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Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio! man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus, Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d Beyond self-explication: put thyself Into a havior of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter? Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with A look untender? If’t be summer news, Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that countenance still. My husband’s hand! That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man: thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me.
You told me when we got off the horses that the place Was close by: I’ve never longed to see my mother so As I long to see him now. Pisanio! man! Where is Posthumus? What’s on your mind, That makes you look so strange? Why are you sighing Like that, deep inside? If someone only looked like this, They would be thought completely confused Beyond understanding: calm yourself Before wildness takes over my senses. What’s going on? Why are you giving me that paper, with Such an unpleasant look? If it’s good news, Smile first; if it’s bad, keep that serious face. My husband’s handwriting! That cursed Italy has tricked him, And now he’s in danger. Speak, man: your words Might ease something so terrible, that reading it Could kill me.
Please you, read; And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain’d of fortune.
Please, read; And you’ll see me, a miserable man, a thing Most despised by fortune.
[Reads] ’Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose where, if thou fear to strike and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour and equally to me disloyal.’
[Reads] ’Your mistress, Pisanio, has played the Whore in my bed; the evidence of it lies Bleeding within me. I’m not speaking out of weak guesses, But from proof as strong as my grief and as certain As I expect my revenge. That task, Pisanio, You must do for me, if your loyalty isn’t stained by Betraying hers. Let your own hands take her life: I’ll give you the chance at Milford-Haven. She has my letter for this, And if you fear to do it and want me to be certain It’s done, you are just as guilty of her dishonour and As disloyal to me.’
What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world: kings, queens and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?
Why should I need to draw my sword? the letter Has already slit her throat. No, it’s slander, Whose blade is sharper than any sword, whose tongue Is more venomous than all the worms of the Nile, whose breath Rides the winds and lies about Everywhere: kings, queens, states, Maids, mothers, even the secrets of the grave This poisonous slander touches. What’s the news, madam?
False to his bed! What is it to be false? To lie in watch there and to think on him? To weep ’twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him And cry myself awake? that’s false to’s bed, is it?
False to his bed! What does it mean to be false? To lie there thinking of him? To cry between hours of sleep? if sleep Calls nature, To break it with a terrible dream of him And wake myself crying? That’s being false to his bed, is it?
Alas, good lady!
Oh, good lady!
I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look’dst like a villain; now methinks Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him: Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion; And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, I must be ripp’d:--to pieces with me!--O, Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villany; not born where’t grows, But worn a bait for ladies.
Me false! Your conscience knows: Iachimo, You accused him of unfaithfulness; Then you looked like a villain; now I think Your appearance is good enough. Some Italian fool Whose mother was just a painted image, betrayed him: Poor me, I’m old, a fashion that’s gone out; And because I’m too rich to be ignored, I must be torn apart:--to pieces with me!--Oh, Men’s vows are women’s betrayals! All good appearances, Because of your betrayal, O husband, will be seen As tricks, not real, worn only as bait for women.
Good madam, hear me.
Good madam, listen to me.
True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were in his time thought false, and Sinon’s weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men; Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured From thy great fall. Come, fellow, be thou honest: Do thou thy master’s bidding: when thou see’st him, A little witness my obedience: look! I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart; Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it: do his bidding; strike Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause; But now thou seem’st a coward.
Honest men, when they’re heard, are treated like false Aeneas, Who was thought untrustworthy in his time, and Sinon’s tears Made many holy tears seem like a shame, stealing pity From the most sincere sorrow: so you, Posthumus, Will make all good people seem false; Noble and brave men will be seen as liars Because of your great downfall. Come, friend, be honest: Do your master’s bidding: when you see him, Let it be a small sign of my obedience: look! I’ll draw the sword myself: take it, and strike The innocent home of my love, my heart; Don’t be afraid; it’s full of nothing but sorrow; Your master isn’t there, he was the true treasure of it: do his bidding; You may be brave for a better cause; But right now, you seem like a coward.
Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand.
Away, you wicked tool! I won’t let my hand do this.
Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart. Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence; Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, All turn’d to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers: though those that are betray’d Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up My disobedience ’gainst the king my father And make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage, but A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch: The lamb entreats the butcher: where’s thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, When I desire it too.
Why, I must die; And if it’s not by your hand, you’re not A servant of your master’s. There’s such a divine law Against self-harm That it makes my weak hand tremble. Come, here’s my heart. Something’s wrong with it. Wait, wait! No defense; I’ll obey like a scabbard. What’s this? The writings of loyal Leonatus, All turned to lies? Get away, away, Destroyers of my faith! You will no longer Be the stomachs of my heart. This is how poor fools Believe false teachers: even though those who Are betrayed feel the treason sharply, the traitor Endures a worse kind of pain. And you, Posthumus, you who made me defy My king and father, And made me disregard the requests Of noble men, you’ll soon find That this is no trivial act, but something rare: and I grieve to think, when you’re cast aside by her You’re chasing now, how you’ll regret my memory. Please, hurry up: The lamb begs the butcher: where’s your knife? You’re too slow to do your master’s bidding, Even when I ask for it.
O gracious lady, Since I received command to do this business I have not slept one wink.
