Speech Contest 2008
Texts for Dramatic Dialogue:
1
Henry V Shakespeare
St. Crispin’s Day speech
Act IV Scene III
KING HENRY V
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
2
Paradise Lost, Book III
John Milton:
HAil holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born,
Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,
Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap't the STYGIAN Pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to th' ORPHEAN Lyre
I sung of CHAOS and ETERNAL NIGHT,
Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,
Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee SION and the flowrie Brooks beneath
That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget
Those other two equal'd with me in Fate,
So were I equal'd with them in renown,
Blind THAMYRIS and blind MAEONIDES,
And TIRESIAS and PHINEUS Prophets old.
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledg fair
Presented with a Universal blanc
Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd,
And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou Celestial light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
3
Romeo and Juliet
Act 1, Scene 4
SCENE IV. A street.
Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others
ROMEO
What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without a apology?
BENVOLIO
The date is out of such prolixity:
We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But let them measure us by what they will;
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
ROMEO
Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
MERCUTIO
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
ROMEO
Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
MERCUTIO
You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
ROMEO
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
MERCUTIO
And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
ROMEO
Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
MERCUTIO
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Give me a case to put my visage in:
A visor for a visor! what care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.
BENVOLIO
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
ROMEO
A torch for me: let wantons light of heart
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase;
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.
MERCUTIO
Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
ROMEO
Nay, that's not so.
MERCUTIO
I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
ROMEO
And we mean well in going to this mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.
MERCUTIO
Why, may one ask?
ROMEO
I dream'd a dream to-night.
MERCUTIO
And so did I.
ROMEO
Well, what was yours?
MERCUTIO
That dreamers often lie.
ROMEO
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
MERCUTIO
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she-ROMEO
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
MERCUTIO
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
BENVOLIO
This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
ROMEO
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels and expire the term
Of a despised life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.
BENVOLIO
Strike, drum.
Exeunt
4
Waiting For Godot
Samuel Beckett, Act 1 excerpt
VLADIMIR:
Pah!
He spits. Estragon moves to center, halts with his back to auditorium.
ESTRAGON:
Charming spot. (He turns, advances to front, halts facing auditorium.) Inspiring prospects.
(He turns to Vladimir.) Let's go.
VLADIMIR:
We can't.
ESTRAGON:
Why not?
VLADIMIR:
We're waiting for Godot.
ESTRAGON:
(despairingly). Ah! (Pause.) You're sure it was here?
VLADIMIR:
What?
ESTRAGON:
That we were to wait.
VLADIMIR:
He said by the tree. (They look at the tree.) Do you see any others?
ESTRAGON:
What is it?
VLADIMIR:
I don't know. A willow.
ESTRAGON:
Where are the leaves?
VLADIMIR:It must be dead.
ESTRAGON:
No more weeping.
VLADIMIR:
Or perhaps it's not the season.
ESTRAGON:
Looks to me more like a bush.
VLADIMIR:
A shrub.
ESTRAGON:
A bush.
VLADIMIR:
A—. What are you insinuating? That we've come to the wrong place?
ESTRAGON:
He should be here.
VLADIMIR:
He didn't say for sure he'd come.
ESTRAGON:
And if he doesn't come?
VLADIMIR:
We'll come back tomorrow.
ESTRAGON:
And then the day after tomorrow.
VLADIMIR:
Possibly.
ESTRAGON:
And so on.
VLADIMIR:
The point is—
ESTRAGON:
Until he comes.
VLADIMIR:
You're merciless.
ESTRAGON:
We came here yesterday.
VLADIMIR:
Ah no, there you're mistaken.
ESTRAGON:
What did we do yesterday?
VLADIMIR:
What did we do yesterday?
ESTRAGON:
Yes.
VLADIMIR:
Why . . . (Angrily.) Nothing is certain when you're about.
ESTRAGON:
In my opinion we were here.
VLADIMIR:
(looking round). You recognize the place?
ESTRAGON:
I didn't say that.
VLADIMIR:
Well?
ESTRAGON:
That makes no difference.
VLADIMIR:
All the same . . . that tree . . . (turning towards auditorium) that bog . . .
ESTRAGON:
You're sure it was this evening?
VLADIMIR:
What?
ESTRAGON:
That we were to wait.
VLADIMIR:
He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.
ESTRAGON:
You think.
VLADIMIR:
I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, bursting with miscellaneous
rubbish.)
ESTRAGON:
(very insidious). But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or
Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday?
VLADIMIR:
(looking wildly about him, as though the date was inscribed in the landscape). It's not
possible!
ESTRAGON:
Or Thursday?
VLADIMIR:
What'll we do?
ESTRAGON:
If he came yesterday and we weren't here you may be sure he won't come again today.
VLADIMIR:
But you say we were here yesterday.
ESTRAGON:
I may be mistaken. (Pause.) Let's stop talking for a minute, do you mind?
VLADIMIR:
(feebly). All right. (Estragon sits down on the mound. Vladimir paces agitatedly to and fro,
halting from time to time to gaze into distance off. Estragon falls asleep. Vladimir halts
finally before Estragon.) Gogo! . . . Gogo! . . . GOGO!
Estragon wakes with a start.
ESTRAGON:
(restored to the horror of his situation). I was asleep! (Despairingly.) Why will you never let
me sleep?
VLADIMIR:
I felt lonely.
ESTRAGON:
I had a dream.
VLADIMIR:
Don't tell me!
ESTRAGON:
I dreamt that—
VLADIMIR:
DON'T TELL ME!
ESTRAGON:
(gesture toward the universe). This one is enough for you? (Silence.) It's not nice of you,
Didi. Who am I to tell my private nightmares to if I can't tell them to you?
VLADIMIR:
Let them remain private. You know I can't bear that.
ESTRAGON:
(coldly.) There are times when I wonder if it wouldn't be better for us to part.
VLADIMIR:
You wouldn't go far.
ESTRAGON:
That would be too bad, really too bad. (Pause.) Wouldn't it, Didi, be really too bad? (Pause.)
When you think of the beauty of the way. (Pause.) And the goodness of the wayfarers.
(Pause. Wheedling.) Wouldn't it, Didi?
