silvia's device of the love letter. He is one of the earliest of Shakespeare's witty clowns, the predecessor of Touchstone, Feste, and the Fool in King Lear.
Launce (lans), Proteus' man, a simple soul, given to malapropisms and faux pas, in spite of his excellent intentions. His presentation to Silvia, in Proteus' name, of his treasured mongrel, Crab, a dog "as big as ten" of the creature sent by his master as a gift, does little to further Proteus' courtship. Inspired by his master's gallantry, he pays court to a milkmaid and gives great amusement to Speed by his enumeration of her virtues.
The Duke of Milan, Silvia's father, a strong-willed man who attempts to control his rash impulses. He welcomes and trusts Valentine, although he suspects his love for Silvia, until Proteus reveals the proposed elopement; then he cleverly forces Valentine into a position in which he must reveal his treachery. He finally consents to his daughter's marriage to Valentine as gracefully as possible, but one cannot forget that he is at this time the prisoner of the prospective bridegroom's men.
Sir Thurio (toori-o, thoo'n-o), a vain, unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Silvia, who despises him. Although he is willing to follow Proteus' expert instruction in the manners of courtship, he has no desire to risk his life for a woman who cares nothing for him, and he hastily departs when Valentine stands ready to defend his claim to Silvia's hand.
Lucetta (loo-eet's), a clever, bright young woman who delights in teasing her mistress Julia, for whom she is friend and confidante as well as servant.
Sir Eglamour (Sg'la-moor), an elderly courtier. He serves as Silvia's protector when she prepares to flee from her father and marriage to Sir Thurio.


The Story

Valentine and Proteus, two longtime friends of great understanding, disagreed heartily on one point. Valentine thought the most important thing in life was to travel and learn the wonders of the world. Proteus, on the other hand, thought love the only thing worthwhile. The two friends parted for a time when Valentine traveled to Milan, to seek advancement and honor in the palace of the duke. He pleaded with Proteus to join him in the venture, but Proteus was too much in love with Julia to leave her side for even a short time. Julia was a noble and pure young girl, pursued by many, but Proteus at last won her heart, and the two were happy in their love.
Valentine journeyed to Milan, and there he learned his friend had been right in believing love to be all that is worthwhile. In Milan Valentine met the duke's daughter Silvia and fell instantly in love with her. Silvia returned his love, but her father wanted her to marry Thurio, a foolish man who had no charm but owned much land and gold. Valentine longed for Silvia, but he saw no chance of getting her father's consent to his suit. Then he learned that his friend Proteus was soon to arrive in Milan, sent there by his father, who, ignorant of Proteus' love affair, wished his son to educate himself by travel.
The two friends had a joyful reunion. Valentine proudly presented his friend to Silvia, and to Proteus he highly praised the virtue and beauty of his beloved. When they were alone, Valentine confided to Proteus that he planned to fashion a rope ladder and steal Silvia from her room and marry her, for her father would give her to no one but Thurio. Valentine, asking his friend to help him in his plan, was too absorbed to notice that Proteus remained strangely silent. The truth was that, at the first sight of Silvia, Proteus had forgotten his solemn vows to Julia, sealed before he left her with the double giving of rings, and he had forgotten too his oath of friendship with Valentine. He determined to have Silvia for his own. So, with protestations of self-hatred for the betrayal of his friend, Proteus told the duke of Valentine's plan to escape with Silvia from the palace and carry her away to be married in another land. The duke, forewarned, tricked Valentine into revealing the plot and banished him from Milan, on penalty of his life should he not leave at once.
While these events were taking place, Julia, thinking that Proteus still loved her and grieving over his absence, disguised herself as a page and traveled to Milan to see her love. She was on her way to Milan when Valentine was forced to leave that city and Silvia. Valentine, not knowing that his onetime friend had betrayed him, believed Proteus' promise that he would carry letters back and forth between the exile and Silvia.
With Valentine out of the way, Proteus next proceeded to get rid of Thurio as a rival. Thurio, foolish and gullible, was an easy man to trick. One night Proteus and Thurio went to Silvia's window to serenade her in Thurio 's name but Proteus sang to her and made love speeches also. Unknown to him, Julia, in the disguise of a page, stood in the shadows and heard him disown his love for her and proclaim his love for Silvia. Silvia scorned him, however, and swore that she would love no one but Valentine. She also accused him of playing false with Julia, for Valentine had told her the story of his friend's betrothal.
Calling herself Sebastian, Julia, still in the dress of a page, was employed by Proteus to carry messages to Silvia. One day he gave her the ring which Julia herself had given him and told her to deliver it to Silvia. When Silvia refused the ring and sent it back to Proteus, Julia loved her rival and blessed her.
Valentine, in the meantime, had been captured by outlaws, once-honorable men who had been banished for petty crimes and had taken refuge in the woods near Mantua. In order to save his own life, Valentine joined the band and soon became their leader. A short time later, Silvia, hoping to find Valentine, escaped from the palace and with the help of an agent arrived at an abbey near Milan. There she was captured by the outlaws. When her father heard of her flight, he took Thurio and Proteus, followed by Julia, to the abbey to look for her. Proteus, arriving first on the scene, rescued her from the outlaws before they were able to take her to their leader. Again Proteus proclaimed his love for her. When she scornfully berated him, he seized her and tried to force his attentions upon her. Unknown to Proteus, however, Valentine had overheard all that was said. He sprang upon Proteus and pulled him away from the frightened girl.
Valentine was more hurt and wounded by his friend's duplicity than by anything else that had happened. Yet such was Valentine's forgiving nature that when Proteus confessed his guilt and his shame over his betrayal, Valentine forgave him and received him again as his friend. In order to prove his friendship, he gave up his claim on Silvia. At that moment, Julia, still disguised, fainted away. When she was revived, she pretended to hand over to Silvia the ring Proteus had ordered her to deliver. Instead, however, she offered the ring Proteus had given her when they parted in Verona. Than Julia was recognized by all, and Proteus professed that he still loved her.
The outlaws appeared with the duke and Thurio, whom they had captured in the forest. Thurio gave up all claim to Silvia, for he thought a girl who would run off into the woods to pursue another man much too foolish for him to marry. Then her father, convinced at last of Valentine's worth, gave that young man permission to marry Silvia. During the general rejoicing Valentine begged one more boon. He asked the duke to pardon the outlaws, all brave men who would serve the duke faithfully if he would return them from exile. The duke granted the boon, and the whole party made its way back to Milan. There the two happy couples would share one wedding day.


