_Are generally seen near the centre of the picture; they are at present
discussing a weighty matter with avidity, as follows:--_
IMOGEN. For me? I would endure such shame twice told for one I love.
ROSALIND. Ay, it would take more than wearing of doublet and hose to
give my cheek the blush.
PORTIA. In tender questions, pride will ofttimes drown kind modesty
with satisfaction in one’s seeming.
Looked we in truth’s mirror our blush would be no flush but one
continued fever, so frequent do we err in our deportment. For myself,
if occasion should demand that I inhabit my person as a man, I would
assume the guise of one who wears a gown or cowl or ample cloak: thus
may our sex while feigning man, retain their modesty.
VIOLA. Dear Portia, were you a man in truth, you’d soon turn judge.
IMOGEN. No cowl nor ample cloak for her but gown I’ll warrant. For,
secret, hark, it was, but yesterday I spied a weighty tome of Venice
law bear down her lap.
ROSALIND. What color gown? That’s _first_ determined is it not?
PORTIA. So? Indeed! ’Twere worthier fondling books upon my lap than the
senseless men I’ve seen upon the knees of Rosalinda here.
IMOGEN. Men!
VIOLA. Upon her knees!
ROSALIND. It is not true.
PORTIA. Their voices more tuneful, than in some men I have heard,
in--that they were silent; their manners more gentler, in--that they
were still; their dress of highest design, for they were modes of
fashion, with that added virtue, that they could be put easily aside,
being but on paper.
IMOGEN. Only pictures, penned and painted?
PORTIA. Ay, but of _men_, mark you, not girls, nor flowers, nor sheep;
but men, whose outlines she scanned with eye of starveling.
VIOLA. She determined then from _fashion’s_ whim, that long hose and
jacket were wisest wear for women bent on playing man?
PORTIA. Our Rosie scorned the fashions. She did not so decide.
ROSALIND. Did not? What was my measure then?
PORTIA. You give me leave to speak?
ROSALIND. Judge on, oh lady-judge, we hunger for thy wisdom.
PORTIA. If I am too bold, Viola and Imogen silence me. But listen
thirstily to my reasons. Our Rosalind here hath no present need to mask
in man’s attire; _why_ then should she desire to don it? Because, odds
paticakes, she hath discovered it doth become her. One morning early
risen, she observed herself upon the sunlit wall and her shadow did
beguile her. Thence, I see, she is determined that the occasion shall
appear. For “why” sighs she, “should a proper ankle waste, for always,
its outline in the darkness of a skirt.”
VIOLA. Well? well? well? If this indeed be true of Rosalind, is her
reasoning then immodest?
IMOGEN. If of the garb one is not conscious, that itself is answer.
PORTIA. Ho, ho! You sing in tune! Are well poised ankles so plenty that
they crowd forth to be basked on?
ROSALIND. Not too plenteous, Portia, for we do know a maid, who, if
occasion opportuned her to play in man’s attire, would choose to hide
her in “gown or cowl or ample cloak.” No, no, a comedy face is no
guarantor for a dainty limb, they stand not on every corner.
PORTIA. Alone, they are a weak possession, a pointed ankle often bears
a dull wit.
ROSALIND. They bear enough to trip the wit of many men.
ROSALIND. A truce about men, say I, whose giddy sight is hindrance to
their reason.
IMOGEN. So say we all of us.
VIOLA. Here comes one whose youthful skirt our question puts to flight.
_Enter_ JULIET _from their right_
IMOGEN. Why so breathless, Julietta?
JULIET. I am come to tell you, I am no longer a child. I have bade
farewell to all my dolls. Soon there’ll be for me, one whom I, like
you, may name “my own dear lord.” No longer will your secrets be too
grown for me to share.
PORTIA. Why then confide to us the charm, that brings to blossom thus
suddenly the youngest of our buds.
JULIET. In twenty days, my mother gives a wondrous ball, to which will
come all the gallants of our house of Capulet.
ROSALIND. And know you who are named?
JULIET. None but one I know already, the County Paris. I would you all
were bidden.
VIOLA. So, alas, do we!
ROSALIND. Our habitations are so distant.
IMOGEN. Did ever father’s favorite daughters meet so little as we?
JULIET. Are you his favorite daughter too?
VIOLA. I know I am. Such love as he bears me, if held for all, would
lift him off the earth.
PORTIA. He hath bequeathed us each a special virtue, which we must
emphasize as the flowers theirs.