VLADIMIR:
Calm yourself.
ESTRAGON:
(voluptuously.) Calm . . . calm . . . The English say cawm. (Pause.) You know the story of
the Englishman in the brothel?
VLADIMIR:
Yes.
ESTRAGON:
Tell it to me.
VLADIMIR:
Ah stop it!
ESTRAGON:
An Englishman having drunk a little more than usual proceeds to a brothel. The bawd asks
him if he wants a fair one, a dark one or a red-haired one. Go on.
VLADIMIR:
STOP IT!
Exit Vladimir hurriedly. Estragon gets up and follows him as far as the limit of the stage.
Gestures of Estragon like those of a spectator encouraging a pugilist. Enter Vladimir. He
brushes past Estragon, crosses the stage with bowed head. Estragon takes a step towards
him, halts.
ESTRAGON:
(gently.) You wanted to speak to me? (Silence. Estragon takes a step forward.) You had
something to say to me? (Silence. Another step forward.) Didi . . .
VLADIMIR:
(without turning). I've nothing to say to you.
ESTRAGON:
(step forward). You're angry? (Silence. Step forward). Forgive me. (Silence. Step forward.
Estragon lays his hand on Vladimir's shoulder.) Come, Didi. (Silence.) Give me your hand.
(Vladimir half turns.) Embrace me! (Vladimir stiffens.) Don't be stubborn! (Vladimir softens.
They embrace. #
Estragon recoils.) You stink of garlic!
VLADIMIR:
It's for the kidneys. (Silence. Estragon looks attentively at the tree.) What do we do now?
ESTRAGON:
Wait.
VLADIMIR:
Yes, but while waiting.
ESTRAGON:
What about hanging ourselves?
VLADIMIR:
Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
ESTRAGON:
(highly excited). An erection!
VLADIMIR:
With all that follows. Where it falls mandrakes grow. That's why they shriek when you pull
them up. Did you not know that?
ESTRAGON:
Let's hang ourselves immediately!
VLADIMIR:
From a bough? (They go towards the tree.) I wouldn't trust it.
ESTRAGON:
We can always try.
VLADIMIR:
Go ahead.
ESTRAGON:
After you.
VLADIMIR:
No no, you first.
ESTRAGON:
Why me?
VLADIMIR:
You're lighter than I am.
ESTRAGON:
Just so!
VLADIMIR:
I don't understand.
ESTRAGON:
Use your intelligence, can't you?
Vladimir uses his intelligence.
VLADIMIR:
(finally). I remain in the dark.
ESTRAGON:
This is how it is. (He reflects.) The bough . . . the bough . . . (Angrily.) Use your head, can't
you?
VLADIMIR:
You're my only hope.
ESTRAGON:
(with effort). Gogo light—bough not break—Gogo dead. Didi heavy—bough break—Didi
alone. Whereas—
VLADIMIR:
I hadn't thought of that.
ESTRAGON:
If it hangs you it'll hang anything.
VLADIMIR:
But am I heavier than you?
ESTRAGON:
So you tell me. I don't know. There's an even chance. Or nearly.
VLADIMIR:
Well? What do we do?
ESTRAGON:
Don't let's do anything. It's safer.
VLADIMIR:
Let's wait and see what he says.
ESTRAGON:
Who?
VLADIMIR:
Godot.
ESTRAGON:
Good idea.
VLADIMIR:
Let's wait till we know exactly how we stand.
ESTRAGON:
On the other hand it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes.
VLADIMIR:
I'm curious to hear what he has to offer. Then we'll take it or leave it.
ESTRAGON:
What exactly did we ask him for?
VLADIMIR:
Were you not there?
ESTRAGON:
I can't have been listening.
VLADIMIR:
Oh . . . Nothing very definite.
ESTRAGON:
A kind of prayer.
VLADIMIR:
Precisely.
ESTRAGON:
A vague supplication.
VLADIMIR:
Exactly.
ESTRAGON:
And what did he reply?
VLADIMIR:
That he'd see.
ESTRAGON:
That he couldn't promise anything.
VLADIMIR:
That he'd have to think it over.
ESTRAGON:
In the quiet of his home.
VLADIMIR:
Consult his family.
ESTRAGON:
His friends.
VLADIMIR:
His agents.
ESTRAGON:
His correspondents.
VLADIMIR:
His books.
ESTRAGON:
His bank account.
VLADIMIR:
Before taking a decision.
ESTRAGON:
It's the normal thing.
VLADIMIR:
Is it not?
ESTRAGON:
I think it is.
VLADIMIR:
I think so too.
Silence.
ESTRAGON:
(anxious). And we?
VLADIMIR:
I beg your pardon?
ESTRAGON:
I said, And we?
VLADIMIR:
I don't understand.
ESTRAGON:
Where do we come in?
VLADIMIR:
Come in?
ESTRAGON:
Take your time.
VLADIMIR:
Come in? On our hands and knees.
ESTRAGON:
As bad as that?
VLADIMIR:
Your Worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?
ESTRAGON:
We've no rights any more?
Laugh of Vladimir, stifled as before, less the smile.
VLADIMIR:
You'd make me laugh if it wasn't prohibited.
ESTRAGON:
We've lost our rights?
VLADIMIR:
(distinctly). We got rid of them.
Silence. They remain motionless, arms dangling, heads sunk, sagging at the knees.
ESTRAGON:
(feebly). We're not tied? (Pause.) We're not—
VLADIMIR:
Listen!
They listen, grotesquely rigid. #
ESTRAGON:
I hear nothing.
VLADIMIR:
Hsst! (They listen. Estragon loses his balance, almost falls. He clutches the arm of Vladimir,
who totters. They listen, huddled together.) Nor I.
Sighs of relief. They relax and separate.
ESTRAGON:
You gave me a fright.
VLADIMIR:
I thought it was he.
ESTRAGON:
Who?
VLADIMIR:
Godot.
ESTRAGON:
Pah! The wind in the reeds.
VLADIMIR:
I could have sworn I heard shouts.
ESTRAGON:
And why would he shout?
VLADIMIR:
At his horse.
Silence.