Critical Evaluation

The Two Gentlemen of Verona is a play about love. The major source of conflict in the play is the dispute caused by the friction between two differing varieties of love: the attraction between man and woman (romantic love) and the bond between man and man (friendship). Even in modern times there is debate as to which of these types of love is the higher—the more refined, the more pure variety—and during the Renaissance this question was debated endlessly in a series of philosophical and artistic works which form the essential backdrop for Shakespeare's play. In a sense, The Two Gentlemen of Verona is Shakespeare's contribution to and comment upon an ongoing controversy over human affections and their proper place within a universal order.
Although The Two Gentlemen of Verona is one of Shakespeare's shorter plays, a glance at a Shakespearean concordance reveals that it uses this very word "love" more than does any other—even more than that supposedly most romantic of his works, Romeo and Juliet. Yet the love that runs through The Two Gentlemen of Verona is at first glance a puzzling one, for what sort of affection must Valentine have in order to offer Silvia to Proteus? In turn, what is Silvia's love that she seems silently to accept the barter? Moreover, if love is indeed the central theme of the play, why is Proteus so laggard in discovering not only Julia's devotion to him but his appreciation for her? On the one hand there is a simple enough answer: If these were not the complications involved, there would be no play. On the other hand, there is the matter of the contemporary worldview from which Shakespeare fashioned his comedy.
The series of changes in thought and attitudes so conveniently jumbled together and labeled as the Renaissance came to England at a relatively late date, and when it arrived it carried contradictory strains, two of the most prominent being courtly love and its counterpart, Neo-platonic love. Courtly love, as expressed most notably by Dante in his Vita nuova, emphasized the ennobling and uplifting effects of romantic love, the powerful and positive impact that a virtuous, usually virginal, woman could have on a lowly and often sinful male. Its underlying theme, explicit in Dante and always implicit in Shakespearean comedy, is that man is incomplete and imperfect without the love of a worthy woman. Critics have often speculated as to why Julia is so attracted to Proteus and why Silvia accepts the less-than-perfect and certainly less-than-appreciative Valentine. In the same vein, it could be asked of another of Shakespeare's plays, All's Well That Ends Well, why the clearly superior Helena so determinedly woos, outwits, and wins the undeserving Bertram. Such questions miss an essential point: According to the tenets of courtly love, it is precisely the fact that a virtuous woman chooses a man—however many or serious his faults—that ennobles him and raises him, despite those faults, to something approaching her level. This theme is clearly present in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Julia is the forerunner of her equally virtuous and even more accomplished sister Portia (A Merchant of Venice) and Viola (As You Like It). Indeed, like Viola, Julia disguises herself as a man in order to follow her lover on his adventures. So accomplished are Shakespeare's heroines in these comedies that they can embrace the social role of either sex and outshine men in their own sphere.
This view of relationships is one pole of the magnetic word "love" as it appears in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The second pole concentrates on male friendship, a theme which was well known in Shakespeare's time because of the philosophy of Neoplatonism. Perhaps the most widely known exponent of this thought in Shakespeare's England was the Italian writer Marsilio Ficino (1433-1499), who developed and elaborated upon the concept of the ladder of love. According to Ficino, the truly noble mind progresses through a series of upward steps, beginning with earthly, physical love and leading ultimately to that final, transcendent love which can be equated with God. In such a system, the love between man and man, expressed as a friendship of souls, was higher than romantic love between man and woman, because it had no (or little) physical attraction and instead concentrated upon intellectual and spiritual affinities. This enabled the soul to mount the ladder toward contemplation of true, divine love. Within such a philosophy, it is allowable that Valentine could openly offer Silvia to his friend Proteus, without either shame or regret.
Yet this philosophy is not the one which guides The Two Gentlemen of Verona. It has enough potency to shape the play's plot, but it cannot determine its outcome or control its theme. A tough-minded sense of romantic, courtly love, embodied in Julia, is capable of outdueling the somewhat fragile male friendship of Valentine and Proteus. The triumph of Julia, however, is more than the victory of one philosophical system over another; instead, it is the triumph of common sense over all abstract forms of thought. In its ending, as in its characters and style, The Two Gentlemen of Verona looks forward to Shakespeare's later comedies, which are cast in the golden light of his deep understanding of human faults, needs, and values.





