انگلیسی: آموزش، زبانشناسی، ترجمه، ادبیات
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این روزها ترجمه آنلاین به یکی از علایق وبگردهای فارسی زبان تبدیل شده ولی با تمام تلاش هایی که برای فراهم سازی یک مترجم فارسی و قدرتمند آنلاین صورت گرفته هنوز شاهد چنین اتفاقی نیستیم. تحقق این امر به یقین می تواند روند تولید و محتوا را در سایت های فارسی متحول کرده و به عبارت دیگر دامنه محتویات این سایت ها را توسعه دهد. همانقدر که در اینترنت از مترجم فارسی خبری نیست ، کاربران بسیاری از زبانهای دیگر این امکان را دارند که از ترجمه آنلاین بهره بگیرند. در این یادداشت به مهمترین مترجم های آنلاین کنونی در اینترنت اشاره شده است.

 ● مترجم آلتا ویستا: Bable Fish.Altavista.com مترجم آلتا ویستا قدیمی ترین و معروف ترین مترجم روی وب به حساب می آید. این مترجم قادر است صفحات اینترنتی یا بخشی از یک متن اینترنتی را به چند زبان رایج ترجمه کند. موتور ترجمه Bable Fish آلتا ویستا از مترجم قدرتمند سیستران بهره می گیرد. زبان هایی که مورد پشتیبانی مترجم آلتا ویستا هستند، عبارتند از: انگلیسی، آلمانی، هلندی، فرانسوی، اسپانیایی، ایتالیایی، پرتغالی، روسی، ژاپنی، یونانی و دو مورد از زبان های ساده شده چینی.

 ● مترجم گوگل: Translate. Google مترجم گوگل یکی دیگر از مترجم های معروف اینترنت است. البته این اعتبار بیشتر به ارایه آن از سوی کمپانی غول آسای گوگل باز می گردد و نمی توان آن را از نظر کارآیی با مترجم آلتا ویستا مقایسه کرد. مترجم گوگل همانند مترجم آلتا ویستا از دسته مترجم های معمولی (غیر تحصصی) به شمار می رود. این مترجم فعلاً زبان های انگلیسی، آلمانی، فرانسوی، اسپانیایی، پرتغالی و ایتالیایی را پشتیبانی می کند و زبان های چینی، ژاپنی، کره ای و عربی نیز به صورت Beta قابل استفاده اند. گفتنی است زبان عربی که به تازگی به فهرست گوگل اضافه شده هنوز در فهرست آلتا ویستا گنجانده نشده، حال آن که مترجم سیستران از یک سال قبل مترجم عربی خود را معرفی کرده است.

 ● مترجم یاهو: Bable Fish. Yahoo.com سرویس ترجمه یاهو نه محبوبیت گوگل را دارد و نه مقبولیت آلتا ویستا را. به نظر می رسد هدف اصلی یاهو برای ارایه یک مترجم آنلاین، رقابت با مترجم گوگل باشد. مترجم یاهو از تکنولوژی همسان با مترجم Bable Fish آلتا ویستا بهره می برد و تنها در طراحی آن کمی اختلاف دیده می شود. با این حال یاهو با افزودن مترجم خود به نوار ابزار یاهو (yahoo Toolbar) سعی کرده تا استفاده از مترجمش را گسترش دهد. یاهو همچنین امکان اضافه کردن مترجم خود به صفحات وب را به کاربر داده است.

 ● مترجم ورلد لینگو: Worldlingo Translator این مترجم قادر است علاوه بر ترجمه متون و صفحات وب، ایمیل ها را ترجمه کند. همچنین قابلیت ترجمه متون تخصصی را نیز دارد. علاوه براین می توان از کاراکترها در بین متون استفاده کرد و متن ترجمه شده نهایی را در یک نسخه قابل پرینت، تحویل گرفت. مترجم ورلد لینگو این امکان را به کاربر می دهد تا فایل های متنی مثل World، Excel، PDF، HTML را آپلود کرده و متن ترجمه شده آنها را دریافت کند.

 ● مترجم اینتر ترن: Intertran Translator مترجم اینتر ترن بیشتر به واسطه تنوع زبان هایش مورد توجه قرار گرفته است. این مترجم علاوه به زبانهای موجود در فهرست آلتا ویستا، قادر است متونی از زبانهای نروژی، سوئدی، فنلاندی، ایسلندی، ترکی، ولزی، لاتین، اسلونیایی، صربستانی، رومانیایی، مجارستانی، لهستانی، فیلیپینی، بلغاری، برزیلی، پرتغالی، دانمارکی، کرواسی و چک را به یکدیگر ترجمه کند. این مترجم البته قابلیت ترجمه صفحات وب را ندارد. بلکه کاربر می بایست متن خود را به صورت دستی وارد کرده و ترجمه را دریافت کند. آنها که از سرویس رایگان این مترجم استفاده می کنند محدودیت کاربری دارند (چند بار در دقیقه) و در صورت استفاده به دفعات زیاد در فاصله زمانی اندک، از سیستم پیغام خطا دریافت می کنند. سرویس غیر رایگان این مترجم چنین مشکلی ندارد.

 ● مترجم آیم: Im Translator مترجم آیم در مقایسه با نمونه های یاد شده از زبانهای کمتری پشتیبانی می کند، ولی به دلیل داشتن یک سری ویژگیهای جانبی مورد توجه قرار گرفته است. مهمترین ویژگی این مترجم امکان برگردانی متن اصلی به صورت همزمان است که می توان به وسیله آن صحت ترجمه را بررسی و با متن اصلی مقایسه کرد.

 

منبع: ماهنامه نفت پارس

[ سی ام آذر 1386 ] [ 16:0 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

روش اعجاب انگیز آموزش زبان انگلیسی!

"واقعیت این است که روشهایی برای یادگیری بهتر وجود دارند، روانشناسان با پژوهش های چندین ساله به این واقعیت رسیده اند که چگونگی فرآیند یادگیری از خود فرآیند یادگیری مهم تر است و از این رو باید به روش آموزشی که انتخاب می کنیم توجه ویژه ای داشته باشیم."

احتمالا شما هم این روزها با تبلیغات مختلفی در مجلات و اینترنت برخورد کرده اید که ادعا می کنند زبان انگلیسی را به طور معجزه آسا و در مدتی کوتاه به شما آموزش می دهند. انگلیسی در خواب، آموزش با امواج آلفا، روش X، روش MGM-PLN و ده‌ها اسم نا آشنا و جدید دیگر. ما در مورد این شیوه‌ها ابراز نظر نمی کنیم چون هرگز آنها را تجربه نکرده ایم اما اگر نگاهی به این نوع تبلیغات بیندازید می بینید که اساس همه آنها استفاده تبلیغاتی از تمایل افراد برای یادگیری سریع و بی دردسر زبان است. مسلما همه مشغله‌های درسی و کاری زیادی دارند و یا خود را برای آزمونی آماده می کنند که وقت چندانی تا آن باقی نمانده است. در این هنگام همه می خواهند به بهترین و سریعترین روش به یادگیری زبان بپردازند، اما برخی متاسفانه به این واقعیت توجه نمی کنند که اگر این روش‌های معجزه آسا واقعیت داشت، الان می بایست در بسیاری از کالج‌ها و مدارس دنیا که هر روز به دنبال شیوه‌های مدرن تر هستند به طور گسترده از این روشها استفاده می شد و حال آنکه شیوه‌های سنتی آموزش همچنان به قوت خود باقی هستند و شما هیچ خبری از موفقیت این شیوه‌ها در اخبار و تحقیقات پژوهشی نمی بینید.
اما واقعیت چیست؟ آیا همه این شیوه‌ها کذب محض است؟
واقعیت این است که روشهایی برای یادگیری بهتر وجود دارند، روانشناسان با پژوهش های چندین ساله به این واقعیت رسیده اند که چگونگی فرآیند یادگیری از خود فرآیند یادگیری مهم تر است و از این رو باید به روش آموزشی که انتخاب می کنیم توجه ویژه ای داشته باشیم. آنها همچنین به این اصل رسیده اند که مغز انسان تنها با تصاویر کار می کند، به عبارت دیگر هر چیزی که شما می شنوید، می بیند و یا می خوانید یا احساس می کنید برای پردازش در مغز ابتدا به صورت تصاویر ذهنی در می آیند و بعد مغز آن را درک می کند. برای درک بهتر این موضوع به واژه "درخت" توجه کنید. مغز شما بلافاصله بعد از برخورد با این واژه تصویر یک درخت را در ذهن شما بازسازی می کند، حالا سعی کنید در حالی که به واژه درخت توجه می کنید این تصویر را از ذهن خود خارج کنید، غیر ممکن است که بتوانید چنین کاری کنید و بفهمید درخت چیست و تصویر آن را در ذهن تجسم نکنید. حال به واژه "فلخکولوبیس" توجه کنید، این واژه حتما برای شما بی معنی است، تنها به این دلیل که مغز شما نمی تواند تصویر آن را تجسم کند و حال چنانچه پیوندی در مغز شما بین این واژه و یک تصویر وجود داشته باشد، به راحتی آنرا درک می کنید.
یادگیری یک زبان خارجی هم دقیقا فرآیندی مشابه است. بگذارید یک مثال واقعی بزنیم. شما مشغول مطالعه زبان انگلیسی هستید که ناگهان با لغت جدید “peacock” مواجه می شوید. در ابتدا این لغت کاملا برای شما نامفهوم و بی معنی است تا اینکه با مراجعه به فرهنگ لغت متوجه شوید معنی این لغت "طاووس" است. در این لحظه اتصال ذهنی بین لغت peacock و تصویر طاووس در ذهن شما شکل می گیرد، و البته با تکرار می توانید این پیوند را قوی تر و ماندگارتر کنید. حال اگر بخواهید در همان لحظه یک پیوند قوی بین این دو ایجاد کنید چه می کنید؟ در اینجاست که باید علاوه بر تکرار از تکنیک های کمکی استفاده کنید که به ایجاد هر چه بهتر این تصویر ذهنی کمک می کنند. گفتیم که مغز انسان با تصاویر کار می کند، پس هر چه تصویر ورودی به مغز واضح تر و شفاف تر باشد، به شکل بهتری در مغز ذخیره می شود. حال اگر لغت peacock را بشکافیم می بینیم که این لغت خود از دو لغت pea به معنی نخود سبز و cock به معنی خروش تشکیل شده است. حال می توانیم تصویری در ذهن خود مجسم کنیم که یک طاووس بسیار بزرگ مشغول خوردن نخود سبز است، البته این طاووس به جای دم زیبای خود یک دم خروس دارد. فقط کافی است تا یک لحظه این تصویر را به طور واضح در ذهن خود مجسم کنید تا دیگر به سختی بتوانید آن را فراموش کنید. حال هر وقت کسی از شما بپرسد که طاووس به انگلیسی چه می شود بلافاصله آن تصویر عجیب طاووس با دم خروس در حال خوردن نخودسبز در ذهن شما مجسم می شود و بعد از چند لحظه واژه peacock را به خاطر می آورید.
روشهایی وجود دارند که به وسیله آنها می توانید همه لغات، اعداد و حتی مفاهیم غیر شهودی(مانند دیدن، گرفتن، دوست داشتن و ...) را به صورت تصویر واضح در ذهن خود در بیاورید، به این روشها در اصطلاح "نمونیک" گفته می شود. طبق تعاریف "نمونیک (Mnemonics) عبارتست از تکنیک هایی برای به خاطر سپاری که تنها به تکرار مطالب اکتفا نمی کند. بلکه با ایجاد رابطه بین مفاهیم تازه و اطلاعات قبلی موجود در مغز که به راحتی یادآوری می شوند(تصاویر، ریتم، آهنگ و ...)، در به خاطرسپاری و یادآوری مطالب کمک می کند."
یکی از بهترین جاهایی که می توان از نمونیک استفاده کرد در فرآیند یادگیری یک زبان خارجی است. با این روش به سرعت و با حداقل تکرار می توان دایره لغات خود را تا حد چشمگیری افزایش داد، فراموش نکنید که همه کسانی که دارای حافظه خارق العاده هستند و یا توانایی صحبت کردن به چندین زبان مختلف را دارند به نوعی(شاید هم ندانسته) از این تکنیک ها بهره می برند و بدون استفاده از این تکنیک ها شاید حافظه آنها از افراد عادی هم ضعیف تر باشد. در مورد این تکنیکها در آینده به طور مفصل توضیح خواهیم داد. اما در پایان این نوشته خاطر نشان می کنیم که مبحث نمونیک بسیار گسترده بوده و همچنین اصلی ترین ابزار کمکی حافظه است. پس بهتر است از این به بعد روش اعجاب انگیز یادگیری زبان انگلیسی را به نام نمونیک بشناسیم.


منبع: http://learnenglish.webgah.net/articles.php?rq=283894

[ سی ام آذر 1386 ] [ 5:24 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

داستانهای کوتاه

 

وقتی سکوت نشانه قدرت است:

در تاریخ مشرق زمین شیوانا را استاد عشق و معرفت و دانایی می دانند، اما در عین حال کشاورز ماهری هم بود و باغ سیب بزرگی را اداره می کرد. درآمد حاصل از این باغ صرف مخارج مدرسه و هزینه زندگی شاگردان و مردم فقیر و درمانده می شد. درختان سیب باغ شیوانا هر سال نسبت به سال قبل بارور تر و شاداب تر می شدند و مردم برای خرید سراغ او می آمدند. یک سال تعداد سیب های برداشت شده بسیار زیادتر از از قبل بود و همه شاگردان نگران خراب شدن میوه‌های بودند. در دهکده ای دور کاهن یک معبد بود که به دلیل محبوبیت بیش از حد شیوانا، دائم پشت سر او بد می گفت و مردم را از خرید سیب های او بر حذر می داشت. چندین بار شاگردان از شیوانا خواستند تا کاهن معبد را گوش‌مالی دهند و او را جلوی معبد رسوا کنند، اما شیوانا دائما" آنها را به صبر و تحمل دعوت می کرد و از شاگردان می‌خواست تا صبور باشند و از دشمنی کاهن به نفع خود استفاده کنند. وقتی به شیوانا گفتند که تعداد سیب‌های برداشت شده امسال بیشتر از قبل است و بیم خراب شدن میوه‌های می‌رود٬ شیوانا به چند نفر از شاگردانش گفت که بخشی از سیب ها را با خود ببرند و به مردم ده به قیمت بالا بفروشند، در عین حال به شاگردان خود گفت که هر جا رسیدند درسهای رایگان شیوانا را برای مردم ده بازگو کنند و در مورد مسیر تفکر و روش معرفتی شیوانا نیز صحبت کنند. هفته بعد وقتی شاگردان برگشتند با تعجب گفتند که مردم ده نه تنها سیب های برده شده را خریدند بلکه سیب های اضافی را نیز پیش خرید کردند. یکی از شاگردان با حیرت پرسید: "اما استاد سوالی که برای ما پیش آمده این است که چرا مردم آن ده با وجود اینکه سال ها از زبان امین معبدشان بدگویی شیوانا را شنیده بودند ولی تا این حد برای خرید سیب های شیوانا سر و دست می‌شکستند؟" شیوانا پاسخ داد: جناب کاهن ناخواسته نام شیوانا را در اذهان مردم زنده نگه داشته بود، شما وقتی درباره مطالب معرفتی و درسهای شیوانا برای مردم ده صحبت کردید، آنها چیزی خلاف آنچه از زبان کاهن شنیده بودند را مشاهده کردند، به همین خاطر این تفاوت را به سیب ها هم عمومیت دادند و روی کیفت سیب های شما هم دقیق شدند و عالی بودن آنها را هم تشخیص دادند. ما سود امسال را مدیون بدگویی های آن کاهن بد زبان هستیم. او باعث شد مردم ده با ذوق و شوق و علاقه و کنجکاوی بیشتری به درس های معرفت روی آودند و در عین حال کاهن خود را بهتر بشناسند! پیشنهاد می کنم به او میدان دهید و بگذارید باز هم بدگویی و بد زبانی اش را بیشتر کند. به همین ترتیب همیشه می توان روی مردم این ده به عنوان خریدار های تضمینی میوه های خود حساب کنید. هر وقت فردی مقابل شما قد علم کرد و روی دشمنی با شما اصرار ورزید. اصلاً مقابلش نایستید، به او اجازه دهید تا یکطرفه در میدان دشمنی یکه تازی کند. زمان که بگذرد سکوت باعث محبوب تر شدن شما و دشمنی او باعث شکست خودش می شود. در این حالت همیشه به خود بگویید، قدرت من بیشتر است چرا که او هیچ تاثیری روی من ندارد و من هرگز به او فکر نمی کنم و بر عکس من باعث می شوم تا به طور دائم در ذهن او جولان دهم و او را وادار به واکنش نمایم، این جور مواقع سکوت نشانه قدرت است.