JULIET. Why does Ophelia sit alone and heed us not? I’ll share my news
with her.
VIOLA. Do not; she hath been curtly dealt with by Prince Hamlet or
perchance her father. Contrast not thy happiness with her sorrow.
Comparisons are steps to pain.
PORTIA. Thoughts unmoved, like dead water, disease their confines.
Therefore stir thou her sad thought, lest, becoming clogged, it
o’erslough her like to Cordelia here.
IMOGEN. What words of ours can heal her heart?
ROSALIND. I will hazard, one from Hamlet could send more sunshine to
her dark life than a thousand moonbeams of our cold comfort.
JULIET. In twenty days, I sure shall see the dear, kind lord, who is to
give me comfort all my days.
PORTIA. Ay, those whom we know not to-day may give us joy to-morrow.
But, infant-woman, do not forget the touch of thy nurse’s apron string
before thou canst walk.
ROSALIND. Peace, torrential adviser, here comes the newly wedded
Beatrice who will o’erwash thee with advice as utterly as the Amazon a
desert spring.
JULIET. Oh, my ears are unstrung with her re-echoed wisdom. Come, I
have a store of sugared rose leaves, enough for all. I would rather see
them pass in through your lips, than proverbs pass out.
IMOGEN. Is Desdemona shallow or deep that she proves so good a listener?
PORTIA. Neither, but like a plate of gold, shines broad again the
brightness she receives.
ROSALIND. Then I will stand where she can shine on me, some of her news
concerning man’s attire.
PORTIA. Oh! Another day. For this instant, let Juliet’s rose leaves
silence us awhile.
_They exeunt together towards their right_
_Enter_ BEATRICE _and_ DESDEMONA _another way_
BEATRICE. I tell thee ’Mona, to keep thy lord after thou hast won him,
do not show him too oft thy back, lest some other woman standing face
to face, he find her smile a better picture than the nape bone of thy
neck. No, when thou hast let the man thou hast chosen, catch thee,
stand thenceforth, where, if he run, he will fall into thy arms; and
not where, he slipping by, thou wilt have to run, ignominiously, after
him.
DESDEMONA. But, I am still a maid.
BEATRICE. Then life to thee remains a maze.
_Enter_ LADY MACBETH, _who stands apart_
BEATRICE. Your unmarried woman is without a ship whereon to trim the
sails of her ambition.
LADY MACBETH. And if her ship sail a restless tide, like to my Macbeth,
what the advantage of wedlock? Notwithstanding, find some ground to
plant thy faith where it may thrive. Choose thee a husband who may lift
thee, or thou canst lead to thy level; then raise thyself and him again
till death find thee higher, more exalted than thy birth. Thus action
giving thee life, thou wilt ’scape stagnation, which proves to be the
food of death.
DESDEMONA. Tell me, Beatrice, doth the outer man have ought to do with
wedded peace; as if, he be fair or dark? and if being dark, how dark
for proprieties’ satisfaction?
BEATRICE. Young love is color blind. Within the month I swore my Ben as
perfect as Apollo, but now my love, being saner placed, mine eyes can
note the tawney of his skin and peering deeper to the better man, my
love doth tighten.
DESDEMONA. But were he more than common brown, past Spanish tan?
BEATRICE. Were he burnt as to a Moor and know him as I now do, my love
could know no change.
DESDEMONA. Yet if his blood were dark from birth, an Indie or a Moor?
BEATRICE. Not all the sultry blood of Africa could stain the true
strong heart of Benedict.
DESDEMONA. Couldst thou then marry a Moor?
BEATRICE. Had he the soul of Benedict and I the eyes
of Beatrice, subtlest lies of Satan could not part us.
Father,--mother,--duty,--time,--space,--all, methinks, could find no
chink for needle point to scratch an entrance ’twixt our loves.
DESDEMONA. As I listen to thy feeling, my heart doth preen for flight.
How is’t, since wedded, thou dost talk more sober?
BEATRICE. The yoke of marriage, curbing speed, combines the power and
so gives ballast to the mind. Does my assurance make you happy?
DESDEMONA. More than I dare think. O I could tell thee battle stories I
have lately heard, but so well told, that I fear recounting would spoil
their memory. And yet what is to fear, come tell me again.
_Exeunt_ BEATRICE _and_ DESDEMONA
LADY MACBETH. “Ballast to thy mind”? Conceited plaything! thy ballast
is but pride. These lambkin loves are sweetened honey to my taste.
_She peruses a letter_