Type of Work: Drama
Author: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Type of plot: Tragicomedy
Time of plot: The legendary past
Locale: Sicilia and Bohemia
First presented: 1611


The motivating passion of this late Shakespearean play, a tragicomedy suffused by gentle melancholy, is unreasonable and cruel jealousy, the effects of which are moderated by the charming romance of the young lovers, Perdita and Florizel.


Principal Characters

Leontes (le-on'tez), king of Sicilia. For many years a close friend of King Polixenes of Bohemia, Leontes, curiously, becomes insanely jealous of him. Afraid of becoming a cuckold, he imprisons Hermione, wrests her son away from her, and attempts to murder Polixenes. When he learns that Hermione is pregnant, he rails; he calls his daughter a bastard and forces Antigonus to leave the child alone in a deserted area. Finally, coming to his senses, he realizes the awful truth. Through his jealousy, he loses child, wife and friends.
Polixenes (po-liks's-nez), king of Bohemia. The innocent victim of Leontes' wrath, he flees to his kingdom, bewildered by his friend's outburst. Many years later he is to meet Leontes under much happier circumstances.
Hermione (her-тГэ-пё), queen to Leontes and one of the noblest women in Shakespearean drama. Like Polixenes, she is baffled by Leontes' jealousy. Imprisoned, her children snatched away from her, she remains in hiding with Paulina, his devoted friend, until she is reunited with her family after sixteen years.
Perdita (per'dl-ta), daughter of Leontes and Hermione. Luckily for her, after she has been abandoned she is found by an old shepherd who protects her as his own child until she is of marriageable age. Meeting young Prince Florizel of Bohemia, she falls in love with him. Later she and her repentant father are reunited.
Paulina (ро-1ё'пэ), wife of Antigonus and lady in waiting to Hermione. Realizing the absurdity of Leontes' accusations, the courageous woman upbraids him unmercifully for his blind cruelty to Hermione, whom she keeps hidden for sixteen years. Finally, through her efforts, husband and wife meet on a much happier note.
Camillo (ка-тП'б), a lord of Sicilia and Leontes' trusted adviser, who realizes that Hermione is completely innocent of adultery. When ordered by Leontes to kill Polixenes, loyal, steadfast Camillo cannot murder a good king. Instead, he sails with Polixenes and serves him well for many years. Later, he returns to his beloved Sicilia.
Antigonus (an-tig'3-nus), a lord of Sicilia and Paulina's husband. Much against his will, this unhappy man is forced to abandon Perdita in a deserted wasteland. Unfortunately for this good man, who is aware of the king's irrationality, he is killed and eaten by a bear; hence the fate and whereabouts of Perdita remain unknown for many years.
Autolycus (o-tol'ikus), a rogue. A balladist, he is a delightful scoundrel. Quick with a song, he is equally adept at stealing purses and, in general, at living by his quick wit.
Florizel (flor'i-zel), prince of Bohemia. In love with Perdita, he refuses to give her up, even though, in so doing, he angers his hot-tempered father who does not want to see his son marry a girl of apparent low birth.
An Old Shepherd, the reputed father of Perdita.
A Clown, his oafish son.
Dion (dlon) and Cleomenes (Иё-бт'э-nez), lords of Sicilia.
Mamillius (ma-nuTl-us), the young prince of Sicilia, son of Leontes and Hermione.