[ سی ام آذر 1386 ] [ 0:44 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

صفت (دستور زبان)

 

صِفَت، واژه‌ای است که حالت و چگونگی چیزی یا واژه ای را برساند و اقسام آن از این قرار است : صفت فاعلی، صفت مفعولی، صفت تفضیلی و صفت نسبی.

برای واژه صفت که عربی است برابرهای فارسی «فروزه» و «چگون‌واژه» پیشنهاد شده است.

صفت فاعلی

آن است که بر کنندهٔ کار یا دارندهٔ معنی دلالت کند و علامت آن عبارت است از : 1- " نده" که در پایان فعل امر می آید : پرسنده، خواهنده، شناسنده، بافنده 2- " ان " مثل : خواهان، پرسان، دمان، روان، دوان 3- " الف " که آن نیز در پایان فعل امر می آید، مثل : شکیبا، زیبا، خوانا، گویا، بینا، پویا 4- " ار " غالبا در آخر فعل ماضی می آید، مثل : خریدار، خواستار، برخوردار، نامردار، گرفتار 5- " گار " که بیشتر در آخر فعل امر و ماضی می آید، مثل : آموزگار، پرهیزگار، آمرزگار، آفریدگار 6- " کار " که غالبا به آخر اسم معنی ملحق می‌شود، مثل : ستمکار، فراموشکار 7- " گر " در آخر اسم معنی می آید، مثل : پیروزگر، دادگر، بیدادگر

صفت فاعلی که به " نده " ختم شود، غالبا در عمل و صفت غیر ثابت استعمال می‌شود، مثل : رونده، یعنی کسی که عمل رفتن را انجام می‌دهد

صفاتی که به " ان " ختم می‌شود، بیشتر معنی حال را می‌دهد : سوزان، نالان، روان، دوان صفاتی که به " الف " ختم می‌شود، حالت ثابت را می رساند، مثل : دانا لغاتی که به " گار، کار، گر " ختم می‌شود مبالغه را می رساند مثل : آموزگار، ستمکار، ستمگر

"گار" همیشه بعد از کلماتی که از فعل مشتق می‌شود می آید ولی " کار " پس از اسم معنی و غیر مشتق به کار می‌رود .

" گر " در غیر اسم معنی، شغل را می رساند، مانند : آهنگر و این جز صفات فاعلی نیست .

ترکیب صفت فاعلی

صفت فاعلی چهار قسم دارد :

1- حالت اضافی که صفت، به مابعد ِ خود اضافه می‌شود : فزایندهٔ باد آوردگاه فشانندهٔ خون ز ابر سیاه

2- با تقدّم صفت و حذف کسرهٔ اضافه : جهاندار محمود ِ گیرنده شهر ز شادی به هرکس رساننده بهر

3- با تاخیر صفت بدون آن که در آن تغییری رخ دهد : منم گفت یزدان پرستنده شاه مرا ایزد پاک داد این کلاه

4- با تاخیر صفت و حذف علامت صفت " نده " مانند سرافراز، گردن فراز که سرفرازنده و گردن فرازنده بوده و این کار قیاسی است .

هرگاه صفت فاعلی با مفعول یا یکی از قیود مثل : بیش، کم، بسیار، پیش، پس و نظایر آن ترکیب شود علامت صفت حذف می‌شود مثل : کامجوی، پیش گوی، کم گوی، بسیار دان، پیشرو، پس رو

صفای که به " ان " ختم می‌شود، هرگاه مکرر شود، ممکن است علامت صفت را از اول حذف کنند، مثل : لرزلرزان، جنب جنبان، پرس پرسان، کش کشان

صفت مفعولی

صفت مفعولی بر آنچه فعل بر او واقع شده باشد، دلالت می‌کند، مانند : پوشیده، برده. یعنی آنچه، پوشیدن و بردن بر او واقع شده باشد و علامت آن " ه " ماقبل مفتوح است که در آخر فعل ماضی در می آید .

ترکیبات صفع مفعولی از این قرار است : 1- آن که صفت را مقدم داشته، اضافه کنند، مانند : پرودهٔ نعمت، آلودهٔ منت . 2- با تقدیم صفت و حذف حرکت اضافه، مانند : آلوده نظر 3- آن که صفت را در آخر آورند و هیچ تغییری ندهند، مثل : خوا آلوده، شراب آلوده 4- مانند نوع سوم ولی با حذف علامت صفت، مثل : خاک آلود، نعمت پرورد، دستپحت 5- با تاخیر صفت و حذف " ده " از پایان آن، چنانکه به ترکیب صفت فاعلی شبیه باشد : پناه پرور، دست پرور

هر گاه بخواهند صفت مفعولی را که تخفیف یافته، جمع ببندند آن را به حال اول بر می گردانند، مثلاً : دست پروردگان ولی در تخفیف صفت فاعلی برگردانیدن به حال اصلی لازم نیست، مثل : گردنکشان، سرافرازان، نامداران

صفت تفضیلی

صفت تفضیلی، آن است که در آخر آن لفط " تر " افزوده شود و مفاد آن، ترجیح موصوف است بر شخص دیگر که در وجود صفت با او شریک و همتاست و آن تنها به آخر صفت و کلماتی که در معنی صفت باشد، پیوسته شود، مانند : گوینده تر، شتابنده تر، فزاینده تر، گریانده تر، مردتر، برتر

صفت تفضیلی به یکی از سه طریق زیر استعمال می‌شود :

1- با " از " : خرد از مال سودمندتر است . 2- با " که" : دانش، بهتر که مال. سیرت، پسندیده تر که صورت . 3- با اضافه، چنانکه گوییم : تواناتر ِ مردم کسی است که دانایی او فزونتر باشد .


هر گاه بخواهند صفت تفضیلی را اضفه کنند : " ین " در آخر آن می آورند : بزرگ‌ترین ِ شعرای ایران، فردوسی است .

الفاضی از قبیل : مه، به، که و بیش به معنی صفت تفضیلی استعمال می شوند و در آخر آن نیز " ین " در می آورند، مانند : مهین، بهین، کهین .

هر گاه " ین " در آخر صفات تفضیلی در آید، افادهٔ معنی تخصیص کند، مثل : کمترین، فاضلترین .

در این حالت اگر صفت تفضیلی را اضافه کنند، ما بعد آن را جمع آورند، مثل : بزرگ‌ترین ِ مردان و فاضلترین ِ رجال امروز اوست. و بدون اضافه باید لفظ مفرد استعمال شود : تواناترین مرد، بیناترین شاگرد .

صفت نسبی

صفت نسبی، آن اتست که نسبت به چیزی یا محلی را برساند و علامت های آن عبارت است از : 1- " ی " در آخر کلمه مانند : آسمانی، زیمینی، آتشی، هوایی، خاکی، پارسی، اصفهانی، نیشابوری

"ی " نسبت همواره به مفرد، پیوسته می‌شود و کلماتی از قبیل : کاویانی، خسروانی، کیانی، پهلوانی، نادر است و بر آن قیاس نمی‌توان کرد .

2- " ه" مخفی و غیر ملفوظ : دو روزه، یکشبه، یکساله، صده، دهه، هزاره

و این " ه " غالبا در ترکیبات عددی  استعمال می‌شود.  و گاهی  تنهایی  در غیر این مورد استعمال شده است : مثل : نبرده

3- " ین " و این در آخر اسمها در می آید : سفالین، جوین، گندمین، بلورین، گلین و گاهی این ادات را با "ه " جمع می‌کنند و در آخر کلمه می آورند : بلورینه، زرینه، سیمینه، پشمینه

4- " گان " مانند : گروگان، پدرگان

صفات ترکیبی

صفاتی را که از ترکیب دو اسم یا اسم و اداتی حاصل شود، مرکب یا صفت ترکیبی می گویند و اقسام آنم به شرح زیر است : 1- ترکیب تشبیهی که از به هم پیوستن مشبه به به مشبه یا مشبه به به وجه شبه حاصل شود مثل : سرو قد، مشکموی، گلرنگ، مشکبوی

2- ترکیب دو اسم بدون ادات : جفا پیشه، هنر پیشه

3- ترکیب دو اسم به اضافهٔ ادات مثل : نیزه به دست

4- ترکیب اسم با ادات که انواع بسیاری دارد : الف - ترکیب " ب " و اسم : بنام، بخرد ب- ترکیب " با " و اسم : با نام، با عقل، با غیرت ج- ترکیب " هم " با اسم که اشتراک را می رساند : همراه، همنشین د- ترکیب " نا " و "ن " با اسم : ناکام، ناچار، نامرد ه- ترکیب " بی " با اسم : بی خرد، بی شعور و- ترکیب " مند " با اسم : هنرمند، خردمند، تنومند، برومند ز - ترکیب " ور " با اسم : هنرور، دانشور، سرور، جانور، گنجور، رنجور ،مزدور ح- ترکیب اسم با " ناک" که بیشتر افاده معنی علت و آفت می‌باشد : نمناک، بیمناک

"بی " پیوسته بر سر اسم می آید ولی " نا " هم به اسم و هم به صفت می تواند متصل شود ولی استعمال آن با صفت بیشتر است .

صفت سماعی و قیاسی

1- کلمه‌ای را که دارای معنی وصفی باشد و در زبان پارسی ِ کنونی برای آن اشتقاق یا ترکیبی در تصور نباشد، صفت سماعی گویند : گران، سبک، نیک، بد، زشت، تنگ، کوتاه

2- کلماتی که بر رنگ دلالت می‌کنند بیشتر صفت سماعی هستند : سپید، سیاه، سرخ، زرد و گاه قیاسی : نیلی، آبی، سرمه یی

3- صفات سماعی هنگام ترکیب مقدم هستند : گرانسنگ، سبکمغز، کوتاه قد و گاه مؤخر می باشند : چشم سپید، بالابلند

طرز استعمال صفت

1- صفت پیش از موصوف و بعد از آن نیز می آید، و هرگاه موصوف، مقدم باشد به شکل اضافه، استعمال می‌شود و کسرهٔ اضافه بر حرف آخر موصوف وارد می‌شود

2- هرگاه موصوف به " و " و یا " الف " ختم شود، در آخر آن " ی " اضافه می‌شود و وقتی به " ه " مخفی تمام شود، " ی " ملیِّنه اضافه می‌شود

3- صفت های مرکب، غالبا به واسطهٔ یکی از اجزای خود به موصوف، مرتبط می شوند و بنابراین از صفت و موصوف تشکیل می شوند

4- مطابقهٔ صفت با موصوف روا نیست و چون موصوف، جمع باشد صفت را مفرد می آورند و همین روش میان نویسنگان و شاعران معمول بوده و هم اکنون نیز متداول است و برخلاف این نیز مواردی در سخن بزرگان دیده شده که صفت را با موصوف تطبیق می‌دهند

چندی صفت و موصوف

هرگاه موصوفی دارای چند صفت باشد آن را به یکی از سه طریق استعمال می‌کنند : الف - موصوف را مقدم می‌کنند و صفات را به همدیگر اضافه می‌کنند ب- آنکه صفات را به هم عطف می‌کنند ج- بعضی از صفات را پیش از موصوف و بعضی را پس از آن می آورند و در صورتی که در آخر موصوف " ی " وحدت نباشد، اضافه می‌کنند

هرگاه صفت و موصوف ؛ متعدد باشد، ممکن است آن را به یکی از چند طریق استعمال کنند : الف - هر صفتی با موصوف خود ذکر شود ب- موصوف ها مقدم و صفت ها مؤخر باشند و در این صورت یا هر دو صفت به هر دو موصوف ممکن است راجع شود یا آن که هر صغنی به یکی از موصوف ها تعلق گیرد

و نیز ممکن است یک صفت دارای دو موصوف باشد

تقدیم صفت بر مضاف الیه

در موقعی که موصوف را بخواهند اضافه کنند، صفت را می آورند و پس از آن عمل اضافه را انجام می‌دهند و این مطرد و در نظم و نثر متداول است، ولی در بعضی مواقع اضافه را بر وصف، مقدم می‌کنند

"ی" وحدت در موصوف و صفت

" ی " وحدت یا در آخر صفت در می آید چنانکه گوییم : " مرد فاضلی است. طبع لطیفی دارد " و اکنون این طریقه زبان فارسی معمول است. یا در آخر موصوف، مذکور می افتد

هر گاه مقصود از صفت بیان جنس و نوع موصوف باشد، بیشتر آن را با " ی " وحدت همراه می‌کنند و در اول آن لفظ " ازین " می آورند

هر گاه مقصود تعداد و شمردن اوصاف باشد، آن را هم عطف نمی‌کنند

در موقع ندا و الحاق " ی " وحدت به هر یک از صغت ها، مقصود شمردن و تعداد اوصاف باشد و غالبا موصوف ذکر نمی‌شود .

ضمیر موصوف

ضمیر "من" از میانهٔ ضمایر، موصوف واقع می‌شود

در سایر ضمایر، صفت در حکم توضیح و به منزلهٔ بدل است.

 