ESTRAGON:
(violently). I'm hungry!
VLADIMIR:
Do you want a carrot?
ESTRAGON:
Is that all there is?
VLADIMIR:
I might have some turnips.
ESTRAGON:
Give me a carrot. (Vladimir rummages in his pockets, takes out a turnip and gives it to
Estragon who takes a bite out of it. Angrily.) It's a turnip!
VLADIMIR:
Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a carrot. (He rummages again in his pockets, finds
nothing but turnips.) All that's turnips. (He rummages.) You must have eaten the last. (He
rummages.) Wait, I have it. (He brings out a carrot and gives it to Estragon.) There, dear
fellow. #
(Estragon wipes the carrot on his sleeve and begins to eat it.) Make it last, that's the end of them.
ESTRAGON:
(chewing). I asked you a question.
VLADIMIR:
Ah.
ESTRAGON:
Did you reply?
VLADIMIR:
How's the carrot?
ESTRAGON:
It's a carrot.
VLADIMIR:
So much the better, so much the better. (Pause.) What was it you wanted to know?
ESTRAGON:
I've forgotten. (Chews.) That's what annoys me. (He looks at the carrot appreciatively,
dangles it between finger and thumb.) I'll never forget this carrot. (He sucks the end of it
meditatively.) Ah yes, now I remember.
VLADIMIR:
Well?
ESTRAGON:
(his mouth full, vacuously). We're not tied?
VLADIMIR:
I don't hear a word you're saying.
ESTRAGON:
(chews, swallows). I'm asking you if we're tied.
VLADIMIR:
Tied?
ESTRAGON:
Ti-ed.
VLADIMIR:
How do you mean tied?
ESTRAGON:
Down.
VLADIMIR:
But to whom? By whom?
ESTRAGON:
To your man.
VLADIMIR:
To Godot? Tied to Godot! What an idea! No question of it. (Pause.) For the moment.
ESTRAGON:
His name is Godot?
VLADIMIR:
I think so.
ESTRAGON:
Fancy that. (He raises what remains of the carrot by the stub of leaf, twirls it before his eyes.)
Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.
VLADIMIR:
With me it's just the opposite.
ESTRAGON:
In other words?
VLADIMIR:
I get used to the muck as I go along.
ESTRAGON:
(after prolonged reflection). Is that the opposite?
VLADIMIR:
Question of temperament.
ESTRAGON:
Of character.
VLADIMIR:
Nothing you can do about it.
ESTRAGON:
No use struggling.
VLADIMIR:
One is what one is.
ESTRAGON:
No use wriggling.
VLADIMIR:
The essential doesn't change.
ESTRAGON:
Nothing to be done.
5
Hamlet
act III Scene I (excerpt)
OPHELIA
Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?
HAMLET
I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
OPHELIA
My lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.
HAMLET
No, not I;
I never gave you aught.
OPHELIA
My honour'd lord, you know right well you did;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.
HAMLET
Ha, ha! are you honest?
OPHELIA
My lord?
HAMLET
Are you fair?
OPHELIA
What means your lordship?
HAMLET
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should
admit no discourse to your beauty.
OPHELIA
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than
with honesty?
HAMLET
Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner
transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the
force of honesty can translate beauty into his
likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the
time gives it proof. I did love you once.
OPHELIA
Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
HAMLET
You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot
so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of
it: I loved you not.
OPHELIA
I was the more deceived.
HAMLET
Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a
breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest;
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am very
proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at
my beck than I have thoughts to put them in,
imagination to give them shape, or time to act them
in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where's your father?
OPHELIA
At home, my lord.
HAMLET
Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the
fool no where but in's own house. Farewell.
OPHELIA
O, help him, you sweet heavens!
HAMLET
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for
thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as
snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a
nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs
marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough
what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go,
and quickly too. Farewell.
OPHELIA
O heavenly powers, restore him!
HAMLET
I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God
has given you one face, and you make yourselves
another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and
nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness
your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath
made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages:
those that are married already, all but one, shall
live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a
nunnery, go.
Exit
OPHELIA
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword;
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
6
A Doll’s House. Henrik Ibsen
Act III excerpt
Nora. It gives me great pain, Torvald, for you have always been so kind to me, but I cannot help
it. I do not love you any more.
Helmer (regaining his composure). Is that a clear and certain conviction too?
Nora. Yes, absolutely clear and certain. That is the reason why I will not stay here any longer.
Helmer. And can you tell me what I have done to forfeit your love?
Nora. Yes, indeed I can. It was tonight, when the wonderful thing did not happen; then I saw you
were not the man I had thought you were.
Helmer. Explain yourself better. I don't understand you.
Nora. I have waited so patiently for eight years; for, goodness knows, I knew very well that
wonderful things don't happen every day. Then this horrible misfortune came upon me; and then
I felt quite certain that the wonderful thing was going to happen at last. When Krogstad's letter
was lying out there, never for a moment did I imagine that you would consent to accept this
man's conditions. I was so absolutely certain that you would say to him: Publish the thing to the
whole world. And when that was done-Helmer. Yes, what then?--when I had exposed my wife to shame and disgrace?
Nora. When that was done, I was so absolutely certain, you would come forward and take
everything upon yourself, and say: I am the guilty one.
Helmer. Nora--!
Nora. You mean that I would never have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? No, of course
not. But what would my assurances have been worth against yours? That was the wonderful
thing which I hoped for and feared; and it was to prevent that, that I wanted to kill myself.
Helmer. I would gladly work night and day for you, Nora--bear sorrow and want for your sake.
But no man would sacrifice his honour for the one he loves.
Nora. It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done.
Helmer. Oh, you think and talk like a heedless child.
Nora. Maybe. But you neither think nor talk like the man I could bind myself to. As soon as your
fear was over--and it was not fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you-when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all
had happened. Exactly as before, I was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future
treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. (Getting up.) Torvald--it was
then it dawned upon me that for eight years I had been living here with a strange man, and had
borne him three children--. Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I could tear myself into little bits!
Helmer (sadly). I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us--there is no denying it. But, Nora,
would it not be possible to fill it up?