The Story

Polixenes, king of Bohemia, was the guest of Leontes, king of Sicilia. The two men had been friends since boyhood, and there was much celebrating and joyousness during the visit. At last Polixenes decided that he must return to his home country. Although Leontes urged him to extend his visit, Polixenes refused, saying that he had not seen his young son for a long time. Then Leontes asked Hermione, his wife, to do her part in persuading Polixenes to remain. Hermione did as her husband asked and finally Polixenes yielded to her pleas. The fact that Polixenes had listened to Hermione's request after refusing his own urgings aroused Leontes' suspicion. Quickly he decided that Hermione and Polixenes were lovers and that he had been cuckolded.
Leontes was of a jealous disposition, even seeking constant reassurance that his son Mamillius was his own offspring. Jealously misjudging his wife and his old friend, Leontes was so angered by this latest turn of events that he ordered Camillo, his chief counselor, to poison Polixenes. All Camillo's attempts to dissuade Leontes from his scheme only strengthened the jealous man's feelings of hate. Nothing could persuade the king that Hermione was true to him. Eventually Camillo agreed to poison Polixenes, but only on condition that Leontes return to Hermione with no more distrust.
Polixenes himself had noticed a change in Leontes' attitude toward him. When he questioned Camillo, the sympathetic lord revealed the whole plot to poison him. Together they hastily embarked for Bohemia.
Upon learning that Polixenes and Camillo had fled, Leontes was more than ever convinced that his guest and his wife had been guilty of carrying on an affair. He conjectured that Polixenes and Camillo had been plotting together all the while and planning his murder. Moreover, he decided that Hermione, who was pregnant, was in all likelihood bearing Polixenes' child and not his. Publicly he accused Hermione of adultery and commanded that her son be taken from her. She herself was put into prison. Although his servants protested the order, Leontes' mind could not be changed.
In prison Hermione gave birth to a baby girl. Paulina, her attendant, thought that the sight of the baby girl might cause Leontes to relent in his harshness, and so she carried the child to the palace. Instead of forgiving his wife, Leontes became more incensed and demanded that the child be put to death. He instructed Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the baby to a far-off desert shore and there abandon it. Although the lord pleaded release from this cruel command, he was at length forced to put out to sea with the intention of leaving the child to perish on some lonely coast.
Leontes had sent two messengers to consult the Oracle of Delphi to determine Hermione's guilt. When the men returned, Leontes summoned his wife and the whole court to hear the verdict. The messengers read a scroll that stated that Hermione was innocent, as well as Polixenes and Camillo, that Leontes was a tyrant, and that he would live without an heir until that which was lost was found.
The king, refusing to believe the oracle, declared its findings false, and again accused Hermione of infidelity. In the midst of his tirade a servant rushed in to say that young Mamillius had died because of sorrow and anxiety over his mother's plight. On hearing this news Hermione fell into a swoon and was carried to her chambers. Soon afterward Paulina returned to say that her mistress was dead. At this news Leontes. who had already begun to believe the oracle after news of his son's death, beat his breast with self-rage. He reproached himself bitterly for his insane jealousy which had led to these unhappy events. In repentance the king swore that he would have the legend of the deaths of his son and wife engraved on then-tombstones and that he himself would do penance thereafter.
Meanwhile Antigonus took the baby girl to a desert country near the sea. Heartsick at having to abandon her, the old courtier laid a bag of gold and jewels by her with instructions that she should be called Perdita, a name revealed to him in a dream. After Antigonus completed these tasks, he was attacked and killed by a bear. Later his ship was wrecked in a storm and all hands were lost. Thus no news of the expedition reached Sicilia. A kind shepherd who had found Perdita watched, however, the deaths of Antigonus and his men.
Sixteen years passed, bringing with them many changes. Leontes was a broken man, grieving alone in his palace. Little Perdita had grown into a beautiful and charming young woman under the care of the shepherd. So lovely was she that Prince Florizel, heir to the throne of Bohemia and the son of Polixenes, had fallen madly in love with her.
Unaware of the girl's background, and knowing only that his son was in love with a young shepherdess, Polixenes and Camillo, now his most trusted servant, disguised themselves and visited a sheep-shearing festival, where they saw Florizel, dressed as a shepherd, dancing with a lovely young woman. Although he realized that the shepherdess was of noble bearing, Polixenes revealed himself when Florizel was about to become engaged to Perdita, and in great rage he forbade the marriage and threatened to punish his son.
Florizel then made secret plans to elope with Perdita to a foreign country in order to escape his father's wrath. Camillo, pitying the young couple, advised Florizel to embark for Sicilia and to pretend that he was a messenger of goodwill from the king of Bohemia. Camillo supplied the young man with letters of introduction to Leontes. Camillo's plan was also to inform Polixenes of the lovers' escape, travel to Sicilia to find them, and thus enable himself to return home once more.
The poor shepherd, frightened by the king's wrath, decided to tell Polixenes how, years before, he had found the baby and a bag of gold and jewels by her side. Fate intervened, however, and the shepherd never reached the royal palace. Intercepted by the rogue Autolycus, he was put aboard the ship sailing to Sicilia.
Soon Florizel and Perdita arrived in Sicilia, followed by Polixenes and Camillo. When the old shepherd heard how Leontes had lost a daughter, he described the finding of Perdita. Leontes, convinced that Perdita and his own abandoned infant were the same, was joyfully reunited with his daughter. Polixenes immediately gave his consent to the marriage of Florizel and Perdita. The only sorrowful circumstance to mar the happiness of all concerned was the tragic death of Hermione.
One day Paulina asked Leontes to visit a newly erected statue of the dead woman in Hermione's chapel. Leontes, ever faithful to the memory of his dead wife—even to the point of promising Paulina never to marry again— gathered his guests and took them to view the statue. Standing in the chapel, amazed at the wonderful lifelike quality of the work, they heard strains of soft music. Suddenly the statue descended from its pedestal and was revealed as the living Hermione. She had spent sixteen years in seclusion while awaiting some word of her daughter. The happy family once more united, Hermione completely forgave her repentant husband. He and Polixenes were again the best of friends, rejoicing in the happiness of Perdita and Florizel.