[ سی ام آذر 1386 ] [ 0:29 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
• مقدمه • سطوح رشته • درسهای رشته • صنعت و بازار کار مقدمه جمله مشهوریست که می‌گوید هر که دو زبان را بداند در حکم دو نفر است.دانستن زبان انگلیسی یا هر زبان دیگر قبل از آنکه در قالب یک رشته توضیح داده شود یک امکان فوق‌العاده مناسب است برای استفاده از کتاب‌ها و مقالاتی که دوست داریم بدون هیچگونه واسطه‌ای آنها را مطالعه کنیم، بهترین ترجمه‌ها و ماهرترین مترجمان آنچه به ما می‌رسانند به اندازه اصل یک اثر نمیتواند گویا باشد به عبارتی اینجا از جاهایی نیست که کپی برابر اصل باشد. زبان انگلیسی به عنوان زبان علمی و فراگیر جهان شناخته شده و به عبارتی زبان مشترک بسیاری از مراکز علمی گشته است. زبان هر قوم و ملتی از مهمترین نمادهای هویت آن ملت است. امروزه دولت‌ها برای حفظ زبان و حتی گسترش دامنه جغرافیایی زبان خود هزینه‌های فراوانی را پرداخت می‌کنند و فعالیتی که در استعمال یا عدم استعمال کلمات بیگانه صورت می‌گیرد آنقدر وسیع و گسترده است که نشان دهنده اهمیت آن است در این مورد می‌توان به کتاب‌هایی که گویش‌های مختلف را بررسی کرده‌اند مراجعه کرد. اما در مورد رشته زبان انگلیسی که در دانشکده زبان دانشگاه‌ها عرضه می‌گردد و آنچه قابل بیان است عبارتست از اینکه تحصیل در این رشته‌ها قابلیت‌ها و توانایی ما را برای دبیری زبان فراهم می‌نماید. تحصیلات دانشگاهی رشته زبان انگلیسی اگر همراه با تلاش و پیگیری‌های مستمر دانشجو صورت پذیرد و در طول تحصیل خود همت خود را به صورت کامل بر مطالعه آثار خارجی قرار دهد امکان فعالیت در بخش‌های تخصصی‌تر را می‌تواند بعهده بگیرد که در بخش بازار کار زبان خارجی به طور کامل به آن پرداخته‌ایم. آنچه باید بدان اهمیت بدهیم استفاده مطلوب از دروسی است که در طی تحصیل این رشته فرا گرفته‌ایم و استفاده به صورت درست حاصل نمی‌شود مگر اینکه برای انتخاب این رشته به علاقه واقعی و پشتکار خود مطمئن باشیم و نه در این رشته و هیچ رشته دیگر عنوانی ما را فریب ندهد. درس زبان فرار است و اگر از آن خوب استفاده نکنیم و برای محل کار خود تدبیری نیندیشیم دچار مشکل جدی خواهیم شد. طول دوره تحصیل رشته زبان انگلیسی 4 سال می‌باشد. سطوح رشته ردیف نام دانشگاه کاردانی کارشناسی ارشد دکترا 1 آزاد- آبادان * 2 آزاد- آباده * 3 آزاد- اسلامشهر * 4 آزاد- ایلام * 5 آزاد- تربت حیدریه * 6 آزاد- تنکابن * 7 آزاد- تهران * 8 آزاد- رشت * 9 آزاد- رودهن * 10 آزاد- شهرضا * 11 آزاد- شهریار * 12 آزاد- شیراز * 13 آزاد- قم * 14 آزاد- قوچان * 15 آزاد- گرمسار * 16 آزاد- لارستان * 17 آزاد- لاهیجان * 18 آزاد- ماکو * 19 آزاد- میبد * 20 آزاد- ورامین پیشوا * 21 آزاد- کازرون * 22 آزاد- کرج * 23 آزاد- کرمان * 24 آزاد-اراک * 25 آزاد-اردبیل * 26 آزاد-بروجرد * 27 آزاد-بوشهر * 28 آزاد-تاکستان * 29 آزاد-خوراسگان * 30 آزاد-همدان * 31 اراک * 32 ارومیه * 33 الزهرا تهران * 34 ایلام * 35 بابلسر * 36 بوشهر * 37 بیرحند * 38 تبریز * 39 تربیت معلم سبزوار * 40 تهران * 41 خرم آباد * 42 خوارزمی * 43 رازی کرمانشاه * 44 زاهدان * 45 زنجان * 46 سمنان * 47 سنندج * 48 شهیدچمران اهواز * 49 شیراز * 50 صنعتی اصفهان * 51 علامه طباطبائی * 52 قم * 53 ولیعصر رفسنجان * 54 کاشان * 55 یزد * درسهای رشته ردیف نام درس ردیف نام درس 1 آثار کلاسیک 2 آزمون سازی 3 آزمون سازی زبان 4 آواشناسی آموزشی 5 آواشناسی انگلیسی 6 ادبیات آمریکا 7 ادبیات اروپا 8 ادبیات قرن 18 9 اصول و روش تحقیق 1 10 اصول و روش تحقیق 2 11 اصول و روش تدریس زبانهای خارجی 12 اصول و روش تدریس مهارتها 13 اصول و روش ترجمه 14 انگلیسی با اهداف ویژه 15 بررسی آثار ترجمه شده اسلامی 1 16 بررسی اثار ترجمه شده اسلامی 2 17 بیان شفاهی داستان 1 18 بیان شفاهی داستان 2 19 پایان‌نامه 20 تجزیه و تحلیل کلام 21 ترجمه متون ادبی 22 ترجمه متون ادبی 1 23 ترجمه متون ساده 24 ترجمه متون ساده 1 25 ترجمه متون ساده 2 26 تکنولوژی اطلاع رسانی و آمار 27 جامعه شناسی زبان 28 خواندن متون مطبوعاتی 29 خواندن و درک مفاهیم 1 30 خواندن و درک مفاهیم 2 31 خواندن و درک مفاهیم 3 32 داستان کوتاه 33 درآمدی بر ادبیات 1 34 درآمدی به ادبیات 2 35 دستور نگارش 1 36 دستور نگارش 2 37 دوره تجدید حیات ادبی 38 رمان 1 39 رمان 2 40 روانشناسی زبان 41 روش تحقیق در مسائل آموزشی زبان 42 روش تدریس زبان انگلیسی 43 روش تدریس عملی 44 زبان دوم 1 45 زبان دوم 2 46 زبان دوم 3 47 زبان دوم 4 48 زبان دوم انگلیسی 1 49 زبانشناسی و تحلیل خطاها 50 زبانشناسی و دستور تاویلی 51 زبانشناسی کاربردی 52 سمینار ادبیات کارشناسی ارشد 53 سمینار مسائل آموزش زبان 54 سیری در تاریخ ادبیات 1 55 سیری در تاریخ ادبیات 2 56 سیری در تاریخ ادبیات 3 57 شعر انگلیسی 58 شعر معاصر 59 شعرای رمانتیک 60 شناخت ادبیاتc 61 فنون و صناعات ادبی 62 فنون یادگیری زبان 63 قصه بلند و کوتاه 64 گفت و شنود آزمایشگاه 1 65 گفت و شنود آزمایشگاه 2 66 متافیزیک و میلتون 67 متون برگزیده نثر ادبی 68 مسائل زبانشناسی 69 مقاله نویسی 70 مکالمه موضوعی 71 مکتبهای ادبی 1 72 نامه‌نگاری انگلیسی 73 نقد ادبی 74 نقد ادبی 1 75 نقد ادبی 2 76 نگارش پیشرفته 76 نگارش پیشرفته 77 نمایشنامه 1 78 نمایشنامه 2 79 نمایشنامه معاصر جهان 80 نمایشنامه نویسان معاصر انگلیسی 81 نمونه‌های شعر انگلیسی 82 نمونه‌های نثر ساده انگلیسی 83 کاربرد اصطلاحات و تعبیرات در ترجمه 84 کلیات زبانشناسی 1 85 کلیات زبانشناسی 2 صنعت و بازار کار ارتباط بین دانشگاه و صنعت چند سالی است که رو به بهبود گذاشته اما این ارتباط که باید رابطه‌ای مستقیم و کاربردی باشد و در دانشگاه دروسی تدریس شود که در جامعه مورد استفاده قرار گیرد بحث بیکاری فارغ‌التحصیلان و اشتغال به کار آنها عوامل بسیاری دارد در جای دیگری به آن خواهیم پرداخت. آنچه در خصوص وضعیت شغلی رشته‌های زبان‌های خارجی عرضه شده قابل بیان است به این قرار است: 1- امکان دبیری این رشته‌ها در مراکز آموزش 2- کار مترجمی این رشته‌ها در صورتی که گرایش مترجمی را انتخاب کرده باشید موقعیت مناسبی را برای شما فراهم می‌کند. 3- وزارت امور خارجه به عنوان اصلی‌ترین مرکز جذب دانشجویان فارغ‌التحصیل دانشکده‌های زبان سراسر کشور محسوب می‌شود و تعامل بین دانشکده زبان‌های خارجی با وزارت خارجه گرچه در شکل ایده‌آل خود قرار ندارد ولی در آینده نه چندان دور این ارتباط به نحو مطلوبی شکل خواهد گرفت. 4- بازار کار رشته‌های زبان‌های خارجی ارتباط مستقیمی با جهان خارج نیز داد و این نحو ارتباط می‌تواند در این بخش‌ها صورت پذیرد. در بخش فرهنگ ارتباطات و رفت و آمدهایی که در اثر برگزاری سمینارها و جشنواره‌ها و نمایشگاه‌ها و مانند آن برگزار می‌شود. رونق بازار ترجمه آثار خارجی در اثر حمایت‌های بخش دولتی و خصوصی می‌تواند اشتغال مناسبی باشد برای تحصیل کردگان این رشته‌ها. در بخش صنعت: رفت و آمد در بخش صنعت و بازرگانی و بطور عموم در حوزه اقتصاد بسیار گسترده است و حضور زبان‌دان در کارخانه‌ها، ادارات و وزارتخانه‌ها برای ارتباط با بخش‌های خصوصی و دولتی کشورهای خارجی بخش وسیبع و مهمی است برای جذب دانش‌آموختگان رشته‌های زبان خارجی استفاده از اینترنت و منابع خارجی در شرکت‌های خصوصی و ارتباط این شرکت‌ها با دنیای خارج بسیار گسترده شده و دانستن زبان خارجی و تسلط بر یک زبان به نحوی که بتوان مخاطب را جذب نمود موقعیت خوبی را فراهم نموده است. کلاس‌های خصوصی برای دانش‌آموزانی که در این درس ضعف دارند نیز بخشی از بازار کار این رشته‌ها را فراهم آورده. در پایان آنچه مهم است ذکر این نکته است که وسعت بازار کار هر یک از زبان‌هایی که در بخش معرفی زبان‌های خارجی به آن پرداخته‌ایم متفاوت است. مطمئناً زبان انگلیسی به جهان فراگیری آن در جهان نسبت به رشته‌های دیگر زبان کارآمدتر و داشتن شغلی مناسب برای این رشته در دسترس‌تر است. منبع: دانشنامه رشد
[ بیست و نهم آذر 1386 ] [ 6:6 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]



معناشناسی (Semantics)



بطورکلی بررسی ارتباط میان واژه و معنا را معناشناسی می گویند. در منطق نیز بررسی ارتباط میان نمادها و آنچه که نمادها نشان می دهند را معناشناسی (Semantics) می نامند.

خوب است در آغاز به این نکته اشاره کنم که در معناشناسی، میانِ واژه (word) و واژه قاموسی (lexeme) تفاوت وجود دارد. واژه را که همه می شناسیم . اما واژه قاموسی شامل بنِ واژه ، واژه کامل ، و یا یک اصطلاح(idiom) است و بطور کلی واحد و یکان فرهنگ نویسی بشمار می رود. از همین رو فرهنگ زبان یا واژه نامه را نیز Lexicon می نامند. بنابراین، ”dog“، ”happiness“، ”put up with“، هرسه، واژه قاموسی هستند.

آشنایی با چند اصطلاح:


Synonym:

دو واژه ی قاموسیِ هم معنی را مترادف می نامند. توجه کنید که هیچ دو واژه ای در زبان بطور کامل هم معنی نیستند. حتی اگر شما ”پوشیدن“ و ”تن کردن“ را مترادف بدانید نیز این دو هرگز کاملا هم معنی نیستند! آشکارترین تفاوت میان این دو آن است که پوشیدن را می توانید برای موارد رسمی نیز بکار برید، اما از ”تن کردن“ تنها برای موارد غیر رسمی می توانید استفاده کنید.
نکته دیگر این است که دو واژه شاید معناهای متفاوتی داشته باشند؛ بنابراین، ممکن است تنها یک معنا از دو واژه با توجه به بافت سخن، مترادف باشند. با این وجود، شما آن دو واژه را در آن بافت، مترادف می خوانید.

Antonym:

دو واژه که در بافت سخن، دارای دو معنای متضاد باشند را antonym می گویند. واژه های متضاد بر دو دسته اند:

Gradable Antonyms:

مانند سرد و گرم. شما می توانید بگووید سردتر یا گرم تر؛ همچنین می توانید بپرسید که چه اندازه گرم یا چه اندازه سرد؟

Ingradable Antonyms:

مانند مرده و زنده. شما نمی توانید بگویید مرده تر! و نمی توانید بپرسید که چقدر مرده یا چقدر زنده؟!

Taxonomic Sisters:

برای گروهی از واژگان قاموسی بکار می رود که در یک سطح طبقه بندی قرار می گیرند. برای نمونه سگ، خوک، اسب، و... از نظر حیوان بودن، taxonomic sisters هستند. بعضی از ”خواهران رده ای“ که محدود هستند را بسته (closed) می ناند : ”روزهای هفته“. برخی دیگر مانند ”راه های خوش آمدگویی“ را باز یا نامحدود یا open می نامند.


Hyponyms and Hypernyms:

هایپانیم، اشاره به ارتباطِ شمولی دارد. برای نمونه، ”سرخ“ هایپانیمِ رنگ است و ”شیر“ هایپانیمِ گربه سانان است. خودِ رنگ و گربه سانان در اینجا هایپرنیم است.


Meronyms:

مرونیم ها مثل هایپانیم ها هستند با این تفاوت که مرونیم ها اشاره به اجزای یک چیز دارند. برای نمونه، ”بال“ جزیی از یک پرنده و ”دستگیره“ جزیی از یک در است.


Homonyms:

دو واژه که یک شکل و یک تلفظ دارند، اما از نظر معنایی متفاوت اند. برای نمونه در زبان انگلیسی، bank هم بمعنی بانک و هم به معنی ساحل رود بکار می رود. گرچه هر دوی این واژگان یک جور نوشته می شوند، اما از نظر معنا شناسی، این دو، واژگانی متفاوت هستند. این دو واژه را هومونیم می نامیم.

Polysemy:

بعضی از واژگان، تک معنایی (monosemy) هستند و برخی دیگر چندمعنایی (polysemy) اند. تشخیص تفاوت میان هومونیم ها و پالسمی ها بسیار دشوار و کارِ زبان شناسان است. برای نمونه زبان شناسان “table” به معنی ”لوح“ و “table” به معنی ”جدول“ را در زیر یک سرواژه قرار داده و آنرا پالسمی (و نه هومونیم) می دانند.

Homograph:

دو واژه که به یک صورت نوشته می شوند، اما از نظر تلفظ و معنا متفاوت هستند. برای نمونه شکل های اسمی و فعلیِ واژه project هومونیم نیستند، بلکه homograph اند.

Homophones:

واژه های متفاوت با تلفظ یکسان را هوموفون می نامند. برای نمونه: ”hair“ و ”hare“.


Denotation and Connotation:

معنای صریح و آشکار یک واژه که معمولا در واژه نامه ها به آن اشاره می شود را denotative meaning می نامند. معنای ضمنی یک واژه را connotative meaning می نامند. برای نمونه هنگامیکه کسی به شما می گوید : ”زهرا برای من مادری کرده است“، معنای صریح واژه ”مادری“ در اینجا اینگونه است که زهرا مخاطب شما را بزرگ کرده و پرورش داده است، اما معنای ضمنی آن این است که زهرا در حق مخاطب شما مهر و محبت فراوان روا داشته است.


Componential Analysis:

یکی از روش های نشان دادن معنی واژگان قاموسی، آوردن اجزای معنایی آنها (meaning components) است. به بررسی اجزای مرد، زن، دختر، و پسر توجه کنید:
:مرد : + انسان، - مونث، + بزرگسال
:زن : + انسان، + مونث، + بزرگسال
:دختر: + انسان، + مونث، - بزرگسال
:پسر: + انسان، - مونث، - بزرگسال

این روش، نسبت به شیوه ی آوردن مرجع (reference) برای معنا (sense) برتری دارد. چراکه گاه دو معنای متفاوت، به یک مرجع اشاره دارند! به نمونه زیر توجه کنید:
:رییس جمهور
:رییس شورای عالی امنیت ملی

هر دو معنای اشاره شده در بالا، به یک نفر اشاره دارند. برابر قانون اساسی ایران، رییس جمهور، رییس شورای امنیت ملی است. با این وجود، از نظر معنایی، میان ریاست جمهوری و ریاست شورای امنیت ملی تفاوت آشکار وجود دارد.
البته به تشریح معنی از راه بررسی اجزایی در ظاهر یک اشکال بزرگ نیز وارد است. این روش معمولا برای بیان معنای ضمنی (connotative meaning) کامل نیست:


:Bachelor: + male, - married
:Spinster: - male, - married



در نگاه نخست، بچلر متضاد واژه اسپینسر است، اما بار معنایی منفی موجود در واژه دوم را چه کار کنیم؟! واژه نخست را در فارسی می توانیم بصورت ”مرد مجرد“ ترجمه کنیم، اما اگر بخواهیم واژه دوم را ترجمه کنیم باید بگوییم : ”پیردختر“ یا ”دختر ترشیده“ یا چیزی شبیه به اینها!
پاسخ این است که شما برای معنای صریح و معنای ضمنی واژه، دو هویت مستقل قائل می شوید و برای نمونه می توانید برای معنای ضمنی اسپینسر، یک (+ negative feedback) و یا یک (- young) یا هر معنای ضمنی دیگری که برداشت می کنید را نیز می آورید.

Fuzzy Concepts:

همه اجزای معنایی واژگان را نمی توان با آری و نه و یا + و – نشان داد. برای نمونه، در مورد بستنی، ماهیت این واژه آیا + جامد است یا - جامد؟! اشتباه نکنید! این ایراد از معناشناسی نیست، این مفهومِ گنگ دقیقا همان نگاهی است که شما به معنای بستنی دارید. همین حالا به پرسش من پاسخ دهید : ”آیا بستنی جامد است؟“ خوب اگر شما بگویید آری، پس فرق ماهیت سنگ و چوب و پارچه با بستنی چیست؟ آنچه از ماهیت بستنی در ذهن شما نقش می بندد این است که چیزی است میان جامد و مایع؛ نه می توان آنرا جامد خواند و نه می توان آنرا مایع دانست.