Nora. As I am now, I am no wife for you.
Helmer. I have it in me to become a different man.
Nora. Perhaps-- if your doll is taken away from you.
Helmer. But to part!--to part from you! No, no, Nora, I can't understand that idea.
Nora (going out to the right). That makes it all the more certain that it must be done. (She comes
back with her cloak and hat and a small bag which she puts on a chair by the table.)
Helmer. Nora, Nora, not now! Wait until tomorrow.
Nora (putting on her cloak). I cannot spend the night in a strange man's room.
Helmer. But can't we live here like brother and sister--?
Nora (putting on her hat). You know very well that would not last long. (Puts the shawl round
her.) Goodbye, Torvald. I won't see the little ones. I know they are in better hands than mine. As
I am now, I can be of no use to them.
Helmer. But some day, Nora-- some day?
Nora. How can I tell? I have no idea what is going to become of me.
Helmer. But you are my wife, whatever becomes of you.
Nora. Listen, Torvald. I have heard that when a wife deserts her husband's house, as I am doing
now, he is legally freed from all obligations towards her. In any case, I set you free from all your
obligations. You are not to feel yourself bound in the slightest way, any more than I shall. There
must be perfect freedom on both sides. See, here is your ring back. Give me mine.
Helmer. That too?
Nora. That too.
Helmer. Here it is.
Nora. That's right. Now it is all over. I have put the keys here. The maids know all about
everything in the house-- better than I do. Tomorrow, after I have left her, Christine will come
here and pack up my own things that I brought with me from home. I will have them sent after
me.
Helmer. All over! All over!--Nora, shall you never think of me again?
Nora. I know I shall often think of you, the children, and this house.
Helmer. May I write to you, Nora?
Nora. No--never. You must not do that.
Helmer. But at least let me send you-Nora. Nothing--nothing-Helmer. Let me help you if you are in want.
Nora. No. I can receive nothing from a stranger.
Helmer. Nora--can I never be anything more than a stranger to you?
Nora (taking her bag). Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen.
Helmer. Tell me what that would be!
Nora. Both you and I would have to be so changed that--. Oh, Torvald, I don't believe any longer
in wonderful things happening.
Helmer. But I will believe in it. Tell me! So changed that--?
Nora. That our life together would be a real wedlock. Goodbye. (She goes out through the hall.)
Helmer (sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands). Nora! Nora! (Looks
round, and rises.) Empty. She is gone. (A hope flashes across his mind.) The most wonderful
thing of all--?
(The sound of a door shutting is heard from below.)
7
Lady Windemere’s Fan
- Oscar Wilde
Cecil Graham Now, my dear Tuppy, don’t be led astray into the paths of virtue. Reformed, you
would be perfectly tedious. That is the worst of women. They always want one to be good. And
if we are good, when they meet us, they don’t love us at all. They like to find us quite
irretrievably bad, and to leave us quite unattractively good.
Lord Darlington (rising from R. table, where he has been writing letters) They always do find
us bad!
Dumby I don’t think we are bad. I think we are all good, except Tuppy.
Lord Darlington No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. (Sits down
at C. table)
Dumby We are all in the gutter,° but some of us are looking at the stars? Upon my word, you are
very romantic tonight, Darlington.
Cecil Graham Too romantic! You must be in love. Who is the girl?
Lord Darlington The woman I love is not free, or thinks she isn’t. (Glances instinctively at Lord
Windermere while he speaks)
Cecil Graham A married woman, then! Well, there’s nothing in the world like the devotion of a
married woman. It’s a thing no married man knows anything about.
Lord Darlington Oh! she doesn’t love me. She is a good woman.° She is the only good woman
I have ever met in my life.
Cecil Graham The only good woman you have ever met in your life?
Lord Darlington Yes!
Cecil Graham (lighting a cigarette) Well, you are a lucky fellow! Why, I have met hundreds of
good women. I never seem to meet any but good women. The world is perfectly packed with
good women. To know them is a middle-class education.°
Lord Darlington This woman has purity and innocence. She has everything we men have lost.
Cecil Graham My dear fellow, what on earth should we men do going about with purity and
innocence? A carefully thought-out buttonhole is much more effective.
Dumby She doesn’t really love you then?
Lord Darlington No, she does not!
Dumby I congratulate you, my dear fellow. In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not
getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. The last is much the worst, the last is a real
tragedy! But I am interested to hear she does not love you. How long could you love a woman
who didn’t love you, Cecil?
Cecil Graham A woman who didn’t love me? Oh, all my life!
Dumby So could I. But it’s so difficult to meet one.
Lord Darlington How can you be so conceited, Dumby?
Dumby I didn’t say it as a matter of conceit. I said it as a matter of regret. I have been wildly,
madly adored. I am sorry I have. It has been an immense nuisance. I should like to be allowed a
little time to myself now and then.
Lord Darlington What cynics you fellows are!
Cecil Graham What is a cynic? (Sitting on the back of the sofa)
Lord Darlington A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Cecil Graham And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in
everything, and doesn’t know the market price of any single thing.
Lord Darlington You always amuse me, Cecil. You talk as if you were a man of experience.
Cecil Graham I am. (Moves up to front of fireplace)
Lord Darlington You are far too young!
Cecil Graham That is a great error. Experience is a question of instinct about life. I have got it.
Tuppy hasn’t. Experience is the name Tuppy gives to his mistakes. That is all. (Lord Augustus
looks round indignantly)
Dumby Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.
Cecil Graham (standing with his back to the fireplace) One shouldn’t commit any.
Dumby Life would be very dull without them
8
The Importance of Being Earnest- Oscar Wilde
Act I
Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! I don’t know
any one of the name of Cecily.
[Enter Lane.]
Algernon. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-room the last time he
dined here.
Lane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]
Jack. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I wish to goodness you
had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly
offering a large reward.
Algernon. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard up.
Jack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found.
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at once. Lane goes out.]
Algernon. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens case and examines it.]
However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the inscription inside, I find that the thing
isn’t yours after all.
Jack. Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundred times, and you
have no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a
private cigarette case.
Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one
shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.
Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss modern culture. It isn’t the sort
of thing one should talk of in private. I simply want my cigarette case back.
Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is a present from some one
of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn’t know any one of that name.
Jack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
Algernon. Your aunt!
Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me, Algy.
Algernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself little Cecily if she is your
aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.] ‘From little Cecily with her fondest love.’
Jack. [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on earth is there in that?
Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed
to decide for herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! That is
absurd! For Heaven’s sake give me back my cigarette case. [Follows Algernon round the room.]
Algernon. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? ‘From little Cecily, with her fondest
love to her dear Uncle Jack.’ There is no objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but
why an aunt, no matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’t quite
make out. Besides, your name isn’t Jack at all; it is Ernest.
Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.
Algernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to every one as Ernest.
You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most
earnest-looking person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name
isn’t Ernest. It’s on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing,
B. 4, The Albany.’ I’ll keep this as a proof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it
to me, or to Gwendolen, or to any one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]
Jack. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the cigarette case was given
to me in the country.
Algernon. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small Aunt Cecily, who lives at
Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing
out at once.
Jack. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar to talk like a
dentist when one isn’t a dentist. It produces a false impression,
Algernon. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do
9
The Importance of Being Earnest
Act I
Algernon. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?
Jack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere? Eating as usual, I see, Algy!
Algernon. [Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at
five o’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?
Jack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.
Algernon. What on earth do you do there?
Jack. [Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the
country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.
Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?
Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
Algernon. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By the way,
Shropshire is your county, is it not?
Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumber sandwiches?
Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is coming to tea?
Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
Jack. How perfectly delightful!
Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve of your
being here.
Jack. May I ask why?
Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is
almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.
Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure?... I call that business.
Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!
Algernon. I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love.
But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually
is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever
I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.
Jack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially invented for
people whose memories are so curiously constituted.
Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in Heaven - [Jack
puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at once interferes.] Please don’t touch the
cucumber sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]
Jack. Well, you have been eating them all the time.
Algernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.] Have some
bread and butter. The bread and butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and
butter.
Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and butter it is too.
Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. You behave
as if you were married to her already. You are not married to her already, and I don’t think you
ever will be.
Jack. Why on earth do you say that?
Algernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it
right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that
one sees all over the place. In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Jack. Your consent!
Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marry her,
you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]
Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! I don’t know
any one of the name of Cecily.
10
The Importance of Being Earnest
Act II
Algernon. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem
to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.
Cecily. I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy
your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and begins writing in diary.]
Algernon. Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I?
Cecily. Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very young girl’s record of her own
thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume
form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down from
dictation. I have reached ‘absolute perfection’. You can go on. I am quite ready for more.
Algernon. [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!
Cecily. Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough.
Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough. [Writes as Algernon speaks.]
Algernon. [Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and
incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.
Cecily. I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly,
hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?
Algernon. Cecily!
[Enter Merriman.]
Merriman. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.
Algernon. Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.
Merriman. [Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.
[Merriman retires.]
Cecily. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week,
at the same hour.
Algernon. Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the whole world but you. I
love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?
Cecily. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.
Algernon. For the last three months?
Cecily. Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.
Algernon. But how did we become engaged?
Cecily. Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he had a younger brother who
was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topic of conversation between
myself and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive.
One feels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in
love with you, Ernest.
Algernon. Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?
Cecily. On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, I
determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I
accepted you under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name,
and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.
Algernon. Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?
Cecily. Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve always given for your
leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table,
opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]
Algernon. My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any letters.
Cecily. You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too well that I was forced to
write your letters for you. I wrote always three times a week, and sometimes oftener.
Algernon. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?
Cecily. Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited. [Replaces box.] The
three you wrote me after I had broken of the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled,
that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.
Algernon. But was our engagement ever broken off?
Cecily. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you like. [Shows
diary.] ‘To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather
still continues charming.’
Algernon. But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done nothing at all.
Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was
so charming.
Cecily. It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at
least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.
Algernon. [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.
Cecily. You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.] I hope your
hair curls naturally, does it?
Algernon. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
Cecily. I am so glad.
Algernon. You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?
Cecily. I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you.
11
CLARA'S HUSBANDS
by: Laura M. Williams
CHARACTERS
CLARA: a woman
CLAUDE: young, handsome
DICK: young and well dressed
BERTIE: long-haired, artistic
SAM: older than the others, bearded
PLACE
A living room.
NOTE: The four husbands may appear one by one by putting their heads through frames on the
background. The first may appear, afterwards disappearing and taking the parts of other husbands by
changing make-up. Or four different men may appear. A black curtain may be used, if desired, and each
husband step out as CLARA speaks. Light should then be thrown upon him, giving him the appearance of
a vision.
CLARA: It's come! I'm divorced again. I am the most unfortunate of women. So many live
happily, or at least contentedly, with one, and he was my fourth! [Sniffles; reads paper.] One
hundred a month--hum--he might have done better. Men are always so selfish.
My fourth. It doesn't seem possible. [Sighs.] We fascinating women suffer so. [Face of
CLAUDE appears in first frame; CLARA starts, rises and goes toward picture.] Claude! I
haven't forgotten you. You really were the best looking one and so romantic. I called you Lovey
[sighs], but I was only sixteen and you were twenty-four. You should have considered my youth
and silliness then. But men consider only themselves. You urged me to elope and you had no
money. [Hastily.] You misunderstood me.
Good Lord, must a young girl spend her life scraping vegetables and mixing puddings?
[Shudders. CLAUDE smiles sadly.] But you were so wrong to bring Dicky home with you. I
couldn't help being attractive. Did you want me to shave off my hair or blacken out my teeth?
[Laughs.] I believe you did. How jealous you were. [Seriously.] It really was your fault. You
shouldn't have brought him home. When will men learn to leave their friends in town, when
there are pretty wives about the house.
And then you became so unbearable, Claude, you know you did. Refusing to go out to dinner
with us. Angry when Dicky, who had so much, gave me a few little things you couldn't buy.
Should I go without because of your silly pride? That opera cloak I actually needed and the earrings meant nothing to Dicky and so much to me. But you couldn't see my point of view at all, so
it had to be good-bye. Really, you made me suffer very much, your love was so selfish.