Critical Evaluation

Written after Cymbeline and before The Tempest, The Winter's Tale is as hard to classify generically as is the fully mature dramatic genius of its author. Partaking of the elements of tragedy, the play yet ends in sheer comedy, just as it mingles elements of realism and romance. Shakespeare took his usual free hand with his source, Robert Greene's euphuistic romance Pandosto: The Triumph of Time (1588). Yet time remains the most crucial element in the play's structure, its clearest break with the pseudo-Aristotelian unities. The effect of time on Hermione, moreover, when the statue is revealed to be wrinkled and aged, heightens the pathos and credibility of the triumphant discovery and recognition scene. In order to allow that final scene full effect, Shakespeare wisely has Perdita's discovery and recognition reported to the audience secondhand in act 5, scene 2. In keeping with the maturity of Shakespeare's dramatic talent, the poetic style of this play is clear, rarely rhetorical, sparse in its imagery, but metaphorically sharp. Verse alternates with prose as court characters alternate with country personages.
Mamillius tells his mother, who asks him for a story, that "a sad tale's best for winter." Ironically the little boy's story is never told; the entrance of Leontes interrupts it, and Hermione's son, his role as storyteller once defined, strangely disappears. In his place the play itself takes over, invigorated by Mamillius' uncanny innocent wisdom that reflects a Platonic view of childhood. The story that unfolds winds within its skeins a multitude of themes, without losing sight of any of them. It presents two views of honor, a wholesome one represented by Hermione, and a demented view represented by Leontes. Like many of Shakespeare's plays, it treats of the unholy power of kings, kings who can be mistaken, but whose power, however mistaken, is final. Yet the finality here is spared, the tragic ending avoided. For the absolute goodness of Hermione, Paulina, Cammilo, the shepherd, and Florizel proves to be enough to overcome the evil of Leontes. Moving from the older generation's inability to love to the reflowering of love in the younger, the play spins out into a truly comic ending, with the reestablish-ment of community, royal authority, and general happiness in a triple gamos. The balance of tension between youth and age, guilt and innocence, death and rebirth, is decided in favor of life and the play escapes the clutches of remorseless tragedy in a kind of ultimate mystical vision of human life made ideal through suffering.
Leontes is a most puzzling character. His antifemin-ism, as expressed in his cynical speech on cuckoldry (act 1, scene 2), seems more fashionable than felt. He resembles, in his determined jealousy, Othello, and in his self-inflicted insanity, Lear. In fact, the words of Lear to Cordelia resound in Leontes' great speech, beginning, "Is whispering nothing?" and concluding, "My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,/ If this be nothing" (act 1, scene 2. It is almost impossible to sympathize with him further when he condemns even his helpless child in the face of Paulina's gentle pleas (act 2, scene 3); and we are not surprised that he at first denies the oracle itself (act 3, scene 2). Yet his sudden recognition of culpability is no more convincing than the unmoti-vated jealousy with which he begins the play. It is as if he changes too quickly for belief; and perhaps this is the reason for Hermione's decision to test his penitence with time, until it ripens into sincerity. Certainly his reaction to his wife's faint shows only a superficial emotion. Leontes is still self-centered, still regally assured that all can be put right with the proper words. Only after the years have passed in his loneliness does he realize it takes more than orderly words to undo the damage wrought by disorderly royal commands. His admission to Paulina that his words killed Hermione, in act 5, scene 1, paves the way for the happy ending.
Even the minor characters are drawn well and vividly. Camillo is the ideal courtier who chooses virtue in favor of favor. Paulina, like the nurse Anna in Euripides' Hip-polytus, is the staunch helpmate of her mistress, especially in adversity, aided by magical powers that seem to spring from her own determined character. Her philosophy is also that of the classical Greeks: "What's gone and what's past help/ Should be past grief." But this play does not have the tragic Greek ending, because Paulina preserves her mistress rather than assisting her to destroy herself. Even the rogue Autolycus is beguiling, with his verbal witticisms, his frank pursuit of self-betterment, and his lusty and delightful songs. His sign is Mercury, the thief of the gods, and he follows his sign like the best rascals in Renaissance tradition, Boccaccio's Friar Onion, Rabelais' Panurge, and Shakespeare's own Falstaff.