Prototypes:

برخی واژگان در ذهن انسان به مجموعه ای از مرجع های متفاوت اشاره دارند. برای نمونه واژه ی ورزش اینگونه است. هنگامیکه شما این واژه را به تنهایی می شنوید احتمالا در ذهن شما ”نرمش صبحگاهی“، ”فوتبال“، ”کشتی“، و... نقش می بنند. این حالت را ما بصورت یک دایره ی دارت نشان می دهیم که درآن هرچه به سوی میانه هدف پیش می رویم، مفاهیم معروف تر که با شنیدن واژه زودتر به ذهن خطور می کنند(prototypes) دیده می شوند.
تصویر زیر چیزی است که تصور می کنم یک آمریکایی از ورزش داشته باشد:


img/daneshnameh_up/3/31/Prototype.png



شاید بسیاری از آمریکاییان بازی بیس بال را نیز در دایره دارتِ معناییِ خود بگنجانند. شاید برخی بوکس یا کشتی را در منطقه درونی تر دایره جای دهند و فوتبال آمریکایی را به خارج تر برانند. به هر روی، تصویر شکل یافته، همان معنایی است که فرد مورد نظر ما از ورزش در ذهن خود دارد.


مشکلی بنام Metaphor:


متافور یعنی استعاره. استعاره نوعی تشبیه است که در آن از ادات تشبیه استفاده نشده باشد. برای نمونه در فارسی می گوییم ”حسن که خرس است!“. این جمله یعنی حسن که مانند خرس گنده است.
در انگلیسی ممکن است روابط جنسی نامشروع را به ناپاکی و نداشتن اینگونه روابط را به پاکی تشبیه کرده و بصورت استعاره بکار برند:


  • They went on a dirty weekend.
  • You've got a filthy mind!
  • Keep it clean - this is a family audience.
  • My reputation is spotless.
  • The immaculate conception.
  • I'm worried that children's minds will be polluted with all the sex on television.


پرسش: در برخورد با استعاره ها، از دید معناشناسی، آیا باید معنای ظاهری آنها را بررسی نمود یا باید معنای باطنی شان را در نظر گرفت؟
پاسخ: هر دو! فراموش نکنید که معناشناسی دقیقا بررسی همان چیزی است که در ذهن انسان نقش می بنند. هنگامیکه شما با یک استعاره بر می خورید، ابتدا معنای ظاهری و سپس معنای باطنی آن شما را متوجه خود می کند و این ارزش کار استعاره است. برخی مترجمان غیرحرفه ای متاسفانه در ترجمه استعاره ها معنا یا تفسیر خود از آن را بیان می کنند و این بزرگترین خیانت به اثر نویسنده و اشتباهی بزرگ در ترجمه است.


نقش های معنایی:

در هنگام خواندن نقش های معنایی، تلاش نکنید مفاهیم ارایه شده را با مفاهیم موجود در دستور سنتی برابری دهید. گرچه می توان برخی از آنها را معادل فعل ، فاعل ، مفعول ، یا... در دستور زبان دانست، با این وجود خواهید دید که برای نمونه فاعل در معناشناسی گونه های متفاوتی دارد:

Agent: کارگزار.

Patient: چیزی که از کارِ کارگزار یا علت تاثیر پذیرفته است.

Location: محل انجام کار (یا حادثه).

Instrument: چیزی که کارگزار برای انجام کار از آن استفاده نموده است.

Time: زمان انجام کار (یا حادثه).

Recipient: دریافت کننده ی نتیجه ی کارِ کارگزار.

Experiencer: گیرنده انگیزه.

Stimulus: انگیزه.

Cause: علت.

Goal: محلِ مقصد.

یکی از دوستان می گفت: ”زمان! کارگزار، انگیزه، و علت، که یکی است!“ باید بگویم بله! در دستور زبان شاید هر سه را فاعل بدانیم، اما در معنا، میان این سه و نیز میان Patient و Recipient تفاوت هایی وجود دارد. برای درک بهتر مفاهیم بالا، به نمونه های زیر توجه کنید:


1.Farmers raise crops for cityfolk.

Agent Patient Recipient
2.Rain pleases the farmers, but too much rain harms the crops.
Stimulus Experiencer Cause Patient
3.In the summer, they use trucks to bring crops from the field.
Time Agent Instruments Patient Location
4.They may send their crops to market through cooperatives.
Agent Patient Goal Instrument
5.The crops are sent by train to distribution centers in large cities.
Patient Instrument Goal Location
6.Market value determines which crops farmers will plant the next spring.
[ بیست و هشتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:54 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

خانواده های زبان های جهان

در سال 2000، برابر محاسبه ی زبانشناسان، بیش از شش هزار زبان در سراسر جهان استفاده می شده است که بیشتر آنها را ده هزار نفر یا کمتر بکار می برده اند. این تعداد تا سال 2100 یعنی در گذرِ تنها یک قرن نصف خواهد شد. ”یعنی هر دوازده روز = مرگ یک زبان“. بسیاری از فرهنگ های بومی و ملی نیز همراه با این زبان ها به موزه ی تاریخ سپرده خواهد شد. زبان هایی که تعداد سخنگویان بدانها بسیار است (مانند زبان فارسی) دیرتر فراموش خواهند شد. بسیاری معتقدند که زبان هایی باقی خواهد ماند که خاستگاه آنها مهد فن آوری یا اقتصاد باشدبیشتر بر این باورند که زبانی که مردمِ آن بدان عشق ورزند نیز هرگز نخواهد مرد.
برای دسته بندی زبان ها از دیدگاه زبان شناسی، دو شیوه مرسوم است:

شیوه ی وابسته به گونه شناسی (Typology ) در این شیوه، زبان ها بر پایه ساختار شان دسته بندی می شوند. در این روش، برای نمونه، زبان انگلیسی و زبان چینی که هر دو از واژه پردازیِ ”فاعل- فعل- مفعول“ پیروی می کنند، در یک گروه قرار می گیرند.

شیوه ی زادگانی (Genetic) : در این شیوه، زبان ها برپایه ی روند شکل گیری و برمبنای تاریخی دسته بندی می شوند. این روش، بسیار پیچیده تر و علمی تر از شیوه ی وابسته به گونه شناسی است. در شیوه ی زادگانی، گروهی از دانش ها همچون باستان شناسی ، مردم شناسی ، تاریخ، و... توسط زبانشناسان بخدمت گرفته می شود. خانواده های زبان ها نیز با استفاده از همین شیوه دسته بندی شده اند.

 


گروه زبان های هند و ایرانی

 
گروه زبان های هند و ایرانی ، مهمترین گروه از خانواده ی زبان های هند و اروپایی است؛ چراکه کهن ترین گروه از این خانواده به شمار می رود که متن های بسیاری از آن بجای مانده است. تنها خطِ آ ، خطِ ب ، و متن های موجود از زبان هیتی (
Hittite)کهن تر از گروه هند و ایرانی هستند. خط آ ، معدود نوشته هایی متعلق به 1500 سال پیش از میلاد هستند که بر روی گل کنده کاری شده و در جزیره ی کرت پیدا شده اند. خط ب نیز متعلق به 1400 سال پیش از میلاد است و آنهم بر روی لوح های گلی در کرت و یونان پیدا شده است. با این وجود، بدلیل اندک بودن بقایای این دو خط و نیز کم بودن دانسته های ما درباره ی زبانی که با این دو خط نوشته می شده است، نمی توان از آنها چیز زیادی بدست آورد. زبان هیتی نیز در آناتولی و بخش هایی از سوریه امروزی بکار می رفته است. با وجود لوح های بسیاری که از این زبان بجای مانده، زبانشناسان هنوز نتوانسته اند آنرا در یکی از گروه های خانواده ی هند و اروپایی جای دهند و تنها به این نکته بسنده می کنند که این زبان احتمالا هند و اروپایی بوده است.

از سوی دیگر، به دلایل زیر، از خانواده ی هند و ایرانی متن های بسیاری بجای مانده و امروزه مرجعی قابل اطمینان برای پژوهشگران شده است:

1 .زبان سانسکریت «هند باستان)، از قرن 14 پیش از میلاد {برخی این تاریخ را تا چهار قرن پیش از این نیز به عقب برده اند} تا قرن پنجم پیش از میلاد، زبان دینی هندویان بشمار می رفته است و به همین دلیل مهمترین متن های دینی هندیان به این زبان نوشته شده است. از قرن پنجم پیش از میلاد به بعد نیز از زبان سانسکریت بعنوان زبان ادبیات کلاسیک هندی استفاده شده است.

2 .زبان اوستایی (ایران باستان)، زبانی است که اوستا بدان نوشته شده و بدیهی است که مورد احترام و پاسداری ایرانیان بوده است. عین کتاب اوستا هم اکنون موجود است و بعلاوه واژه نامه های چندجلدی از زبان اوستایی نیز انتشار یافته که می تواند مورد توجه پژوهشگران باشد.

3 .زبان پارسی باستان ، از آنجایی که زبان مردم ایران تا قرن سوم پیش از میلاد بوده است، از دید من، بسیار شایان اهمیت است. باقی مانده های این زبان بر روی لوح های سنگی بجامانده از دوران هخامنشی موجود است. معروفترین لوح بجامانده، کتیبه بیستون است که به سه زبان پارسی باستان، ایلامی، و آکِدی نوشته شده است. متاسفانه زبان پارسی باستان از هجوم و تاراج تازیان و دیگران بی نصیب نمانده و بسیاری از شواهد مربوط به آن از میان رفته است. بسیاری دیگر از این شواهد نیز در دوران قاجار به کشورهای غربی صادر شده است. واژه نامه ی پارسه- فارسی که برای نخستین بار در جهان در تارنمای دنبلید آورده شده است، با بهره گیری از گنجینه ی متن ها و واژه نامه ی
Parsah-English دانشگاه شیکاگو نوشته شده و از کتابهای تاریخ زبان فارسی و واج شناسی تاریخی زبان فارسی (هر دو اثر دکتر مهری باقری) نیز در گردآوری این واژه نامه استفاده شده است.

به هر روی، گروه زبان های هند و ایرانی به دو زیرگروه ایرانی و هندی تقسیم می شود:

1 .زبان های ایرانی: زبانهای مهم این زیرگروه عبارتند از اوستایی ، پارسی باستان، سکایی (امروزه وجود ندارد)، استی (
Ossetic) در قفقاز ، پهلوی ، فارسی ، پشتو در افغانستان ، دُری در افغانستان، فارسی تاجیکی ، کردی ، و بلوچی.

2 .زبان های هندی: زبانهای مهم این زیرگروه عبارتند از سانسکریت، هندی ، اردو ، بنگالی ، گجراتی ، سیلانی ، و نپالی.

 

[ بیست و هشتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:50 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

زبان‌شناسی رایانه‌ای، جزء علوم بین‌رشته‌ای است که سعی دارد با بهره‌گیری از روش‌های محاسباتی و صوری به مدل‌سازی ماشینی زبان طبیعی بپردازد. زبان شناسی رایانه‌ای همچنین شاخه‌ای از هوش مصنوعی محسوب می‌شود.

در مورد استفاده از آن از جمله میتوان به کاربردهای زیر اشاره کرد:

فرایافت concept و تجزیه زبانهای برنامه نویسی:

 نوآم چامسکی توانست تشابه زبانهای طبیعی و زبانهای برنامه نویسی را به اثبات برساند. یعنی یک زبان رایانه ای مانند زبانهای طبیعی دارای یک دستور زبان و یک فرهنگ می باشد. تفسیر یک متن از تجزیه ی واژه ها lexicon آغاز سپس با تجزیه نحو syntax و در آخر با تجزیه مفهوم semantic آن پایان می یابد.

ترجمه ماشینی (خودکار) :

 این شاخه از زبان شناسی رایانه‌ای‌ زمان درازی کم اهمیت جلوه می کرد اما امروزه یکی از موارد مورد علاقه پژوهشگران این رشته می باشد. پس از مرحله ی تجزیه واژه ها و نحو می باید تجزیه ی مفهوم و سپس پرگماتیک را نیز افزود. در واقع این دو سعی در شناخت مفهوم خاص یک واژه در مکانی که ظاهر می شود را دارد.

پرسش و پاسخ با زبانهای طبیعی:

 این ایده مدتی به عنوان پاسخی قانع کننده به مسئله ارتباط انسان و ماشین تلقی می شد. این دید در واقع جنبه ی وسیع تری از دستور زایشی چامسکی است.

[ بیست و هشتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:47 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

زبان‌شناسی میکوشد تا به پرسشهایی بنیادین همچون «زبان چیست؟» و «زبان چگونه عمل می‌‌کند؟» پاسخ گوید. برای نمونه در این که «زبان آدمی با سامانه ارتباطی دیگر جانوران چه تفاوتی دارد؟»، «کودک چگونه سخن گفتن می‌‌آموزد؟»، «انسان چگونه می‌‌نویسد و از چه راهی زبان نانوشتاری را واکاوی (تحلیل) می‌کند؟»، «چرا زبانها دیگرگون می‌شوند؟» و جز اینها. کسی را که به بررسی‌های زبانشناختی میپردازد، زبان‌شناس می‌‌نامند. زبانشناس اگرچه باید آزمودگی گسترده‌ای در چندین گونه زبان داشته باشد ولی بایستگی و لزومی ندارد که به روانی به چندین زبان سخن بگوید. برای او مهم‌تر این است که بتواند پدیده‌های زبان‌شناختی را مانند سامانه واژه‌های یک زبان یا کارواژه‌های آن را کندوکاو نماید و بازبشکافد. او بیشتر یک مشاهده گر برون گرا و ورزیده است تا یک طرف گفتگو..

دانش زبان‌شناسی با کتاب دستور سانسکریت نوشته پانینی هندی آغاز گشت. پانینی در سده پنجم پیش از زایش مسیح دستور زبان بسیار پیشرفته‌ای نوشت.

دانش زبان‌شناسی شاخه‌های گوناگونی دارد. برخی از آنها از این قرارند: زبان‌شناسی سنجشی-تاریخی، دستور گشتاری، دستور زایشی، آواشناسی، معناشناسی و گونه‌شناسی زبان.عصب شناسی زبان و زبان شناسی بالینی نیز از شاخه های جدید زبان شناسی میباشند

[ بیست و هشتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:40 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
THE OBSTACLE IN OUR PATH

In ancient times, a king had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it.
Many loudly blamed the king for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the big stone out of the way. Then a peasant came along carrying a load of vegetables. On approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded. As the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the king indicating that the gold was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant learned what many others never understand.

Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve one's condition

.


موانع راه

در دوران باستان، پادشاهی تخته سنگی بزرگ را بر سر راهی قرار داد و مخفی شد تا ببیند چه کسی آن را از سر راه بر می دارد. تعدادی از تاجران ثروتمند و درباریانش از راه رسیدند و بدون توجه از کنار آن رد شدند. تعدادی هم پادشاه را به این خاطر که جاده ها را برای تردد مناسب سازی نکرده سرزنشش کردند. اما هیچکدامشان کاری برای کنار زدن تخته سنگ انجام ندادند. تا وقتی که یک روستایی با باری از سبزیجات بر دوش از راه رسید وقتی به تخته سنگ رسید بارش را بر روی زمین گذاشت و سعی کرد تا سنگ را به کنار جاده هدایت کند. بعد از کلی تقلا بلاخره موفق شد. وقتی داشت بارش را از زمین بلند می کرد متوجه کیسه ای در جایی که تخته سنگ در آنجا بود، شد. کیسه پر از سکه های طلا بود و یاداشتی از طرف پادشاه با خود داشت که در آن نوشته شده بود: طلا ها برای کسی است که تخته سنگ را از سر راه بردارد. روستایی چیزی را یاد گرفت که هیچ کدام از رهگذران یاد نگرفته بودند.


Depends On Your Perspective

A professor stood before her Philosophy 101 class and had some items in front of her. When the class began, wordlessly, she picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls.

She then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. So the professor picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. She shook the jar lightly.