Oh, gracious lady, Since I received orders to do this, I haven’t slept a wink.
Do’t, and to bed then.
Then do it, and go to bed.
I’ll wake mine eye-balls blind first.
I’d rather go blind first.
Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused So many miles with a pretence? this place? Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court, For my being absent? whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far, To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, The elected deer before thee?
Then why did you even agree To do it? Why have you wasted So many miles with this fake story? This place? My actions and your own? The horses’ work? The timing that invited you? The troubled court, Because of my absence? When I never Intend to return? Why have you gone so far, Only to give up now when you had already set your goal?
But to win time To lose so bad employment; in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience.
Just to buy time To waste such a bad task; in which I’ve thought of a plan. Good lady, Please listen patiently.
Talk thy tongue weary; speak I have heard I am a strumpet; and mine ear Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.
Talk until you’re tired; speak I’ve heard I’m a prostitute; and my ear Was wronged by it, I can’t take any worse insult, Nor dwell on it. But speak.
Then, madam, I thought you would not back again.
Then, madam, I thought you wouldn’t return.
Most like; Bringing me here to kill me.
Most likely; Bringing me here to kill me.
Not so, neither: But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abused: Some villain, ay, and singular in his art. Hath done you both this cursed injury.
Not at all: But if I were as wise as honest, then My plan would work out. It must be That my master’s been tricked: Some villain, yes, and skilled in his craft. Has done you both this terrible wrong.
Some Roman courtezan.
Some Roman prostitute.
No, on my life. I’ll give but notice you are dead and send him Some bloody sign of it; for ’tis commanded I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court, And that will well confirm it.
No, on my life. I’ll just let you know you’re dead and send him A bloody sign of it; for it’s ordered That I should do so: you’ll be missed at court, And that will confirm it.
Why good fellow, What shall I do the where? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband?
Well, good fellow, What should I do, where should I go? How should I live? Or in my life, what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband?
If you’ll back to the court--
If you go back to the court--
No court, no father; nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege.
No court, no father; and no more to do With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, That Cloten, whose pursuit of me Has been as scary as a siege.
If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide.
If not at court, Then you must stay outside Britain.
Where then Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t; In a great pool a swan’s nest: prithee, think There’s livers out of Britain.
Then where does Britain have all the sunlight? Day and night, Aren’t they just in Britain? In the world’s map, Our Britain seems to be part of it, but not really in it; Like a swan’s nest in a big pond: please, think There are places outside Britain.
I am most glad You think of other place. The ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven To-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which, to appear itself, must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, haply, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves.
I’m really glad You’re thinking of somewhere else. The Roman ambassador, Lucius, is coming to Milford-Haven tomorrow: Now, if you could wear a mind As dark as your fortune is, and just disguise What, to show itself, must not be shown Except at great risk, you should follow a path That’s clever and full of possibilities; yeah, maybe even near Posthumus’ home; at least close enough That even if you couldn’t see him, still Reports would bring him to you every hour As truly as he moves.
O, for such means! Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t, I would adventure.
Oh, for such a way! Though it’s risky for my reputation, not deadly, I would take the chance.
Well, then, here’s the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience: fear and niceness-- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman its pretty self--into a waggish courage: Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy and As quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it--but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!--to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein You made great Juno angry.
Well, here’s the plan: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into submission: fear and shyness-- The servants of all women, or, more truly, Woman herself--into bold courage: Ready with jokes, quick replies, cheeky and As quarrelsome as a weasel; no, you must Forget the beauty of your face, Expose it--but, oh, the harder heart! Alas, no cure!--to the eager touch Of sun-kissed Titan, and forget Your delicate and fancy clothes, which Made Juno angry.
Nay, be brief I see into thy end, and am almost A man already.
No, be brief I see where you’re going, and I’m almost A man already.
First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit-- ’Tis in my cloak-bag--doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them: would you in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him wherein you’re happy,--which you’ll make him know, If that his head have ear in music,--doubtless With joy he will embrace you, for he’s honourable And doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad, You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment.
First, make yourself look like one. Thinking ahead, I’ve already prepared-- It’s in my bag--a doublet, hat, hose, everything That matches: if you serve them, and with whatever Imitation of youth you can manage, before noble Lucius Present yourself, ask for his service, tell him What makes you happy,--which he’ll know, If his ears understand music,--he’ll certainly Embrace you gladly, because he’s honorable And more than that, very holy. For your means abroad, You have me, rich; and I’ll never fail You, in both beginnings and support.
Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away: There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even All that good time will give us: this attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
You’re all the comfort The gods will give me. Please, go now: There’s more to think about; but we’ll take Whatever good time gives us: I’m ready for this challenge, And will face it with A prince’s courage. Please go.
Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the queen: What’s in’t is precious; if you are sick at sea, Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best!
Well, madam, we must part quickly, Lest, if I’m missed, I be suspected of Taking you away from the court. My noble lady, Here’s a box; I got it from the queen: What’s inside is precious; if you’re sick at sea, Or have a stomach ache on land, a dose of this Will make you feel better. Find some shade, And get yourself ready for your journey. May the gods Lead you to the best outcome!
Amen: I thank thee.
Amen: thank you.