In Hermione and Perdita, Shakespeare achieves two of his greatest portraits of women. Hermione's speech reflects her personality, straightforward, without embroidery, as pure as virtue itself. Her reaction to Leontes' suspicion and condemnation is brief, but telling, "Adieu, my lord," she says, "I never wish'd to see you sorry; now/1 trust I shall." She combines the hardness of Portia with the gentleness of Desdemona—and Antigonus' oath in her defense recalls the character of Othello's wife. Like Chaucer's patient Griselda, Hermione loses all; but she strikes back with the most devastating weapon of all: time. Yet in the final scene of the play it is clear that her punishment of Leontes has made Hermione suffer no less than him. Perdita personifies, though never in a stereotypical way, gentle innocence: "Nothing she does or seems/ But smacks of something greater than herself/ Too noble for this place." Indeed, when Polixenes' wrath, paralleling Leontes' previous folly, threatens Perdita's life for a second time, the audience holds its breath because she is too good to be safe. When Shakespeare saves her, we rejoice, and the play abruptly ends on its highest note.
In its theme and structure, The Winter's Tale bears a striking resemblance to Euripides' Alcestis. In both plays, the "death" of the queen threatens the stability and happiness of society and, in both, her restoration, which is miraculous and ambiguous, restores order to the world of the court. Shakespeare, however, widens the comic theme by adding the love of the younger generation. So The Winter's Tale defies the forces of death and hatred both romantically and realistically. The sad tale becomes happy, as winter becomes spring.











From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.


Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.


Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend,
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive,
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which used lives th' executor to be.


Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.


Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place,
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed:
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier be it ten for one,
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair,
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.


Lo in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty,
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch with weary car,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.


Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear:
Mark how one string sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'.


Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife,
The world will be thy widow and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep,
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it:
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.


For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire:
O change thy thought, that I may change my mind,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.





As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest,
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,
Without this folly, age, and cold decay,
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away:
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.


When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o'er with white:
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.


O that you were your self, but love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know,
You had a father, let your son say so.


Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell;
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.


When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky:
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory.
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this (Time's pencil) or my pupil pen
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away your self, keeps your self still,
And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.


Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.


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 dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest 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.


Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time
To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime,
O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
Him in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.


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 pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.





So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems:
With April's first-born flowers and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me true in love but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date,
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O therefore love be of thyself so wary,
As I not for my self, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.