The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. She then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor then picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. She then asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous - yes.

The professor then produced two cans of liquid chocolate from under the table and proceeded to pour the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the
important things - - your family, your spouse, your health, your children, your friends, your favorite passions - - things that if everything
else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

"The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car." "The sand is everything else - - the small stuff."
"If you put the sand into the jar first," she continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. "Take care of the golf balls first the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One student raised her hand and inquired what the chocolate represented.

The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for chocolate!"

 

 


همه چیز بستگی به دیدگاه شما دارد

استادی قبل از شروع کلاس فلسفه اش در حالی که وسایلی را به همراه داشت در کلاس حاضر شد. وقتی کلاس شروع شد بدون هیچ کلامی شیشه خالی سوس مایونزی را برداشت و با توپ های گلف شروع کرد به پر کردن آن.
سپس از دانشجویان پرسید که آیا شیشه پر شده است؟ آنها تایید کردند. در همین حال استاد سنگریزه هایی را از پاکتی برداشت و در شیشه ریخت و به آرامی شیشه را تکان داد.
سنگریزه ها با تکان استاد وارد فضاهای خالی بین توپ های گلف شدند و استاد مجددا پرسید که آیا شیشه پر شده است یا نه؟ دانشجویان پذیرفتند که شیشه پر شده است.
این بار استاد بسته ای از شن را برداشت و در شیشه ریخت و شن تمام فضای های خالی را پر کرد. استاد بار دیگر پرسید که آیا باز شیشه پر شده است؟ دانشجویان به اتفاق گفتند: بله!
استاد این بار دو ظرف از شکلات را به حالت مایع در آورد و شروع کرد به ریختن در همان شیشه به طوری که کاملا فضاهای بین دانه های شن نیز پر شود. در این حالت دانشجویان شروع کردند به خندیدن.
وقتی خندین دانشجویان تمام شد استاد گفت: "حالا"، " می خواهم بدانید که این شیشه نمادی از زندگی شماست. توپ های گلف موارد مهم زندگی شما هستند مانند: خانواد، همسر، سلامتی و دوستان و امیالتان است. چیز هایی که اگر سایر موارد حذف شوند زندگی تان چیزی کم نخواهد داشت. سنگریزه ها در واقع چیز هایی مهم دیگری هستند مانند شغل، منزل و اتومبیل شماست. شن ها همان وسایل و ابزاری کوچکی هستند که در زندگی تان از آنها استفاه می کنید. و این طور صحبتش را ادامه داد: اگر شما شن را در ابتدا در شیشه بریزید در این صورت جایی برای سنگریزه ها و توپ های گلف وجود نخواهد داشت. و این حقیقتی است که در زندگی شما هم اتفاق می افتد. اگر تمام وقت و انرژِی خود را بر روی مسائل کوچک بگذارید در این صورت هیچگاه جایی برای مسائل مهم تر نخواهید داشت. به چیز های مهمی که به شاد بودن شما کمک می کنند توجه کنید.در ابتدا به توپ های گلف توجه کنید که مهم ترین مسئله هستند. اولویت ها را در نظر آورید و باقی همه شن هستند و بی اهمیت.
دانشجویی دستش را بلند کرد و پرسید: پس شکلات نماد چیست؟
استاد لبخند زد و گفت: خوشحالم که این سئوال را پرسیدی! و گفت: نقش شکلات فقط این است که نشان دهد مهم نیست که چه مقدار زندگی شما کامل به نظر می رسد مهم این است که همیشه جایی برای شیرینی وجود دارد.
[ بیست و هشتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:37 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
در زیر مهمترین فرهنگ لغت های اینترنتی معرفی شده است.

جدید ترین اصطلاحات لاتی و کوچه بازاری. بسیار مفید ، مخصوصا برای فیلم ها



www.hyperdictionary.com

یه فرهنگ لغت جمع و جور در زمینه های پزشکی، رایانه، و اینگلیسی عمومی. یک قسمتی هم شبیه به طالع بینی داره.اگر وبلاگ یا سایت دارید، می توانید از جعبه جستجو ی فرهنگ لغات آن در صفحه وبتون استفاده کنید و یک دیکشنری بر خط و حاضر آماده داشته باشید.

این فرهنگ لغت معنی یک کلمه را به زبان های انگلیسی، آلمانی، اسپانیایی، فرانسه و ایتالیایی ارائه می دهد و در کنار معنی هر لغت تلفظ آن را هم در اختیار شما می گذارد.


از این فرهنگ لغت هر چی بگم کم گفتم، واقعا دیکشنری قرن هست.اما حیف که تو این سایت تلفظ ندارد. شما می توانید لوح فشرده آن را تهیه کنید.


این سایت فارسی ترجمه لغات را به فارسی و انگلیسی به شما می دهد اما زیاد قوی نیست.بدم نیست.


این فرهنگ لغت فارسی، هم انگلیسی به فارسی است و هم فارسی به انگلیسی و بر عکس قیافش چیز خوبی نشان می دهد.


فرهنگ مریام هم شاید به جرات بشه گفت کامل ترین، به روز ترین و کار راه انداز ترین دیکشنری آن لاین هست.


این فرهنگ ربطی به زبان انگلیسی ندارد و در اصل یک مترجم پینگلیشی است، شما به کمک این فرهنگ لغت می توانید متون پینگلیشی خود را به فارسی ترجمه کنید.

[ بیست و هفتم آذر 1386 ] [ 23:4 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

 در این بخش شما را با متن فیلم با Movie Script آشنا می کنیم، شاید جالب باشد که بدانید شما می توانید متن هر فیلم، سریال و نمایشنامه رادیویی و تلویزیونی را در اینترنت پیدا کنید. این متن ها بر اساس سال ساخت و اسم فیلم قابل دسترس می باشند و به شما (در مواردی که فیلم شما زیرنویس دار نمی باشد) کمک می کند که مکالمات و روند داستان فیلم را راحت تر پیگیری نمایید.
ما در ذیل به تعدادی از این سایت ها که به نظرمان قویتر و مفید تر می باشند اشاره می کنیم، مطمئناً شما سایت های بهتری را خواهید یافت و این تنها بهانه است برای آشنایی شما با اینگونه امکانات که به شما کمک می کند زبان انگلیسی را بهتر و عمیق تر بیاموزید. برای مشاهده کامل متن به ادامه مطلب بروید.......


ادامه مطلب
[ بیست و هفتم آذر 1386 ] [ 22:51 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
  • فرق بین little , few
  • فرق بین alittle , a few
  • فرق بین much ,many
  • فرق بین  not only, but also
  • فرق بین  some, any

 

فرق بین (a little- a few- Little- Few)

کلمه ی(Few)(کم، اندک، کمی) همیشه با اسمهای قابل شمارش بکار برده می شوند و عدم یا نبودن چیزی یا شخص را رسانده و همیشه با اسم جمع و فعل جمع همراه است و معنی جمله همیشه میل به منفی دارد.

There were Few children in the garden.-

                        جمع                 جمع

 

Little (کم، اندک، کوچک)

همیشه با اسمهای غیر قابل شمارش همراه است و با اسم و فعل مفرد بکار می رود و عدم وجود چیزی را می رساند و معنی جملات با (Little) همیشه میل بطرف منفی دارد.

- There is little water in the river.

                                                           مفرد                          مفرد

 

 

(چند تا) a few

با اسمهای قابل شمارش و با فعل جمع بکار می رود و وجود چند چیز را می رساند (مثبت) حتی به تعداد کم.

-         He has a Few friends in this city.

 

 A little (کمی)

با اسمهای غیر قابل شمارش و با فعل مفرد بکار رفته و وجود مقدار چیزی را می رساند (مثبت) حتی اگر به مقدار کم باشد.

- He has a little money in his wallet.

تبصره:

 هنگامیکه جواب سوالی با (yes) شروع شود در آن جمله از (a Few) و (a Little) استفاده می کنند و وقتی جواب با کلمه ی (not) شروع شود از (Few) و (Little) استفاده می شود، البته اگر در جمله ای از (only) استفاده شود باید از صفات مثبت 

(a few) و (a little) استفاده کرد.

 

فرق بین (much) و (many)

 

Much: فقط با اسمهای غیر قابل شمارش و با فعل مفرد همراه است و در جملات مثبت، منفی و سوالی بکار برده می شود ولی بهتر است که در جملات مثبت از کلمات  (plenty of) و یا (a lot of ) استفاده نمود.

 

Many: فقط با اسمهای قابل شمارش و با فعل جمع همراه است و در جملات مثبت، منفی و سوالی بکار برده می شود ولی بهتر است در جملات مثبت از کلمات (a lot of) استفاده کرد.

1-               He has not (many-much) money.

2-               There is not (many-much) food in the house.

3-               Are there (many-much) books in the library?

4-               How (many-much) times a day do you go to the mosque?

5-               How (many-much) time do you need to do it?

 

ترکیب در جمله بوسیله (not only… but also)

 

جملاتی که دارای فاعل یکسان هستند بوسیله کلمات (not only) و (but also) به هم ربط داده می شوند.

همیشه برای ترکیب دو جمله بوسیله (not only) و (but also) و فاعل و فعل مشترک بین دو جمله را نوشته و سپس (not only) آورده و سپس ادامه جمله اول و قسمت مشترک جمله دوم (که با جمله اول مشترک بود) را حذف کرده و سپس و (but also)

را آورده و بعد ادامه جمله را نوشته .

 

- He is kind. He is helpful.

- He is not only kind but also helpful.

 

فرق بین (some) و (any)

کلمه (some) در جملات مثبت و با اسمهای قابل شمارش و غیر قابل شمارش و با فعل مفرد و جمع بکار می رود ولی (any) در جملات منفی و سوالی با اسمهای قابل شمارش و با فعل مفرد و جمع بکار می رود. البته کلمه ی (any) بعضی مواقع با جملات سوالی می آید و موقعی است که سوال کننده انتظار جواب مثبت داشته باشد.

- Can you give me some more information?

[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:50 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
زمان‏ها Tenses


Tense


1. حال ساده Simple Present
2. حال استمراری Present Continuous
3. حال کامل (ماضی نقلی)Present Perfect
4. حال کامل استمراری(نقلی استمراری) Present perfect Continios
5. گذشته ساده Simple Past
6. گذشته استمراری Past Continios
7. گذشته کامل (ماضی بعید) Past Perfect
8. گذشته کامل استمراری(بعید استمراری)Past Perfect continios
9. آینده Future
10. آینده استمراری Future Continios
11. آینده کامل Future Perfect
12. آینده کامل استمراری Continios Future Perfect
13. آینده در گذشته Future in the Past




1- زمان حال ساده

در زمان انگلیسی به سه طریق زمان حال ساده شناخته می شود:
الف: اگر عملی در زمان های مشخص تکرار شود فعل آن جمله زمان حال ساده است که اغلب با قیود every week , every day و ... به کار می رود.

ب: اگر یکی از قید های تکرار ذیل در جمله ای وجود داشته باشد فعل آن جمله زمان حال ساده است.
Always- often- usually-never- sometimes- …

ج- اگر جمله ای بیان کننده حقیقت یا عادتی باشد زمان حال ساده است.
- The earth moves round the sun.
طرز ساختن زمان حال ساده:
حال ساده تمام افعال مصدر بدون to می باشد (بغیر از افعال معین) و فقط در سوم شخص مفرد حرف s به فعل اضافه می شود و افعالی که به , sh, x, o, ss, ch, sh ختم شوند در سوم شخص مفرد es گرفته و افعالیکه به y ختم شوند، اگر قبل از y حرف بی صدا باشد ies گرفته و اگر قبل از y حرف با صدا باشد فقط به آخر آن حرف s افزوده می شود.


طرز منفی و سوالی کردن حال ساده
اگر جمله ای دارای فعل کمکی بود may, can و غیره، برای سوالی کردن جمله آنها را قبل از فاعل ذکر کرده و برای منفی کردن فقط not بعد از افعال کمکی آورده ولی اگر جمله فعل معین نداشت برای سوالی کردن زمان حال ساده کلمه do را قبل از فعل و برای سوم شخص مفرد کلمه does را قبل از فعل آورده و برای منفی کردن don't را قبل از فعل اصلی و doesn't را برای سوم شخص مفرد آورده و هر گاه doesn't و یا does در جمله به کار رود، در جمله همیشه s ویا es فعل اصلی حذف می شود.

I go I don't go Do I go?
سوالی منفی

he goeshe does not godoes he go?
سوالی منفی


مثال زیر را اول سوالی و سپس منفی سازید،

1-I like my natural science teach very much.

2-you can speek with your teacher.

2-حال استمراری


ادامه جمله +مفعول+ing +فعل+(am-is-are)+فاعل

زمان حال استمراری برای بیان انجام کاری که هنوز ادامه دارد بکار می رود.

طریقه شناختن:


اغلب با قید های
( at present)- (now)-at the moment))
و غیره همراه است و همیشه جملات بعد از کلمات آگاه کننده ،در ابتدای جمله بصورت حال استمراری نوشته می شوند،

کلمات آگاه کننده Lisen-be cerful- Look

Look!hassan is coming


طرز ساختن حال استمراری:
حال استمراری هر فعل را با حال ساده فعل (to be) همراه با شکل (ing) هر فعل می سازند،I am going


طرز منفی و سوالی کردن حال استمراری :
برای منفی کردن کا فیست که بعد از افعال معین کلمه (not) را ذکر کرده و برای سوالی کردن (are-is-am)را به ابتدای جمله آورده، البته با افزودن (ing)به فعل اصلی تغیراتی در افعال حاصل می شود که عینا در بخش قواعد دیکته ذکر شده است.
مثال:جملات زیر را یکبار سوالی و سپس منفی کنید:
1-I am listening to the radio now.
2-mehri is coming from high school.
3-she is going to take her coat.
4-we are explaining the lasson for him.

3-زمان حال کامل (ماضی نقلی)
ادامه جمله+مفعول+ قسمت سوم فعل+(have- has)+فاعل

طریقه شناختن(سه طریق)
الف- اگر عملی در گذشته در وقت نا معلومی انجام شده باشد ماضی نقلی است یعنی اگرجمله ای قید زمان نداشته باشد ماضی نقلی است.
ب -اگر عملی درگذشته چند مرتبه تکرار شده باشد فعل آن جمله ماضی نقلی است یعنی اگر درآخر جمله کلمه ی (times)(مرتبه ها) وجود داشته باشد فعل آن جمله ماضی نقلی است و همچنین قیود(this year,twice- this week)

ج-اگر قبل اززمان گذشته دو حرف اضافه (since)و یا (for) بکاررفته باشد فعل آن جمله ماضی نقلی است فرق (since) با(for)در این است که(since) به مبدا زمان اشاره می کند و (for)به طول زمان.

تذکر:
البته کلمات (already)-(just) و(yet) از علائم مشخصه ی ماضی نقلی هستند

طرز ساختن حال کامل:
ماضی نقلی یاحال کامل هرفعل را با زمان حال ساده فعل (have) و برای سوم شخص مفرد(has) به همراه اسم مفعول فعل مورد نظر می سازند،
I have visited.

طرز منفی وسوالی کردن حال کامل:
چون این زمان همیشه با افعال کمکی (have) و یا(has) برای سوم شخص مفرد همراه است لذا برای منفی کردن بعد از افعال کمکی کلمه ی (not) را گذاشته و برای سوالی کردن (have) ویا(has)را به جمله آورده می شود.

تذکر:
کلمه یsince به معنی از همیشه قبل از یک قید زمان در گذشته می آید در حالی که ever since در آخر جمله بعد از فعل بیان می گردد. همچنین اگر بعداز since جمله ای بصورت گذشته نوشته شود در این صورت since حرف ربط خواهد شد.

- She has worked in library since 1359.
- She saw his father in 1360 and has been happy ever since.

4- حال کامل استمراری:


ادامه جمله+مفعول+ ing +فعل+ been + Have/has +فاعل

این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در گذشته در یک زمان معین یا نامعین شروع شده و تا زمان حال ادامه داشته و هنوز هم ادامه دارد.
البته در افعالیکه در حالت سکون هستند بهتر است از زمان حال کامل استمراری استفاده شود تا زمان حال کامل.
افعالیکه در حالت سکون هستند مثل:
Stay, sit, rest, work, sleep, live, stand, wait, talk, learn, look, lie, listen, study.

