I brought my master news of Juliet's death; And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father; And threaten'd me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not, and left him there.
Prince
Give me the letter. I will look at it. Where is the boy that got the Watch? Sir, why was your master here?
Give me the letter,--I will look on it.-- Where is the county's page that rais'd the watch?-- Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
Boy
He came with flowers to place on his lady’s grave. He made me stay back. Then, someone came with a light and started to open the tomb. My master drew on him. So, I ran to get the Watch.
He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; And bid me stand aloof, and so I did: Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by-and-by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch.
Prince
This letter confirms the Friar’s story. It describes their love and the news of her death. He writes that he bought poison to come here to die and be with Juliet forever. Where are Capulet and Montague? See what happens to people who bear hatred towards one another. Since I did not do anything about it, I have lost loved ones, too.
This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death: And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.-- Where be these enemies?--Capulet,--Montague,-- See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen:--all are punish'd.
Capulet
Oh, brother Montague, give me your hand. For my daughter and your son, I can ask you for nothing.
O brother Montague, give me thy hand: This is my daughter's jointure, for no more Can I demand.
Montague
But, I can give you something. I will raise a statue for her in pure gold in remembrance of her goodness for all of Verona to see.
But I can give thee more: For I will raise her statue in pure gold; That while Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet.
Capulet
Then, I will make a statue of Romeo to lie beside Juliet. They were poor sacrifices of our hatred.
As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie; Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
Prince
This is a terrible way to finally have peace. Even the sun is too sad to show her face. Let’s go talk more of these sad things. Some things will be pardoned and some will be punished, but there will never be a story as sad as that of Romeo and Juliet.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
(Exit all.)
The End
In Plain and Simple English
TIMON, a noble Athenian
LUCIUS LUCULLUS flattering Lords
SEMPRONIUS
VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false Friends
APEMANTUS, a churlish Philosopher
ALCIBIADES, an Athenian Captain
FLAVIUS, Steward to Timon
FLAMINIUS LUCILIUS Servants to Timon
SERVILIUS
CAPHIS PHILOTUS Servants to Timon's Creditors
TITUS HORTENSIUS
Servants of Ventidius, and of Varro and Isidore (two of Timon's Creditor's)
THREE STRANGERS
AN OLD ATHENIAN
A PAGE
A FOOL
Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.
PHRYNIA Mistresses to Alcibiades
TIMANDRA
Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, and Attendants
CUPID and Amazons in the Masque
Scene.--Athens, and the neighbouring Woods.
Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doors
Poet
Good day, sir.
Good day, sir.
Painter
I am glad you're well.
I’m glad you’re well.
Poet
I have not seen you long: how goes the world?
I haven’t seen you for a long time: how’s life?
Painter
It wears, sir, as it grows.
It wears out sir, as it goes on.
Poet
Ay, that's well known:
But what particular rarity? what strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant.
Yes, that’s well known:
But what particular unusual things are going on?
What unique things, never recorded before?
Look, generosity is as powerful as any magician!
Your power has brought all these people here. I know that merchant.
Painter
I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
I know both of them, the other’s a jeweller.
Merchant
O, 'tis a worthy lord.
Oh, that’s a good lord.
Jeweller
Nay, that's most fix'd.
That’s for sure.
Merchant
A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were,
To an untirable and continuate goodness:
He passes.
An incomparable man, trained, as it were,
To have an unflagging and habitual goodness;
He beats everyone.
Jeweller
I have a jewel here—
I have a jewel here-
Merchant
O, pray, let's see't: for the Lord Timon, sir?
Oh, please let me see it. Is this for Lord Timon, sir?
Jeweller
If he will touch the estimate: but, for that—
If he’ll pay the price I want: but, as to that-
Poet
[Reciting to himself] 'When we for recompense have
praised the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.'
‘When we praise the vile in return for payment,
it cheapens the value of the fine verse
which rightly praises the good.’
Merchant
'Tis a good form.
It’s nicely cut.
Looking at the jewel
Jeweller
And rich: here is a water, look ye.
And rich: it’s got a great shine to it, you can see.
Painter
You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great lord.
You are involved, sir, in some work, something
In praise of the great lord.
Poet
A thing slipp'd idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint
Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself and like the current flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?
Something that just slipped out.
Poetry is like gum, which oozes
Out from its mother plant: the fire held
Within flint doesn’t show until it’s struck;
Our inspiration doesn’t need any stimulus;
It starts itself and spreads everywhere like
A tide. What have you there?
Painter
A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?
A picture, sir. When’s your book out?
Poet
Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
Let's see your piece.
As soon as I give it to m
y lord, sir.