As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I for fear of trust, forget to say,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might:
O let my looks be then the eloquence,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.


Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most;
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
Then happy I that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.


Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.


Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see.
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.


How can I then return in happy plight
That am debarred the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night and night by day oppressed.
And each (though enemies to either's reign)
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger


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 my self and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
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 remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.





Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear,
But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I loved, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.


If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought,
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.


Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green;
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy:
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow,
But out alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.


Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.


No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
My self corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.


Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


As a decrepit father takes delight,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
And by a part of all thy glory live:
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.


How can my muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe that pour'st into my verse,
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.


O how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring:
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give:
That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone:
O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.


Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:
Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest,
But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.





Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed.
And when a woman woos, what woman's son,
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine by thy beauty being false to me.


That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly,
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye,
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss,
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross,
But here's the joy, my friend and I are one,
Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone.


When most I wink then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected,
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make bright
How would thy shadow's form, form happy show,
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made,
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade,
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.


If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way,
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay,
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend, time's leisure with my moan.
Receiving nought by elements so slow,
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.


The other two, slight air, and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life being made of four, with two alone,
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy.
Until life's composition be recured,
By those swift messengers returned from thee,
Who even but now come back again assured,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
This told, I joy, but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.


Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight,
Mine eye, my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right,
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
(A closet never pierced with crystal eyes)
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impanelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part.
As thus, mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.


Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other,
When that mine eye is famished for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother;
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.
So either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me,
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee.
Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.


How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part,
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.


Against that time (if ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advised respects,
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
When love converted from the thing it was
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part,
To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love, I can allege no cause.


How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach that case and that repose to say
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side,
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.





Can my love excuse the slow offence,
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed,
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return of posting is no need.
O what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace,
Therefore desire (of perfect'st love being made)
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race,
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,
Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.


So am I as the rich whose blessed key,
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since seldom coming in that long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.
Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.


What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend:
Describe Adonis and the counterfeit,
Is poorly imitated after you,
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you for constant heart.


O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live:
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so,
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn:
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room,
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So till the judgment that your self arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.


Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might.
So love be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness:
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new,
Come daily to the banks, that when they see:
Return of love, more blest may be the view.
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.


Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave stay and think of nought
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
(Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.


That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
O let me suffer (being at your beck)
Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty,
And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong,
That you your self may privilage your time
To what you will, to you it doth belong,
Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.


If there be nothing new, but that which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which labouring for invention bear amis
The second burthen of a former child!
O that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done.
That I might see what the old world could say,
To this composed wonder of your frame,
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O sure I am the wits of former days,
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.


Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.





Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
O no, thy love though much, is not so great,
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake.
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me my self indeed
beated and chopt with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read:
Self, so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


Against my love shall be as I am now
With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn,
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring:
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.


When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
When I have seen such interchange of State,
Or state it self confounded, to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
O fearful meditation, where alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


Tired with all these for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.


Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace it self with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek,
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
O him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.


Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, it self and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new,
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned,
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds,
Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind)
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair,
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve,
Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being charged,
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged,
If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.





No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay if you read this line, remember not,
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay.
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.


O lest the world should task you to recite,
What merit lived in me that you should love
After my death (dear love) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove.
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me, nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest 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 seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.


But be contented when that fell arrest,
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review,
The very part was consecrate to thee,
The earth can have but earth, which is his due,
My spirit is thine the better part of me,
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered,
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.


So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure,
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look,
Possessing or pursuing no delight
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument:
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.


Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste,
These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory,
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know,
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.


So oft have I invoked thee for my muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee,
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be.
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
And my sick muse doth give an other place.
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again,
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word,
From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.


O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.





Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I (once gone) to all the world must die,
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie,
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead,
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew,
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so love, yet when they have devised,
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized,
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
And their gross painting might be better used,
Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.


I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set,
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed,
That barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you your self being extant well might show,
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb,
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.


Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
That you are you, so dignifies his story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen,
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polished form of well refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more,
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before,
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast,
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.


Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing:
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side, against my self I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn:
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted:
That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too,
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to my self I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.


Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence,
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt:
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange:
Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue,
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk:
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe,
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come, so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might.
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.





Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill:
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse.
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be:
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
All this away, and me most wretchcd make.


But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
For term of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I see, a better state to me belongs
Than that, which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,
O what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.


So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband, so love's face,
May still seem love to me, though altered new:
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In many's looks, the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell,
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.


They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing, they most do show,
Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense,
Tibey are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence:
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to it self, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.