طرز شناختن حال کامل استمراری:

شناختن این زمان مثل حال کامل می باشد با این فرق که ماضی نقلی در زمان حال کامل می شود ولی ماضی نقلی استمراری هنوز در زمان حال ادامه دارد که البته حروف اضافه و یا قیودی که برای ماضی نقلی بکار می رود برای ماضی استمراری هم صدق می کند
.
- He is lying on the floor now.حال استمراری
- He has been lying there for two hours.حال کامل استمراری


طرز ساختن حال کامل استمراری:
این زمان را با ماضی نقلی فعل بودن (have/has been) بعلاوه ی شکل (ing) فعل اصلی می سازند.



طرز منفی و سوالی کردن حال کامل استمراری:

در انگلیسی بریتانیایی عیناً مانند ماضی نقلی، سوالی و منفی می شود اما در دستور زبان انگلیسی آمریکایی، از فعل کمکی does برای سوالی کردن قبل از سوم شخص (she, He, It) و doesnot بعد از آن برای منفی کردن استفاده می شود. و در بقیه اشخاص (I, You, We, They) از فعل کمکی do قبل از فاعل، برای سوالی کردن و donot بعد از آن برای منفی کردن استفاده می شود.

5- گذشته ساده
ادامه جمله+مفعول+گذشته فعل+فاعل
نشان می دهد که کاری در گذشته بدون قید و شرط انجام گرفته که معمولاً در این جملات باید یک قید زمان که دلالت به گذشته کند وجود داشته باشد.
I went to the mosque last night.-

طرز ساختن گذشته ساده
اگر به آخر افعال با قاعده d و یا ed اضافه شود بصورت گذشته در می آید ولی افعال بی قاعده قسمت دوم آنها گذشته می باشد.
در زیر یک لیست تقریباً کامل ازافعال بی قاعده را می بینید.

افعال بی قاعده Irregular Verbs

طرز منفی و سوالی کردن گذشته ساده
برای منفی کردن جمله، اگر جمله دارای فعل کمکی بود، با آوردن آن به ابتدای جمله آن را سوالی می کنیم و با گذاردن کلمه not بعد از فعل کمکی آن را منفی می کنیم .
ولی اگر جمله دارای فعل کمکی نبود برای سوالی کردن didرا قبل از فاعل آورده و فعل جمله را به زمان حال تبدیل کرده وبرای منفی کردن did notرا بعد از فاعل می آوریم.


6- گذشته استمراری


مفعول+ادامه جمله+گذشته ساده +Ing +فعل++Was/were+ +فاعل

این زمان به ما نشان می دهد که کاری در موقع وقوع عمل دیگری در حال انجام بوده، پس می توان نتیجه گرفت که گذشته استمراری معمولاً به تنهایی به کار نمی رود و همیشه با یک گذشته ساده بیان می شود.
He saw us as we were coming down the hill.


طرز شناختن گذشته استمراری

در جملاتی که در آن گذشته استمراری بکار رفته است معمولاً یک زمان گذشته ساده همزمان با آن وجود دارد البته با کلمات ربطی مثل:just as- while- when- as

تذکر: بعضی افعال ممتد مثل: shine, rain, drive, live, بهتراست به صورت گذشته استمراری بیان شوند.

طرز ساختن گذشته استمراری

این زمان به کمک گذشته ساده فعل to be همراه با شکل ing فعل اصلی ساخته می شود.
I was working
طرز منفی سوالی کردن گذشته استمراری

برای سوالی کردن افعال کمکی was ویا wereرا در اول جمله آورده و برای منفی کردن کلمه notرا بعد از افعال کمکی was ویا wereآورده.






7- گذشته کامل (ماضی بعید)

فاعل+had+قسمت سوم فعل+ مفعول+...+گذشته ساده

ماضی بعید نشان می دهد که کاری در گذشته قبل از یک عمل گذشته دیگر انجام گرفته است.
ماضی بعید به تنهایی در جمله به کار نمی رود و همیشه آن را با یک گذشته ساده بیان می کنند.

طرز شناختن ماضی بعید

جملات در زمان ماضی بعید با یک گذشته ساده همراه اند همچنین با کلمات ربط by the time, as soon as, be for, after
بیان می شوند.
Hassan had left as soon as we came here.


طرز ساختن ماضی بعید

این زمان به کمک فعل کمکی had همراه با اسم مفعول فعل ماضی ساخته می شود.
I had gone.
She had gone.

طرز منفی سوالی کردن ماضی بعید

برای سوالی کردن فعل کمکی had را به ابتدای جمله می آوریم و برای منفی کردن کلمه not را بعد از فعل کمکی had قرار می دهیم.


8- گذشته کامل استمراری

فاعل ++been+hadفعل+ing+ادامه جمله

این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در گذشته قبل از زمان گذشته دیگری شروع شده و تا آن زمان ادامه داشته است.


طرز شناختن گذشته کامل استمراری

عیناً مانند ماضی بعید است با این تفاوت که افعال در حالت استمراری می باشند و گاهی زمان انجام کار نیز ذکر می شود.
She had been teaching for a year before she went to Tehran.


طرز ساختن گذشته کامل استمراری

این زمان را به کمک ماضی بعید فعل بودن (had been) همراه با شکل ing(استمراری) هر فعلی ساخته می شود .
I had been working.




طرز منفی سوالی کردن گذشته کامل استمراری

عیناً مانند ماضی بعید منفی و سوالی می شود.



9- زمان آینده
+فاعل Shall/will+ فعل to مصدر بدون + مفعول

این زمان نشان دهنده کاری است که در آینده انجام خواهد شد و بیشتر از تصمیمات و قولها سخن می گوید.
این زمان به کمک افعال shall و مصدر بدون toهر فعلی می سازند، البته shall برای اول شخص مفرد و جمع بکار برده می شود ولی امروزه برای تمام صیغه ها از will استفاده می کنند.

اگر قید زمان جمله ای مربوط به آینده باشد مثل next year, tomorrow فعل آن به زمان آینده خواهد بود.


طرز منفی سوالی کردن زمان آینده

برای سوالی کردن افعال کمکی shall و will را به ابتدای جمله آورده و برای منفی کردن کلمه ی not قبل از shall و will گذاشته می شود.


10- آینده استمراری
این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در آینده در یک زمان تعیین شده در حال انجام خواهد بود، که معمولاً این زمان آینده استمراری با قید های:
At this time, tomorrow, next month, next week
و یا همراه با کلماتی مثل: if- wish همراه زمان حال ساده می آید.




طرز ساختن آینده استمراری
این زمان با آینده ساده فعل to be و شکل ing هر فعل ساخته می شود.
I will be going. -


منفی سوالی کردن آینده استمراری

با آوردن کلمه not بعد از فعل کمکی will منفی می شود و برای سوالی کردن فعل کمکی will را به ابتدای جمله می آوریم.


11- آینده کامل
این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در زمان آینده قبل از زمان معینی خاتمه پیدا خواهد کرد.
معمولاً آینده کامل با قیدها و یا حروف ربط after- before- when- by همراه با زمان حال به کار می روند.
I will have done it before six o'clock.

طرز ساختن آینده کامل
این زمان به آینده ساده فعل have و اسم مفعول فعل اصلی می آید.
- I will have done.
- You will have seen.

شکل منفی سوالی
با کلمه not بعد از افعال کمکی shall و will منفی شده و اگر این دو فعل کمکی را به ابتدای جمله بیاوریم جمله سوالی می شود.




12- آینده کامل استمراری
این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در آینده قبل از زمان تعیین شده شروع شده و تا بعد از آن زمان ادامه خواهد داشت.
- At 10 o'clock I will have been working for 5 hours.

طرز ساختن آینده کامل استمراری:
این زمان را با آینده کامل، فعل to be و شکل ing هر فعل ساخته می شود.

طرز منفی سوالی کردن آینده کامل استمراری:
با کلمه not بعد از افعال کمکی shall و will منفی شده و اگر دو فعل کمکی shall و یا will را به ابتدای جمله بیاوریم سوالی می شود.

تذکر:
علامت مشخصه این زمان در اینگلیسی این است که قبل از قید زمان آینده حرف اضافه by
و قبل از طول مدت انجام کار حرف اضافه for به کار می رود.


13. زمان آینده در گذشته

این زمان نشان می دهد که کاری در گذشته به صورت آینده بوده است، به این معنی که وقتی عملی را در گذشته به صورت آینده بوده است بخواهند در زمانم حال آن را ییان کنند آن را آینده در گذشته نامند که معمولاً ای زمان در نقل و قول غیر مستقیم به کار می رود.

طرز ساختن آینده در گذشته
عیناً مثل آینده است، با این فرق که به جای shall از should و به جای will از would استفاده می کنند.
مثال:
-I will go to Tehran tomorrow.آینده

He said that he would go to Tehran the next day. -آینده در گذشته
[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:48 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
  • اسم
  • حالت اسم
  • انواع ضمیر
  • حرف تعریف نامعین (a) و (an)
  • فعل
  • سوالات کوتاه Tag Questions
  • جلوگیری از تکرار کلمات بوسیله بکار بردن افعال کمکی
  • طریقه بکاربردن کلمات استفهامی مثل:
  • طرز ساخت صفات تفصیلی و عالی
  • قیود
  • طبقه بندی قیدها
  • محل قرار گرفتن قیود
  • جمع بستن اسمها
  • حروف ربط
  • صفت
  • Who, what, whom, why, whose, where,which



تعریف اسم (noun)
اسم کلمه ای است که برای نامیدن شخص مکان و یا چیزی بکار برده میشود.

انواع اسم
باغ= garden، میز تحریر=desk، دختر= girl، پسر=boy، مداد=pencil

1- اسم عام common noun اسامی می باشند که در میان اشخاص – مکان ها ویا اشیاء- عمومیت داشته باشند.
2-اسم خاص proper noun
اسامی می باشند که نام مخصوص یک شخص- چیز ویا مکان معینی باشد.
Ali- Iran- Big Ben

3-اسم معنی abstract noun

درد=pain،سرعت=speed،ثروت=wealth،


اسمی می باشد که بخودی خود وجود ندارد و وجودش در اشخاص و یا اشیاء دیگر احسا س میشود. سلامتی=health
4-اسم جمع collective noun
اسمی است که در صورت مفرد، ولی در معنی بر گروه و دسته ای دلالت می کند.
تیم=team، دسته= class، نیروی دریایی=navy،ارتش=army،کتابخانه= library

حالات اسم
اسم

The man opened the door.
2-حالات مفعولی accusative case:وآن هنگامی است که اسم مفعول یک فعل متعدی باشد.
He asked the man a question.



Hassan's book is on the table.

- Boy s' book.


2- The club of the woman. …… Woman's club
3- The house of Ali and Hassan. …. Ali and Hassan's house
4- The hats of Ladies. …… Ladies' hats
5- The typist of Ali. ……. Ali's typist


Pronouns
1. ضمایر شخصی
الف- ضمایر شخصی فاعلی
ب- ضمایر شخصی مفعولی

الف- ضمایر شخصی فاعلی: بجای فاعل در جمله قرار می گیرند.
مفرد
(I – You –He – She – It)

(We – You - They)


مفرد
(Me – you – him – her –it)

(Us – you them)

2.ضمایر ملکی
ضمایر ملکی هیچوقت همراه اسم نبوده بلکه در جمله به تنهایی بکار می روند و از تکرار اسمی در حالت ملکی جلوگیری می کنند.

مفرد
(His – hers – yours – mine)

(Theirs – yours – ours)

- This book is (my book) mine.

1-حالات فاعلی nominative case: زمانی است که اسم فاعل جمله باشند. تذکر:کلمه ی (Belong) بعد از فاعل و قبل از فعل آمده و بعد از (Belong)همیشه (to) آورده و سپس یک ضمیر شخصی مفعولی متناسب با فاعل جمله. 3-حالات اضافه اسم :possessive caseاسم موقعی در حالت اضافه است که چیزی یا کسی به آن متعلق باشد و یا به او نسبت داده شود . اسمهائیکه بحرف (s) ختم شده و یا جمع می باشند مثل boys با (') آنرا بحالت اضافه در می آورند. عبارات زیر را بحالت اضافه اسم در آورید: 1- The clothes of boys. ……. boy s' clothes انواع ضمایر جمع ب- ضمایر شخصی مفعولی: بجای مفعول در جمله قرار می گیرند. جمع جمع
صفات ملکی:
صفاتی هستند که چیزی یا شخصی را به شخص یا چیزی نسبت می دهند و همیشه باید با اسم بکار برده شوند.

مفرد
(Its – his – her – your – my)

(Their – your – our)

3- ضمایر انعکاسی: در جای مفعول در جمله می آید و نشان می دهد که مفعول جمله خود فاعل می باشد(shot گذشته shoot است).

- The man shot himself.


Myself ~ Ourselves
Yourself ~ Yourselves
Himself ~ Herself ~ Itself ~ Themselves

4. ضمایر اشاره:
مانند ( These – That – This ) که هم ضمیر و هم صفت اشاره هستند که اگر به تنهایی بکار روند ضمیر و اگر با اسم همراه باشند، صفت می باشند.
This book is mine.- صفت
- ضمیر This is what I said.

بعد از فعل متعدی و حرف اضافه ضمیر مفعولی ذکر می شود و نه فاعلی

تذکر2:
در جملات مقایسه ای که معمولاً با کلمه (than) همراه هستند ضمایر فاعلی بعد از (than) ذکر می شود، البته اگر مقایسه با فاعل باشد. در مکالمه از ضمیر مفعولی برای مقایسه استفاده می شود که از لحاظ گرامری غلط است اما بین خود انگلیسی زبانان اینگونه کاربردها عادی می باشند.

حرف تعریف نامعین (a) و (an)

- A book - an apple

-

I looked up and saw a plane (first mention). The plane flew low over the trees (now you know which plane I mean).




تذکر:
حروف با صدا عبارتند از ( a – e – I – o – u )

A pen - an egg – an idea – an orange


اسمهائیکه با (h) ساکن شروع شوند (an) می گیرند.
An hour – an honor

A house – a half


اسمهایی که با صدای (u) و یا حرف صداداری که صدای (u) می دهد با حرف تعریف نا معین (a) نوشته می شود.
A European – a union – a university

حرف تعریف نا معین (a) و (an) با اسامی جمع بکار نمی روند.

جمع بستن اسمها
اسمها با حرف (S)جمع بسته می شوند ولی اگر کلمه ای به حروف (f-t-k-p)ختم شود در تلفظ (s)آخر را با صدای (س)بیان می کنند ولی اگر به حروف دیگری ختم شوند (s)آخر صدای (z)میدهد.
صدای(س)a books – cats
صدای(ز)boys – girls


Dresses - bushes – churches - boxes


City?cities ولی boy?boys


Thief?thieves و wife?wives


گوسفند= - sheepگوزن=dear


Pyjams – trousers –scissors

Man?men
Ox?oxen
- بعضی ازاسم ها که به (o) ختم می شوند در جمع(es)و بعضی فقط (s)می گیرند.
Hero? heroes ولی piano? piano




I go to school.
2-فعل متعدی: که بدون مفعول معنی جمله کا مل نشود.
The cat caught the mouse.


مفعول بر دو نوع است 1-مفعول بی واسطه direct object ، 2-مفعول با واسطه indirect object



ب- هر گاه مفعول با واسطه بعد از مفعول بی واسطه قرار گیرد ما بین دو مفعول حرف اضافه مناسبی احتیاج است .
مفعول بی واسطه + مفعول با واسطه + فعل متعدی
He gave me a book. (1)


He gave a book to me. (2)
I send her some flowers.
بی واسطه با واسطه
اگر مفعول با واسطه ضمیر و یا یک کلمه ی کوچک باشد آنرا بعد از فعل متعدی بیان می کنند.
ولی اگر مفعول با واسطه چند کلمه ویا کلمه ی طولانی باشد آنرا بعد از مفعول بی واسطه بیان می کنند.
He will give the book to who ever wants it.


