University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

—The Scholars awaiting Shakespeare by the side of a wood. Fitful moonlight.
First Scholar.
Our master tarrieth long. Unless he come,
Scarce shall we compass deed of noble note.

Second Scholar.
Without his cheering comradeship and counsel
The lions in our path roar horribly.

Sixth Scholar.
O are there any lions in the wood?

Third Scholar.
Our master spoke no word of any such.
Of foxes hath he told, stoats, otters, badgers,
Wild cats and martens, urchins, foumarts, weasels,
But ne'er of lions.

Fourth Scholar.
Or of wolves.

Fifth Scholar.
Or bears.

First Scholar.
I look not to meet such, but 'tis most certain
Goblins there are from whose unhallowed dens
The foot beguiled ne'er cometh forth again;
And elves that dance the traveller to death,
If heedless he transgress their fairy rings;
And shrieks of hags invisible, that freeze
The curdled blood to immobility.

Second Scholar.
Night ravens too, and hell-hounds.

Third Scholar.
Shrouded shapes
Of wicked ghosts. But it is wondrous comfort
These but the midnight hour unsepulchres,
And at the crow of cock they flee away.

First Scholar.
Welcome our master and the moon together!

Enter Shakespeare, carrying crossbows and a lantern, which he extinguishes.
Shakespeare.
Out, out, brief candle!

First Scholar.
We have waited, Master.

Shakespeare.
Aye, boys, I lingered, by this lantern tracking
A slot that shall conduct us to the deer.
Now the free wind has blown the rain away,
And swept the clouds from the serene of heaven,
We well may glimpse it, there it is, behold!
[Distributes the bows.
'Tis the long slot, which, rather than the round,
Doth the hart's bigness argue. Come we now
Beneath these jagged boughs, which though not yet
The leaf hath clothed them, hinder much the moon
From spilling silver on the mossy earth,
Now stealthy! stealthy!
[They move on cautiously.
Sad it is we lack
The fond and faithful hound. O that my palm
Were tickling his cold nose with vinegar,
Which sniffing, he should scent invigorate.
But breeding him I bred suspicion.

First Scholar.
Ourselves must hunters be and hunting-dogs.

Shakespeare.
Aye, wanting all pride, pomp and circumstance
Of glorious hunting; horse and horn and hound,
And flying stag, and toils that tangle him.
Talk in low tones, and use we well the time
When, in long duel of the light and shade,
Moonlight hath for a while the mastery.
And soon, I ween, we come upon the stag
Hid in some holt of holm, or where the spray
Of thorn gleams whitely in the van of spring.
'Tis now, as she doth loose the hard-bound earth,
The stag perceives the loosening of his horns,
And seeks the forest's privacy, to shed
The branching load, and hide him in the brake,
Secretly, sole companion to himself,
Until his antlered pride be grown again.
Pray heaven he harbour not in the high wood,
Whence scarcely hounds shall drive him, much less we.
But if, in coppice couched, we find him soon.
The fewter vouches him not far away.

First Scholar.
But grant him smit to death, how bear we off
The carcase?

Shakespeare.
Close at hand a narrow stream,
Or call it trench, creeps by, sluggish and dark,
And macerating yet the drifted leaf.
This rippling with faint stir rocks languidly
A punt with iron chain, which we unhook
And pole along till presently we reach
A charcoal-burner's cot, our good ally:
There for a season we bestow the spoil.
Silent and cautious must our voyage be,
For at the forest's issue is no choice
But entrance into light. Thus in life's chases
The shadowed ways of crafty policy
Heaven's beam doth on the sudden give to sight,
And the sly hunter on another's ground
Becomes himself the hunted.

[Moles suddenly appears with the Foresters.
Moles.
Comprehend them!

[The Foresters rush forward and seize Shakespeare and The Scholars.
Shakespeare.
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough.

[The curtain falls.