How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!
Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege,
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.


Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport,
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort:
As on the finger of a throned queen,
The basest jewel will be well esteemed:
So are those errors that in thee are seen,
To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.


From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim)
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing:
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell:
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,
They were but sweet, but figures of delight:
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.


The forward violet thus did I chide,
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair,
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair:
A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
But for his theft in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.


Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent,
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If time have any wrinkle graven there,
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despised everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.





O truant Muse what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends:
So dost thou too, and therein dignified:
Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed,
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay:
But best is best, if never intermixed'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee,
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb:
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how,
To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.


My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming,
I love not less, though less the show appear,
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming,
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.


Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.


To me fair friend you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived,
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred,
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.


Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence,
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words,
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.


When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed,
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring,
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.


Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul,
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage,
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.


What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit,
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.


O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart,
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that my self bring water for my stain,
Never believe though in my nature reigned,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.


Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have looked on truth
Askance and strangely: but by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end,
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.





O for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink,
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection,
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.
Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.


Your love and pity doth th' impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow,
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive,
To know my shames and praises from your tongue,
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense,
To critic and to flatterer stopped are:
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.


Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about,
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out:
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch,
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.


Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you
Drink up the monarch's plague this flattery?
Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy?
To make of monsters, and things indigest,
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best
As fast as objects to his beams assemble:
O 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up,
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup.
If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin,
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.


Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer,
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why,
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer,
But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of alt'ring things:
Alas why fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.


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 wand'ring 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 proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day,
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right,
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate,
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate:
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.


Like as to make our appetite more keen
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge.
Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness,
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love t' anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured.
But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you.


What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw my self to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill, now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better.
And ruined love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuked to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.


That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time,
And I a tyrant have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee,
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.





'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed,
Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own,
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad and in their badness reign.


Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full charactered with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date even to eternity.
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist,
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be missed:
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score,
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.


No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange,
They are but dressings Of a former sight:
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire,
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told:
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow and this shall ever be,
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.


If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered,
As subject to time's love or to time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.
No it was builded far from accident,
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-numbered hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.


Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more by paying too much rent
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul
When most impeached, stands least in thy control.


O thou my lovely boy who in thy power,
Dost hold Time's fickle glass his fickle hour:
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st,
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.
If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack)
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure,
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure!
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.


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 slandered with a bastard shame,
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower,
But is profaned, 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,
Slandering creation with a false esteem,
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.


How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand.
To be so tickled they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips,
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.


Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed 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 proved, a very woe,
Before a joy proposed behind a dream.
All this the world well knows yet none knows well,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


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 damasked, 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,
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.





Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to my self alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander as I think proceeds.


Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me;
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed,
Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed:
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail,
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol.
And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine and all that is in me.


So now I have confessed that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,
My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine,
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind,
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fist doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake,
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me,
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.


Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus,
More than enough am I that vex 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.'


If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will',
And will thy soul knows is admitted there,
Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil.
'Will', will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one,
In things of great receipt with case we prove,
Among a number one is reckoned none.
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be,
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold,
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee.
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'st me for my name is Will.


Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferred.


When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue,
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.


O call not me to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart,
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue,
Use power with power, and slay me not by art,
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside,
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows,
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so, but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.


Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain:
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express,
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit better it were,
Though not to love, yet love to tell me so,
As testy sick men when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should despair I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee,
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.





In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.


Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments,
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those,
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee,
Root pity in thy heart that when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied.


Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch,
One of her feathered creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay:
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent,
To follow that which flies before her face:
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So run'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind,
But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me:
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind.
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.


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 coloured 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 turned 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.


Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',
To me that languished for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom:
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
'I hate', from hate away she threw,
And saved my life saying 'not you'.


Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms inheritors of this excess
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more,
So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.


My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' 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 mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight,
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though I mistake my view,
The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears.
O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against my self with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee when I forgot
Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay if thou lour'st on me do I not spend
Revenge upon my self with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But love hate on for now I know thy mind,
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.


O from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway,
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds,
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.


Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason,
My soul doth tell my body that he may,
Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call,
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.


In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most,
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee:
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness:
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I,
To swear against the truth so foul a be.


Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove,
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure:
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast,
I sick withal the help of bath desired,
And thither hied a sad distempered guest.
But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.


The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed 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 warmed,
And so the general of hot desire,
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.
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 discased, but I my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.




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