[DICK appears in the second frame.]
Don't look so reproachful, Dicky. It was all your fault. You should have kept away when you
saw how pretty I was. I couldn't help letting you see how unhappy I was with Lovey. I was too
pretty to be hidden in a flat, but you should not have listened to me. Men are so sentimental. I
shall never forget you and Claude. It was so exciting.
Here stood Claude and there stood you. "Dick," says Claude, "my wife is unhappy because I
cannot give her everything. You can!"
"Claude," says you, "she must have everything"; and then you shook hands. It was lovely. You
arranged it between you. It wasn't my fault. I left Claude and married you.
You must admit I was a devoted wife. You had nothing to complain of, Dicky, nothing at all.
You said I should have everything yourself. That white motor was beautiful. It was ridiculous of
you to complain. I never knew such a downright crank as you were. Each time I bought a new
gown you groaned. At every ring you sulked, and at the pendant you swore! You were
unbearable.
Naturally, my health broke down. No woman could live with such a fussy creature. I had to take
that western trip to get away from you. [Sighs.] Selfish, cranky Dicky. I forgive you now. It's all
over and your settlement was generous. But you didn't understand me. I cannot live without
harmony. I liked showy, costly things--you did not, that's all. What is wealth for if not to impress
others. I think, Dicky, in spite of your wealth and breeding you were a little common.
I couldn't help seeing the difference between you and Bertie. [BERTIE in third frame.] What
wonderful weird things he wrote before I married him. He was so temperamental. His long hair
and dreamy eyes deceived me. I thought he could understand me--but no.
Sometimes I think me don't understand us because they won't. They see but their own selves. I
gave up a beautiful home to marry you, Bertie, but you never thought of that. Of course I had my
jewels and Dick gave me such a nice sum, but I couldn't bear to have you touch a penny of it.
That would have been too vulgar.
I thought you were going to be famous. Why couldn't you have done something while I was with
you? But no----! Every time I went to your study you were writing or reading. If I wanted to go
out I had to forcibly drag you with me. Your getting up at all hours of the night to scribble
disturbed my rest. Why couldn't you have written when I didn't need you? You would write at
the most inconvenient times. I was losing my looks with you, Bertie. You were so absorbed.
I expected you'd consider my personality a little. I had such a cute plot for a play. I remember it.
A girl runs away from home and goes on the stage. Becomes famous in a night, she is so
beautiful. Returns home just in time to save her poor old mother from being sent to the poor farm.
You refused to help me write it.
All you thought of was your own work. I never could see any sense to a thing you wrote. Now
you're rich and famous. [Sighs.] You earned little enough when I was with you. If it hadn't been
for Dicky's alimony I could never have kept up any sort of appearance. That helped you a lot-my appearance, I mean. Every one thought you were prosperous--having such a well-dressed
wife. Perhaps that accounts for your success now. No one but I know what you went through. I'm
sure you can't blame me for leaving you. I was perfectly willing to help you with your work, but
you refused to allow me. I'd been through high school and I had lots of cunning ideas. Well, I let
you go it alone and you have surprised me.
I didn't see how you could have afforded such an alimony. But you were the last young man,
Bertie. I made up my mind I'd never marry another. Young men are so ambitious and selfish.
[SAM in fourth frame.] When I met Sam I never was so deceived in a man. I thought he was
gentle. Your children were darlings, but how a man could expect a stepmother to take care of
another woman's children I never could make out. Of course, I used to tell them stories before I
married you, but I couldn't keep it up afterward. I must have some chance to express my
individuality. I wouldn't lost that for all the husbands in the world.
You were so selfish like all the rest. Not one of my husbands had such a temper. I must not allow
men to dominate me any more. I have quite made up my mind. I have always lived for some one
else. Poor old Sam, you didn't understand me. You might have been a bit more generous with the
alimony. If it hadn't been for the children--perhaps--oh, I think you were positively silly over
those children. You'll spoil them.
Well, there goes the last of them--that is, so far. I've been--a wronged, misunderstood woman. I
think I'll turn to the stage. There may be somewhere in the world--a man who will push me
forward in a career. Allow me to express my soul. [Sighs.] Oh, is there such a man? [To
husbands.] Oh, my husbands? He shall replace you all. He shall be number five.
12
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching
Marching marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's
refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not
hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight
Her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his
throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding
Riding riding
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair
13
William Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet (c. 1591
The Balcony Scene (Act 2, Scene 2)
Romeo and Juliet is one of Shakespeare's most beloved plays, having been turned into paintings,
ballets, and several operas. Its hero even became a common noun: "a romeo" used to mean a
lover. But it is largely Juliet who makes the play come alive. Although the plot describes her as
absurdly young, her passion is expressed with a fine intelligence and wit which makes her
irresistible. This most famous of all love scenes shows Romeo at first lusting after the young girl
he has just met at the masked ball where he has gone in disguise (because his family is feuding
with hers); but she manages eventually to steer his thoughts toward marriage. Romeo has
clambered over the wall into the orchard of the Capulet family when he sees the candlelight
appear in Juliet's bedroom window, which he immediately compares to the rising sun.
[Capulet's orchard.]
ROMEO [Coming forward.]:
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That (1) thou her maid (2) art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery (3) is but sick and green, (4)
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. (5)
It is my lady! O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing.
What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. (6)
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET :
Ay me!
ROMEO:
She speaks.
O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
JULIET:
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore (7) art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
ROMEO [Aside.]:
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET:
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name
Belonging to a man.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes (8)
Without that title. Romeo, doff (9) thy name;
And for thy name, (10) which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
ROMEO:
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
JULIET:
What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night,
So stumblest on my counsel? (11)
ROMEO:
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am.
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
JULIET:
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
ROMEO:
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. (12)
JULIET:
How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
ROMEO:
With love's light wings did I o'erperch (13) these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do, that dares love attempt.
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop (14) to me.
JULIET:
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
ROMEO:
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
JULIET:
I would not for the world they saw thee here.
ROMEO:
I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes;
And but (15) thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate
Than death prorogued, wanting (16) of thy love.