طرز بکار بردن این افعال در جملات با سایر افعال دیگر فرق دارد که اغلب این افعال ناقص می باشد به این صورت که تمام قسمتهای یک فعل معمولی را ندارند و اغلب این افعال را افعال مخصوص هم مینامند. البته تمام این افعال معین با کلمه ی (not) منفی می شوند و اگرقبل از فاعل ذکر کنیم جمله بصورت سوالی در می آید.
حال ساده: فعل (to be) (am –is –are - )





تذکر1:در جملاتی که افعال کمکی دارند برای جمله مثبت ،همان فعل کمکی رابا (not) آورده وسپس فاعل جمله را به دنبالش ذکر کرده ولی اگر جمله منفی باشد ،فعل کمکی را آورده و سپس فاعل جمله را به دنبالش ذکر کرده .
تذکر2:اگر جمله فعل کمکی نداشته باشد برای جملات گذشته از (did) برای جواب یک جمله ی منفی واز (did not) برای جواب جملات مثبت استفاده کرده و سپس فاعل جمله را بیان کرده.

تذکر3:از (does) برای جملات حال سوم شخص مثبت استفاده کرده و برای سایر ضمایر شخصی از (do) و(donot) استفاده می شود.


ترکیب دو فعل بوسیله (too) و یا (very) (در حالت قید)
کلمه ی (too) (به معنی زیاد) نشانه مقدار یا میزان زیاد است که قبل از یک صفت ساده و یا یک قید ساده ذکر می شود و بعد از آن یک عبارت مصدری قرار می گیرد که معمولاً کلمه (too) قبل از هر صفت و قید ساده معنی منفی به جمله می دهد.

برای ترکیب یک جمله منفی به مثبت از too استفاده می کنیم.
- It is too hot for me to go out.


- It is very cold but we can go out.


برای ترکیب یک جمله مثبت به یک جمله منفی با کلمه ی (too) ابتدا فاعل و فعل جمله مثبت را نوشته سپس کلمه (too) را قبل از صفت ذکر کرده و بعد مصدر با (to) جمله دوم را نوشته.

تذکر 2:
برای تر کیب دو جمله مثبت با (very)


ترکیب دو جمله بوسیله (neither, nor, either, or)


تذکر مهم:
اگر بعد از (neither) (nor) , (either) (or) فاعل مفرد بکار رود همیشه فعل آن جمله به صورت مفرد خواهد بود و اگر فاعل جمع باشد فعل آن فعل آن بصورت جمع خواهد بود.


2. Neither I nor your friends are happy.




گاهی جمله ای بیان می شود و شخص دیگر می گوید مثلاً "فلانی هم همینطور" برای بیان "فلانی هم همینطور" در زبان انگلیسی اگر جمله اصلی منفی باشد بعد از (neither)، مثبت فعل کمکی جمله اصلی بکار می رود و اگر جمله اصلی مثبت باشد و دارای فعل کمکی باشد، بعد از (so) همان فعل کمکی جمله اصلی بکار می رود و اگر جمله اصلی فعل کمکی نداشته باشد چنانچه زمان حال ساده باشد از (so do) و اگر زمان گذشته باشد از (so did) استفاده می شود.
بطور کلی (neither) وقتی اضافه می شود که جمله اصلی منفی باشد و (so) وقتی بکار می رود که جمله اصلی مثبت باشد و عکس مطالب فوق صحیح است.
تمرین:

a- neither am I.
b- so I am.
c- so am I.
d- so do I.
یادآوری:
در زبان انگلیسی بطریق دیگری نیز می توان رابطه ی "فلانی هم همینطور" را نوشت.
اگر جمله اصلی منفی باشد می توان بعد از همان منفی فعل کمکی either به کار برد و اگر جمله اصلی مثبت باشد و دارای فعل کمکی باشد بعد از فعل کمکی too بکار می رود و برای زمان حال do too و اگر زمان گذشته باشد از did too استفاده می شود.

بطور کلی either وقتی در جمله بکار می رود که جمله اصلی منفی باشد و too وقتی در آخر جمله بکار می رود که جمله اصلی مثبت باشد.

تمرین:

a- does either.
b- doesn't either.
c- will either.
d- won't either.





همیشه ضمیر است و برای اشخاص بکار برده می شود که اگر کلمه (who) در حالت فاعلی قرار گیرد بعد از آن افعال کمکی قرار نمی گیرد ولی اگر در حالت مفعولی بیان شود در این صورت بعد از کلمه ی who افعال to be قرار گیرد و جمله به حالت سوال نوشته می شود.





- Whom did you see at school.
3- what


- What makes it sweet?فاعل

What did you do last night?-مفعول

What book do you reed?-صفت


Why are you so sad? قید



- Whose book is this?صفت
-ضمیر Whose is this coat?

which6-


Which bus goes to Tehran?فاعل وصفت
Which is yours?فاعل -ضمیر
Which book did you take?صفت- مفعول


نتیجه 1
بعد از کلمات(why- how- where- when- whom) باید جمله را سوالی کنیم.


نتیجه 2
کلمات (how much- how long- how many- whose- which- what) اگرفاعل جمله باشند جمله بعد از آنها سوالی نمی شود و اگر مفعول جمله باشند باید جمله بعد از آنها سوالی می شود.
حالت اضافه(حالت ملکی) و انواع (s)


الف- اگر مالک نام مربوط به غیر انسان باشد بین دو اسم (of) بکار می رود.
-the leaf of the tree.


-hassan's book.


اگر نام مالک مربوط به انسان با (s) جمع بسته شده باشد فقط بعد از (s)جمع آپا ستروف (')بکار می رود .
مدرسه دختران girls' school


اگر شیئی دارای چند مالک باشد ('s) را به آخرین اسم اضافه می کنیم.

یادآوری 3:
معمولاً وقتی ('s) به آخر اسم شغل یا حرف یا مالک اضافه شود از بکار بردن نام مکان مثل مغازه، storeفروشگاه و... خودداری می شود.
- I must go to the buther's.

(s) جمع مثل book(s) و دیگری (s) سوم شخص مثل: - He runs very fast.


صفات اسم را توصیف می کنند.
صفات از نظر مقام و برتری بر چهار نوعند:





صفت مطلق ساده
صفت ساده کلمه ای است که اسمی را توصیف میکند.
Bad- good - small- large


اگر دو اسم از نظر یک صفت برابر باشند برای آن صفت متساوی بکار می برند. در فارسی مثل: به بزرگی، به کوچکی.

برای ساختن صفت متساوی در انگلیسی از(as+صفتbe+as+) استفاده می شود و در جملات منفی آمریکایی ازترکیب (as+صفتbe+not+as+) و در دستور زبان بریتانیایی این جملات را اینگونه (as+صفتso +)
1- This hill is as high as that mountain.
2- He is not as (so) beautiful as him.

- This is the same color as that plane.




- He is younger than ali.




- H is the oldest girl in the class.


الف:تمام صفات یک بخشی با er به صفت تفضیلی و با est به صفت عالی تبدیل می شود، البته با افزودن er و est تغییراتی در کلمه ایجاد می شود.







large ? larger ? largest
grey?grayer?greyes
Easy?easier?easiest
Hot?hotter?hottest
Out ?outer ?outest
Out ?outer?outest-

Clever?cleverer?cleverest
Simple?simpler?simplest
Narrow?narrower?narrowest
Happy?happier?happiest

ج-کلیه صفات بیش از دو بخش با کلمه ی (more) تفصیلی و با (the most) عالی می شود.
Beautiful?more beautiful? themost beautiful

بعضی از صفاتی که از کلیه ی قوانین تبعیت نمی کنند.
Good?better?best
Bad?worse?worst
Late?later?latest
latter?last
out?outer?outmost


Hard?harder?hardest
Fast?faster?fastest
2-ولی قیدهای دو سیلابی با افزودن (ly)تبدیل به قید شده و سپس با (more)تفصیلی و با (the most)عالی شده و بقیه قیدهای چند بخشی با(more)و(the most)به قیود تفصیلی و عالی تبدیل می شوند.
-easily?more easily?themost easily
-quickly?more quickly?the most quickly
-beautifully?more beautifully?the most beautifully
3-برای ساختن قید متساوی از رابطه (asقیدas)استفاده می شود.
-he runs as slowly as I.




Now-then- befor-since-early-today-tomorrow-every day.

معمولا در آخر جمله قرار می گیرند ولی اگر جمله طولانی و مرکب باشد بهتر است که آنها را درابتدای جمله بیاوریم. البته بعضی از قیود زمان مانند(never-ever) در آخر جمله قرار نمی گیرند.


Here-there-every where- below- above- hence-in- out




Slowly- quickly- happily


Back- fast – hard
قید حالت، در حالت تاکید اگر یک کلمه باشد مستقیماً بعد از فاعل می آید.
طرز قرار گرفتن قیود تکراری
قید های تکراری همیشه قبل از فعل اصلی و بعد از افعال to be بیان می شوند.
Seldom- never - sometimes - usually - often - always –


He+drank+her coffee+very quickly+at the restaurant+yesterday

جمع
تذکر1:
حروف تعریف نامعینی می باشند که در جلوی اسمهای عام قابل شمارش که معین و مشخص نباشند قرار داده می شوند، و یا وقتی اسمی را برای اولین بار ذکر می کنیم.
فرق بین (a) و (an)
اسمهایی که حرف اول آنها حروف بی صدا باشد (a) و اگر از حروف صدادار باشد (an) بکار برده می شود.
تبصره 1:
مگر اینکه (h) تلفظ شود.
تبصره 2:
تبصره 3 :
الف- اسم هایی که به حروف (x- ch- sh- s - ) ختم شوند با(es)جمع بسته میشوند .
ب- اسم هایی که به (y)ختم شوند و قبل از آن حرف صدادار باشد با (s)جمع بسته می شود .ولی اگر حرف ما قبل از (y)بی صدا باشد (y)تبدیل به (i) شد و(esمی گیرد.
ج-اسم هایی که به (fe) و یا (f) ختم شوند در صورت جمع (f) و یا (ef) تبدیل (ves) می شوند.
د-بعضی اسامی در انگلیسی جمع یا مفرد شان یکی است.
ذ-بعضی از اسمها فقط در حالت جمع وجود دارند.
ر- بعضی از اسامی از هیچ قانونی تبعیت نمی کنند.
فعل: verb
کلمه ایست که بر انجام کاری یا داشتن حالتی دلالت می کند فعل بر دو نوع است ، 1-لازم 2-متعدی
1- فعل لازم :فعلی است که احتیاج به مفعول ندارد وبدون مفعول معنی جمله کا مل است و کلمه ای که بعد از فعل می آید متمم نامیده می شود .
طرز بکار بردن مفعول با متعدی
الف- هر گاه مفعول با واسطه بعد از فعل متعدی آید به حرف اضافه احتیاج نیست .
مفعول با واسطه + حرف اضافه+ مفعول بی واسطه+ فعل متعدی
افعال معین
گذشته ساده:فعل (to be)(was- were)
سوالات کوتاه ضمیمه:Tag Ending (Taq Question)
در هر جمله اگر جوابی خواسته باشند اگر جمله مثبت باشد یا منفی سوالی جواب داده و اگر جمله منفی باشد با مثبت سوالی جواب داده
ولی کلمه ی (very) (به معنی زیاد) نشانه ی مقدار یا میزان بسیار زیاد دست که قبل از صفات و قید های ساده ذکر شده که معمولاً بعد از آن عبارت مصدری ذکر نمی شود و هم چنین معنی مثبت به جمله می دهد، برای ترکیب دو جمله مثبت از very استفاده می شود.
تذ کر 1:
ابتدا فاعل و فعل جمله اول را نوشته و سپس (very) را قبل از صفت بیان کرده.
جملاتی که دارای فاعل یکسان هستند بوسیله کلمات (or)، (either) و یا (nor) (neither) به هم ربط داده یا ترکیب شوند، بدین ترتیب که قسمتهای مشترک در هر دو جمله را ابتدا نوشته و سپس کلمه ی (either) و سپس ادامه جمله اول را نوشته و قسمت مشترک در جمله دوم را حذف کرده و کلمه (or) را آورده و بعد جمله دوم را نوشته البته برای هر دو جمله مثبت و انجام کار مثبت در دو جمله از کلمات (or) و (either) و برای انجام ندادن هیچ کدام از دو جمله و به عبارتی برای ترکیب دو جمله منفی (در عمل) از کلمات (nor) و (neither) استفاده کرد.
1. Neither your friends nor I am happy.
جلوگیری از تکرار کلمات بوسیله بکار بردن افعال کمکی
1. She is going to the mosque and ….
1- You will not enjoy and my son….
طریقه بکار بردن کلمات استفهامی Question Words
بعضی کلمات شوال بصورت ضمیر و بعضی ها بصورت قید و صفت در جمله بکار می روند. این کلمات بعنوان کلمه ی سوال همیشه در اول جمله واقع می شوند.
1- who:
1- Who went out yesterday? (فاعلی)
2- Who are you talking to? (مفعولی)
2- Whom
شکل مفعولی who است که بعد از آن همیشه جمله بصورت سوال نوشته می شود.
به صورت های صفت، ضمیر، فاعل و مفعول در جمله بکار می رود. اگر به صورت فاعل بکار رود فعل کمکی بعد از آن نمی آید ولی اگر بصورت مفعولی باشد بعد از آن فعل معین می آید.
4- why
اغلب به صورت قید بیان می شود و بعد از آن همیشه جمله به صورت سوالی بیان می شود.
5- Whose
بصورت صفت و ضمیر برای اشخاص بکار برده می شود.
به صورت صفت و ضمیر وهمچنین فاعل و مفعول در جمله می آید. در حالت فاعلی فعل معین بعد از آن نمی آید ولی در حالت مفعولی فعل معین بعد از آن می آید.
حالت اضافه برای مالکیت بکار می رود و مالک یا نام مربوط به انسان است یا غیر انسان.
ب-اگر مالک نام مربوط به انسان باشد بعد از نام انسان ('s) اضافه می شود.
یاد آوری1:
یادآوری 2:
مقایسه صفات
1- صفت مطلق ساده
2- صفت متساوی
3- صفت تفضیلی
4- صفت عالی
صفت متساوی
یاد آوری: در رابطه (asصفتas) اگر بجای صفت اسم بکار رودباید از رابطه ی (+asاسمthe same+) استفاده کرد.
صفت تفضیلی(مقایسه ای)comparative
صفت تفضیلی(comparative) برتری شخصی را از چیزی یا شخص دیگری بیان می کند و به صورت +er+than)صفت) ساخته می شود.
صفت عالی superlative
صفات عالی برتری شخصی یا چیزی را از شخص یا اشخاص دیگر بیان می کند.
طرز ساخت صفت تفضیلی و عالی از صفت ساده مطلق
1. صفاتی که به e ساکن ختم می شوند هنگام گرفتن er و est، e ساکن حذف شده.
2. صفاتی که حرف آخر آنها به y ختم شده و قبل از y یک حرف صدا دار باشد با افزودن er و est تغییری داده نمی شود.
3. صفاتی که حرف آخر آنها به y ختم شده و قبل از y یک حرف صدا دار باشد با افزودن er و est ، y آخر به I تبدیل می شود.
4. صفاتی که مختوم به حرف بی صدا و قبل از حرف بی صدا یک حرف صدا دار باشد، هنگام تفضیلی و عالی شدن حرف آخر دوبل می شود.
ب-صفات دو بخشی که مختوم به حروف(y- ow- le- er) باشند با گرفتن (er) ویا (est) تبدیل به تفصیلی و عالی می شوند.
و سایر صفات دو بخش دیگر با کلمه ی (more)تفصیلی و باکلمه ی(the most)عالی می شود.
توجه:معمولابعد از صفات وقیدهای تفصیلی کلمه ی (than)و بعد از صفات عالی حرف اضافه (of)می آورند و همچنین در جلو صفات عالی معمولا حرف تعریف (the)قرار دارد.
قید:قیدها فعل را توصیف می کنند.
1- قیدهای یک سیلابی مانند صفات با (er) تفصیلی و (est)عالی می شوند.
طبقه بندی قیدهاclassification of adverbs
قیدها بر حسب کاری که در جمله انجام می دهند بر چند نوعند.
1-قید زمان adverb of time
این قیدها زمان وقوع کاری را بیان می کنند.
محل قرار گرفتن قیود زمان:
2. قیدهای مکان adverb of plsce
این قیود محل انجام کاری را نشان می دهند.
محل قرار گرفتن قیود مکان: قیود مکان معمولا بعد از فعل ذکر می شوند.
3- قید های حالت Adverb of maner
این قیود چگونگی انجام کاری را می رساند و اغلب به ly ختم می شوند که اغلب این قیود بعد از فعل می آیند ولی اگر فعل دارای مفعول باشد بعد از مفعول قرار می گیرد.
بعضی از قیود در حالت صفت و قید یک شکل دارند و از روی کاری که انجام می دهند می توان آنها را تشخیص داد.
قید زمان+قید مکان+قید حالت+مفعول+فعل+فاعل
 
 
 
منبع:http://www.salamzaban.com
[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:43 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

1) meanings (معانی)

 

الف) time (زمان): just اغلب وقوع انجام کاری را در "زمان حال" و یا "زمان نزدیک به حال" نشان می دهد. مثال:

 

I’ll be back in a minute – I’m just changing my shirt. (=”right now”)

 

من یک دقیقه دیگر بر می گردم – در حال عوض کردن پیراهنم هستم. (همین الان)

 

Alice has just phoned. (=”a short time ago”)

 

آلیس تلفن کرد. (چند لحظه پیش)

 

“What’s happened to Alex? He seems to have disappeared.” “No, he’s around. I saw him just yesterday.”