Let’s see your piece.
Painter
'Tis a good piece.
It’s a good piece.
Poet
So 'tis: this comes off well and excellent.
Yes it is: this is very well executed.
Painter
Indifferent.
Not bad.
Poet
Admirable: how this grace
Speaks his own standing! what a mental power
This eye shoots forth! how big imagination
Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.
It’s wonderful: how well you’ve captured
His position! How well you can see his thoughts
In his eyes! How well his imagination can be seen
In his lips! One could almost interpret what
His gestures mean.
Painter
It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here is a touch; is't good?
It’s a nice copy of life.
Here’s the question; is it good?
Poet
I will say of it,
It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
I would say
It teaches nature: artificial action
Comes alive in the brushstrokes, it’s more lively than life itself.
Enter certain Senators, and pass over
Painter
How this lord is follow'd!
How many followers this lord has!
Poet
The senators of Athens: happy men!
The senators of Athens: lucky men!
Painter
Look, more!
Look, more!
Poet
You see this confluence, this great flood
of visitors.
I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man,
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment: my free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.
You see this merging of these great floods
of visitors.
I have, in this rough work, described a man,
Whom this mortal world embraces and hugs
With the warmest welcome: my free ideas
Don’t stop for particulars, but flow across
My wax tablet: there’s not a
Jot of malice in anything I write;
It flies like an eagle, boldly going forward,
Leaving no trace behind.
Painter
How shall I understand you?
What do you mean?
Poet
I will unbolt to you.
You see how all conditions, how all minds,
As well of glib and slippery creatures as
Of grave and austere quality, tender down
Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself: even he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon's nod.
I’ll explain.
You see how all classes, all minds,
Shallow and dubious characters as well
As those of serious and fine quality, offer
Their services to Lord Timon: his great wealth
Combined with his good and kind nature
Draws the love and attendance of all sorts
Of people to him; from the vain flatterer
To Apemantus, who has no love for mankind,
Not even himself-even he kneels before him,
And goes home happy to have been acknowledged by Timon.
Painter
I saw them speak together.
I saw them talking to each other.
Poet
Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Feign'd Fortune to be throned: the base o' the mount
Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures,
That labour on the bosom of this sphere
To propagate their states: amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd,
One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.
Sir, I have imagined Fortune as having her throne
On top of a high and pleasant hill: the bottom of the hill
Is surrounded by all types of men, all kinds of natures,
That work on the face of the earth
To get more possessions: amongst them all,
With eyes fixed on this royal lady,
I represent one like Lord Timon,
Whom Fortune beckons with her white hand;
One whose obvious generosity makes all his rivals
Look like servants and slaves.
Painter
'Tis conceived to scope.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
In our condition.
You’ve hit the mark there.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, I think,
With one man being chosen from below,
Leaning into the steep slope to climb up
To achieve happiness, is very like our
Position as artists.
Poet
Nay, sir, but hear me on.
All those which were his fellows but of late,
Some better than his value, on the moment
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,
Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Drink the free air.
No sir, listen further.
All of those who were recently his equals,
Some of them richer than him, follow after
him at once, they fill up his waiting rooms,
whisper to him as if praying to gods,
even worship his stirrup as they hold it,
behaving as if he gave them the air they breathe.
Painter
Ay, marry, what of these?
Yes, certainly, so what about them?
Poet
When Fortune in her shift and change of mood
Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants
Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top
Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down,
Not one accompanying his declining foot.
When Fortune changes her mood
and pushes away the one she recently favoured, all his
hangers-on, who struggled after him on his ascent,
even crawling after him, let him slip down,
nobody follows him as he falls.
Painter
'Tis common:
A thousand moral paintings I can show
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.
This is commonplace;
I can show you a thousand instructional paintings,
that can show the quick changes of Fortune
better than words. But you're doing a good thing
have seen that there are feet above one
ready to stamp one down.
Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, addressing himself courteously to every suitor; a Messenger from VENTIDIUS talking with him; LUCILIUS and other servants following
TIMON
Imprison'd is he, say you?
You say he's in prison?
Messenger
Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt,
His means most short, his creditors most strait:
Your honourable letter he desires
To those have shut him up; which failing,
Periods his comfort.
Yes, my good lord; he owes five talents,
he's short of money, and his creditors are very stern:
he wants you to write to
those who have locked him up; without that
he hasn't a hope.
TIMON
Noble Ventidius! Well;
I am not of that feather to shake off
My friend when he must need me. I do know him
A gentleman that well deserves a help:
Which he shall have: I'll pay the debt,
and free him.
Noble Ventidus! Very well;
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) Page 624