JULIET:
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
ROMEO:
By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire.
He lent me council, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,
I should adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET:
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;
Else (17) would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
Fain (18) would I dwell on form (19)--fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say "Ay;"
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,
They say Jove laughs. (20) O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo, but else, not for the world. (21)
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, (22)
And therefore thou mayst think my havior (23) light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. (24)
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But (25) that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, (26)
My true love passion. Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered. (27)
ROMEO:
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-JULIET:
O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circle orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO:
What shall I swear by?
JULIET:
Do not swear at all;
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
ROMEO:
If my heart's dear love-JULIET:
Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet.
Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
ROMEO:
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET:
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO:
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET:
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
and yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO:
Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET:
But to be frank (28) and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
[NURSE calls within.]
Anon, (29) good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.]
ROMEO:
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
[Enter JULIET again.]
JULIET:
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honorable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.
[NURSE within.]
Madam!
JULIET:
I come anon.--But if thou meanest not well,
I do beseech thee-[NURSE within.]
Madam!
JULIET:
By and by I come.-To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief
Tomorrow will I send.
ROMEO:
So thrive my soul-JULIET:
A thousand times good night!
ROMEO:
A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks
[Enter JULIET again]
JULIET:
Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falc'ner's voice
To lure this tassel gentle back again! (30)
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than
With repetition of "My Romeo!"
ROMEO:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending (31) ears!
JULIET:
Romeo!
ROMEO:
My sweet?
JULIET:
What o'clock tomorrow
Shall I send to thee?
ROMEO:
By the hour of nine.
JULIET:
I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
ROMEO:
Let me stand here till thou remember it.
JULIET:
I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.
ROMEO:
And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
JULIET:
'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone-And yet no farther than a wanton's bird,
That lets it hop a little from his hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, (32)
And with a silken thread plucks it back again
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
ROMEO:
I would I were thy bird.
JULIET:
Sweet, so would I.
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [Exit.]
ROMEO
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! (33)
14
Excerpt from You Never Can Tell by George Bernard Shaw
(From http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext00/nvrct10.txt)
(Two characters)
GLORIA (uneasily, rising). Let us go back to the beach.
VALENTINE (darkly---looking up at her). What! you feel it, too?
GLORIA. Feel what?
VALENTINE. Dread.
GLORIA. Dread!
VALENTINE. As if something were going to happen. It came over me
suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others.
GLORIA (amazed). That's strange---very strange! I had the same
presentiment.
VALENTINE. How extraordinary! (Rising.) Well: shall we run away?
GLORIA. Run away! Oh, no: that would be childish. (She sits down
again. He resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely
sympathetic air. She is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds)
I wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross
us occasionally!
VALENTINE. Ah, I wonder! It's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't
it?
GLORIA (rebelling against the word). Helpless?
VALENTINE. Yes. As if Nature, after allowing us to belong to
ourselves and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these
years, were suddenly lifting her great hand to take us---her two little
children---by the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of
ourselves, for her own purposes, in her own way.
GLORIA. Isn't that rather fanciful?
VALENTINE (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter
recklessness). I don't know. I don't care. (Bursting out
reproachfully.) Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you?
GLORIA. What have I done?
VALENTINE. Thrown this enchantment on me. I'm honestly trying to be
sensible---scientific---everything that you wish me to be. But---but--oh, don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination?
GLORIA (with indignant, scornful sternness). I hope you are not
going to be so foolish---so vulgar---as to say love.
VALENTINE (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). No, no,
no. Not love: we know better than that. Let's call it chemistry. You
can't deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical
affinity, chemical combination---the most irresistible of all natural
forces. Well, you're attracting me irresistibly---chemically.
GLORIA (contemptuously). Nonsense!
VALENTINE. Of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (Gloria
recoils in outraged surprise.) Yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a
scientific fact, anyhow. You're a prig---a feminine prig: that's what
you are. (Rising.) Now I suppose you've done with me for ever. (He
goes to the iron table and takes up his hat.)
GLORIA (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a High-school-mistress
posing to be photographed). That shows how very little you understand
my real character. I am not in the least offended. (He pauses and puts
his hat down again.) I am always willing to be told of my own defects,
Mr. Valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken
about me as you are. I have many faults---very serious faults---of
character and temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is
what you call a prig. (She closes her lips trimly and looks steadily
and challengingly at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.)
VALENTINE (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her
more emphatically). Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my
knowledge tells me so: my experience tells me so.
GLORIA. Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge
and your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not.
VALENTINE. I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my
eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me
the most monstrous lies about you.
GLORIA (the collectedness beginning to relax). Lies!
VALENTINE (obstinately). Yes, lies. (He sits down again beside
her.) Do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman
in the world?
GLORIA. That is ridiculous, and rather personal.
VALENTINE. Of course it's ridiculous. Well, that's what my eyes
tell me. (Gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) No: I'm
not flattering. I tell you I don't believe it. (She is ashamed to find
that this does not quite please her either.) Do you think that if you
were to turn away in disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here
and cry like a child?
GLORIA (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly
to keep her voice steady). Why should you, pray?
VALENTINE (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice).
Of course not: I'm not such an idiot. And yet my heart tells me I
should---my fool of a heart. But I'll argue with my heart and bring it
to reason. If I loved you a thousand times, I'll force myself to look
the truth steadily in the face. After all, it's easy to be sensible:
the facts are the facts. What's this place? it's not heaven: it's the
Marine Hotel. What's the time? it's not eternity: it's about half past
one in the afternoon. What am I? a dentist---a five shilling dentist!
GLORIA. And I am a feminine prig.
VALENTINE. (passionately). No, no: I can't face that: I must have
one illusion left---the illusion about you. I love you. (He turns
towards her as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises
and stands on her guard wrathfully. He springs up impatiently and
retreats a step.) Oh, what a fool I am!---an idiot! You don't
understand: I might as well talk to the stones on the beach. (He turns
away, discouraged.)
GLORIA (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). I am
sorry. I do not mean to be unsympathetic, Mr. Valentine; but what can I
say?
VALENTINE (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner
replaced by an engaging and chivalrous respect). You can say nothing,
Miss Clandon. I beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own
bad luck. You see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (She
is about to speak: he stops her deprecatingly.) Oh, I know you mustn't
tell me whether you like me or not; but--GLORIA (her principles up in arms at once). Must not! Why not? I
am a free woman: why should I not tell you?
VALENTINE (pleading in terror, and retreating). Don't. I'm afraid
to hear.
GLORIA (no longer scornful). You need not be afraid. I think you
are sentimental, and a little foolish; but I like you.
VALENTINE (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). Then it's
all over. (He becomes the picture of despair.)
GLORIA (puzzled, approaching him). But why?
VALENTINE. Because liking is not enough. Now that I think down into
it seriously, I don't know whether I like you or not.
GLORIA (looking down at him with wondering concern). I'm sorry.
VALENTINE (in an agony of restrained passion). Oh, don't pity me.
Your voice is tearing my heart to pieces. Let me alone, Gloria. You go
down into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me---I can't
struggle with it---I can't tell you--GLORIA (breaking down suddenly). Oh, stop telling me what you feel:
I can't bear it.
VALENTINE (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid,
ringing, and jubilant). Ah, it's come at last---my moment of courage.
(He seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) Our moment of
courage! (He draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and
laughs boyishly.) Now you've done it, Gloria. It's all over: we're in
love with one another. (She can only gasp at him.) But what a dragon
you were! And how hideously afraid I was!
15
From Symposium by Plato
(From http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/symposium.html)
(Two characters)
In the magnificent oration which you have just uttered, I think that you were right, my dear
Agathon, in proposing to speak of the nature of Love first and afterwards of his works-that is a
way of beginning which I very much approve. And as you have spoken so eloquently of his
nature, may I ask you further, Whether love is the love of something or of nothing? And here I
must explain myself: I do not want you to say that love is the love of a father or the love of a
mother-that would be ridiculous; but to answer as you would, if I asked is a father a father of
something? to which you would find no difficulty in replying, of a son or daughter: and the
answer would be right.
Very true, said Agathon.
And you would say the same of a mother?
He assented.
Yet let me ask you one more question in order to illustrate my meaning: Is not a brother to be
regarded essentially as a brother of something?
Certainly, he replied.
That is, of a brother or sister?
Yes, he said.
And now, said Socrates, I will ask about Love:-Is Love of something or of nothing?
Of something, surely, he replied.
Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want to know-whether Love desires that of which
love is.
Yes, surely.
And does he possess, or does he not possess, that which he loves and desires?
Probably not, I should say.
Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider whether "necessarily" is not rather the word.
The inference that he who desires something is in want of something, and that he who desires
nothing is in want of nothing, is in my judgment, Agathon absolutely and necessarily true. What
do you think?
I agree with you, said Agathon.
Very good. Would he who is great, desire to be great, or he who is strong, desire to be strong?
That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions.
True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that which he is?
Very true.
And yet, added Socrates, if a man being strong desired to be strong, or being swift desired to be
swift, or being healthy desired to be healthy, in that case he might be thought to desire something
which he already has or is. I give the example in order that we may avoid misconception. For the
possessors of these qualities, Agathon, must be supposed to have their respective advantages at
the time, whether they choose or not; and who can desire that which he has? Therefore when a
person says, I am well and wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and I desire simply
to have what I have-to him we shall reply: "You, my friend, having wealth and health and
strength, want to have the continuance of them; for at this moment, whether you choose or no,
you have them. And when you say, I desire that which I have and nothing else, is not your
meaning that you want to have what you now have in the future? "He must agree with us-must
he not?
He must, replied Agathon.
Then, said Socrates, he desires that what he has at present may be preserved to him in the future,
which is equivalent to saying that he desires something which is non-existent to him, and which
as yet he has not got.
Very true, he said.
Then he and every one who desires, desires that which he has not already, and which is future
and not present, and which he has not, and is not, and of which he is in want;-these are the sort of
things which love and desire seek?
Very true, he said.
Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the argument. First, is not love of something, and of
something too which is wanting to a man?
Yes, he replied.
Remember further what you said in your speech, or if you do not remember I will remind you:
you said that the love of the beautiful set in order the empire of the gods, for that of deformed
things there is no love-did you not say something of that kind?
Yes, said Agathon.
Yes, my friend, and the remark was a just one. And if this is true, Love is the love of beauty and
not of deformity?
He assented.
And the admission has been already made that Love is of something which a man wants and has
not?
True, he said.
Then Love wants and has not beauty?
Certainly, he replied.
And would you call that beautiful which wants and does not possess beauty?
Certainly not.
Then would you still say that love is beautiful?
Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand what I was saying.
You made a very good speech, Agathon, replied Socrates; but there is yet one small question
which I would fain ask:-Is not the good also the beautiful?
Yes.
Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the good?
I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon:-Let us assume that what you say is true.
Say rather, beloved Agathon, that you cannot refute the truth; for Socrates is easily refuted.
16
From The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde
(From http://www.gutenberg.org/files/844/844-h/844-h.htm)
(Two characters)
Algernon. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?
Jack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere? Eating as usual, I see,
Algy!
Algernon. [Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at
five o’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?
Jack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.
Algernon. What on earth do you do there?
Jack. [Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the
country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.
Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?
Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
Algernon. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By the
way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?
Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumber
sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is coming to tea?
Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
Jack. How perfectly delightful!
Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve of your
being here.
Jack. May I ask why?
Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is
almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.
Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that business.
Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!
Algernon. I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in
love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One
usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is
uncertainty. If ever I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.
Jack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially invented for
people whose memories are so curiously constituted.
Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in Heaven—
[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at once interferes.] Please don’t touch the
cucumber sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]
Jack. Well, you have been eating them all the time.
Algernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.] Have
some bread and butter. The bread and butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread
and butter.
Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and butter it is too.
Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. You behave
as if you were married to her already. You are not married to her already, and I don’t think you
ever will be.
Jack. Why on earth do you say that?
Algernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it
right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that
one sees all over the place. In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Jack. Your consent!
Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marry her,
you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]
Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! I don’t know
any one of the name of Cecily.