 

"چه اتفاقی برای الکس افتاده است؟ به نظر می رسد که ناپدید شده باشد." "نه، او همین اطراف است. من او را همین دیروز دیدم."

 

ب) “only” (فقط):

 

Complete set of garden tools for just £15.99!

 

یکدست کامل ابزار باغبانی فقط 15.99 پوند!

 

“Can I help you?” “No thanks, I’m just looking.” (=”in a shop/store”)

 

"می توانم به شما کنم؟" "نه ممنون، فقط نگاه می کنم." (در فروشگاه یا مغازه)

 

ج) “exactly” (دقیقا):

 

“What’s the time?” “It’s just four o’clock.”

 

"ساعت چند است؟" "دقیقا چهار"

 

Thanks. That’s just what I wanted.

 

ممنونم. دقیقا همان چیزی بود که من می خواستم.

 

د) emphasiser (تاکید کننده):

 

You’re just beautiful.

 

شما واقعا زیبا هستید.

 

2) tenses (زمانها)

 

در زبان انگلیسی بریتانیایی هرگاه just انجام کاری را در "زمان حال" و یا "زمان نزدیک به حال" نشان می دهد، معمولا از زمان حال کامل استفاده می شود. مثال:

 

“Where’s Eric?” “He’s just gone out.”

 

"اریک کجاست؟" "او همین چند لحظه پیش رفت بیرون."

 

I’ve just had a call from Sarah.

 

من همین چند لحظه پیش تماسی از طرف سارا داشتم.

 

ولی دقت کنید که در زبان انگلیسی آمریکایی هرگاه just انجام کاری را در "زمان حال" و یا "زمان نزدیک به حال" نشان می دهد، معمولا از زمان گذشته استفاده می شود. مثال:

 

“Where’s Eric?” “He just went out.”

 

I just had a call from Sarah.

[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 19:47 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

آموزش پنجمين لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني ( به خطر انداختن )

 

تلفظ اين كلمه مثل( جيب پرداز ) است.

 ]جيب پرداز مانند خود پرداز [ بانك ملي قرار است از خودپردازهاي انساني استفاده كند. يعني بجای دستگاههای خود پرداز افرادي را استخدام مي كند تا جلو بانك بایستند و از جیب خود به مشتريان بانک پول پرداخت كنند. پس وظيفه اين كارمندان به خطر انداختن خود است.

حالا شما تصور كنيد در چنين پستي استخدام شده ايد. هر لحظه بايد خود را به خطر بياندازيد زيرا هيچ وسيله دفاعي يا امنيتي نداريد و هر آن ممكن است كسي (جيب پرداز ) شما را بزند!

 

                                                                                    به خطر انداختن     Jeopardize

  

 

 

آموزش ششمين لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني : ( نور ضعيف ، سوسو  )

 

كف اتاق يك گليم انداخته ايم. اين گليم با گليمهاي معمولي فرق مي كند. اين گليم يك گليم فوق مدرن است زيرا از آن براي نورپردازي و خلق صحنه هاي هنري استفاده مي شود. به اين صورت كه در تاريكي مطلق، اين گليم سوسو مي زند.

 

 gleam سوسو زدن =

 

 

 

آموزش هفتمین لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني:

( رذل ، پست ، خطرناك ) (يكصدا ، متفق القول)

 

دو نفر از اهالی اصفهان كنار زاینده رود به تماشاي رودخانه مشغولند كه ناگهان يك سگ ماهي كه چاقو پنجه بكس در دست دارد به سطح آب آمده و به اصفهاني ها چنگ و دندان نشان مي دهد. اصفهاني كوچكتر به اصفهاني بزرگتر مي گويد: اين چي چييس؟!

اصفهاني بزرگتر مي گويد : فيشس ( ماهييس) رذلس، پستس ، خطرناكس. بيا از اينجا فرار كنيم!

بر وزن فيشس) = ‌آدم شرور، پست...) vicious                                                              

 

آموزش هشتمین لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني:

 

           

 

معلوم نيست به چه دليل يوناني ها طرفدار مس هستند. انها در همه جا، از جمله در ميادين ورزشي به جاي تشويق تيم مورد علاقه خود بطور يكصدا و متفق القول فرياد مي زنند : مس

 

يكصدا، متفق القول = unanimous

 

 

آموزش نهمین لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني:( شجاع)

 

شما كنار دريا ايستاده ايد و مشغول تماشاي وال ها هستيد. وال ها يكي يكي به سطح آب مي آيند ولي با ديدن شما فرار مي كنند و دوباره به زير آب مي روند. تا اينكه يك وال روس ( يعني يك وال كه اهل كشور روس است) به سطح آب آمده و بدون اينكه از شما بترسد از آب خارج شده و با شما كشتي مي گيرد. در توصيف چنين والي مي گوييد: وال روس شجاع است.

 

valorous شجاع =

 

آموزش دهمين لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني:( عجيب)

وقتي شما از چيزي بيزار مي شويد آن چيز براي شما عجيب جلوه مي كند.مثلا از شخصي به دليلي بيزار مي شويد و ناگهان آن شخص دماغش بلند مي شود .موهايش بسيار بلند مي شود. ناخنهايش خيلي بلند مي شود و به همه چيز شباهت دارد بجز آدميزاد! پس اگر مي خواهيد آدمها عجيب نشوند از آنها بيزار نشويد.

bizarre = عجيب

 

آموزش يازدهمين لغت به روش تصوير سازي ذهني:( كوتاه كردن)

 

كره تل ( كره اي كه از تل ساخته شده باشد) وقتي در مجاورت حرارت قرار مي گيرد شروع مي كند به كوتاه كردن مو.                                                                                   

 کوتاه شدن   =  Curtail

[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 6:14 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

براي مطالعه درس زبان انگليسي چهارمهارت را بايد فرابگيريم كه عبارتند از:

listening – speaking – reading – writing

 

گفته مي شود بهتر است براي يادگيري زبان خارجي همان ترتيب يادگيري زبان اول را رعايت كنيم يعني:

1-                              گوش دادن (listening)

2-                              صحبت كردن  (speaking)

3-                              خواندن (reading)

4-                              نوشتن (writing)

تا حدودي اين توصيه درست است اما اگر قرار باشد زبان خارجي را هم مثل زبان اول در طول چندين سال يادبگيريم ممكن است سرخورده شويم و بعد از صرف وقت و عمر و انرژي و هزينه زياد از يادگيري زبان دوم صرف نظر كنيم.بنابر اين بهتر است يك برنامه مدون داشته باشيم و تكنيكهايي را بياموزيم كه در مدت بسيار كوتاهي به اين هدف نايل شويم.اصل مهم و اصولي در آموزش زبان مداومت است. اما بايد بدانيم كه مهارتهاي چهارگانه زبان را چگونه بهتر و سريعتر و با جذابيت بيشتر فرابگيريم.

 

مهارت گوش دادن و صحبت كردن (listening & speaking skills)

A good listener is a good speaker. اين اصل مبين اين است كه يك شنونده خوب خواهد توانست به خوبي صحبت كند. به عبارت ديگر خوب گوش دادن منجر به خوب صحبت كردن مي شود. يعني گوش دادن مقدمه صحبت كردن است. منظوراز (a good listener) اين است كه زبان آموز بداند به چه مطلبي و چگونه گوش كند. راههاي متفاوتي براي اين منظور وجود دارد.مثلا مي توانيد از كتابهاي  Tactics for Listening استفاده كنيد. همچنين مي توانيد از سايتهاي اينترنتي مانند:  englishtown يا studioclassroom و يا دهها سايت ديگر استفاده كنيد.اين روشها بسيار خوب است اما مستلزم وقت و هزينه است و معمولا موفقيت زيادي در پي ندارد.روش ديگر(كه بسيار مناسب به نظر مي رسد) اين است كه هر شب مدت 5 دقيقه برنامه انگليسي BBC يا VOA را ضبط كنيد.سپس چندين بار به مطلب ضبط شده گوش كنيد.هر بار كه به مطلب گوش مي كنيد بايد فقط به يك مورد خاص توجه كنيد. مثلا بار اول  سعي كنيد فقط افعال را بشنويد(دقت كنيد كه در اين مرحله دانستن معني عبارات شنيده شده هدف نيست) باردوم سعي كنيد فقط حروف اضافه را بشنويد.دفعه بعد به اسامي خاص توجه كنيد.بعد به صفتهاو...به همين ترتيب اين فعاليت را دنبال كنيد و در آخرين مرحله يك بار ديگر گوش كنيد و به معني و مفهوم هم توجه كنيد. و سپس كلماتي را كه مبهم هستند چندين مرتبه ديگر گوش كنيد.اين كاررا بايد هرروز يا هرشب به طور مداوم و در زمان معين انجام دهيد.اين فعاليت را مي توانيد فقط در 20 دقيقه به انجام برسانيد.البته همان طور كه گفته شد بايد با صبروحوصله اين كاررا ادامه دهيد.پس از مدت كوتاهي نتايج شگرف آن را خواهيد ديد و توفيقتان در امر يادگيري باعث شگفتي ديگران و حتي خود شما خواهد شد!

زبان انگليسي با لحن (accent)  هاي مختلفي صحبت مي شود ولي كسي كه مي خواهد انگليسي بياموزد بايد يك لحن استاندارد را دنبال كند. راديو بي بي سي British English و صداي آمريكا American English مي باشد. البته امروزه لحن غالب American Accent يعني همان  VOA است ولي اين كه شما با چه لهجه اي صحبت كنيد انتخاب با خود شمااست. نكته مهم اين است كه شما نبايد از دو لهجه متفاوت استفاده كنيد.يعني نبايد بعضي از كلمات را با لحن British  و بعضي ديگر را با لحن American ادا نماييد. به برخي از تفاوتهاي انگليسي آمريكايي و انگليسي بريتانيايي توجه كنيد:

تفاوت در تلفظ : در انگليسي آمريكايي برخي كلمات با صداي ( اَ )تلفظ مي شوند در حاليكه همان كلمات در انگليسي بريتانيايي با صداي (آ) ادا مي شوند. مثال : pass

البته از اين نظر اكثر كلمات در هر دو لهجه تلفظ يكسان دارند. 

مثال: cat mat sad

father harm car                                                                                                                                    

البته تفاوتهاي تلفظي ديگري هم وجود دارند كه به تجربه درخواهيديافت.

تفاوت در نگارش: برخي كلمات در انگليسي بريتانيايي با ou و در انگليسي آمريكايي با o نوشته مي شود مثل colour / color

 

زبان انگليسي در برخي كشورها second language  است يعني مردم آن كشور به دو زبان صحبت مي كنند و دروس در مراكز علمي معمولا به زبان انگليسي ارايه مي شود بنابراين حتي كودكان در چنين كشورهايي مي توانند به راحتي به زبان انگليسي تكلم كنند. در كشور ما زبان انگليسي foreign language  است.بنابراين ما كسي را نمي يابيم تا با كمك وي speaking practice  داشته باشيم بنابر اين بايد به دنبال راه ديگري باشيم.به اين اصل توجه فرماييدA good reader is a good writer. منظور اين است كه يك خواننده خوب در نوشتن به همان زبان هم مشكلي نخواهد داشت.در واقع اگر بخواهيد قادر به نوشتن باشيد ابتدا بايد يك خواننده خوب باشيد. خواننده خوب كسي است كه مي داند چه مطلبي را بخواند و چگونه بخواند. بهترين كاراين است كه كتابهاي داستان انگليسي را مطالعه كنيد.اين كتابها در سطوح مختلف و تحت عناويني از قبيل Easy English و stage و يا simplified موجود مي باشند.لازم است شما هر ماه دو يا سه عدد از اين كتابها را به اين ترتيب مطالعه نماييد:ابتدا كتاب را با سرعت تمام و بدون توجه به معني از اول تا آخر مطالعه كنيد. دور دوم با تامل بيشتر مطالعه كنيد.در اين مرحله به دو گروه از لغات مشكل برخورد خواهيدكرد.دسته اول لغاتي هستند كه مي شود معني آنها را حدس زد.زيرچنين لغاتي خط بكشيد. دسته دوم لغات كليدي (key words) هستند. دور چنين لغاتي خط بكشيد. سپس با استفاده از يك فرهنگ لغت انگليسي به فارسي فقط معني لغات كليدي را بيابيد و ترجمه آنها را در حاشيه ( و نه بين خطوط) يادداشت كنيد. سپس شروع كنيد به مطالعه كتاب به قصد لذت بردن.در اين مرحله ديگر نبايد به فرهنگ  لغت مراجعه كنيد. حتي نبايد به فارسي فكر كنيد يعني به جاي ترجمه عبارات سعي كنيد جريان داستان را در ذهن خود بازآفريني و تخيل كنيد. چنين مطالعه اي لذت وافري به شما خواهد بخشيد.ضمن اين كه دامنه لغت شما افزايش يافته و دستور زبان هم در شما تقويت خواهد شد و دو ابزار مهم براي نوشتن (يعني واژگان و دستور زبان را به درستي و در مدت بسيار كوتاهي كسب خواهيد كرد.)

براي مهارت نوشتن علاوه بر آنچه گفته شد بايد دفترچه خاطرات همراه داشته باشيد تا وقايع روزمره و نكات جالبي را كه مي بينيد, مي خوانيد و يا به ذهنتان مي رسد به زبان انگليسي يادداشت نماييد. البته نبايد نگران نحوه نگارش باشيد و اصلا نبايد قدرت قلمتان را در انگليسي با زبان فارسي مقايسه كنيد.مهم اين است كه به اين فعاليت مشغول باشيد تا در مدت كوتاهي در نوشتن مهارت پيدا كنيد.

 به طور خلاصه: ابزار لازم براي كسب مهارت listening گوش دادن فعال است. صحبت كردن با خارجي زبانها هم مفيداست كه البته معمولا اين امكان براي همه فراهم نيست.

ابزار لازم براي كسب مهارت speaking توسعه دايره لغات است. براي اين كار راههاي زيادي پيشنهاد مي شود.مثلا مي توانيد هر روز يك ليست لغت روي برگه هاي كاغذ بنويسيد و معني آنها را پشت برگه بنويسيد و در فرصتهايي كه پيش مي آيد آنها را مرور كنيد.از چمله سريع ترين روشهاي يادگيري واژگان تصوير سازي ذهني است که شما در اين وبلاگ با آن آشنا مي شويد.

 

منبع: http://www.rezalotfian.blogfa.com

[ بیست و ششم آذر 1386 ] [ 6:12 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

دانش واژگانی (Vocabulary  )

 

1- واژه های دستوری  (Function Words ) : عبارتند ازضمایر، حروف تعریف و غیره ...

 

2- واژه های معنایی (Content Words ) : عبارتند از  اسم ، فعل ، صفت ، و غیره ...  

    واژگان معنایی به کار رفته در دوره راهنمایی به گونه ای هستند که یا می توان در کلاس

    یافت ، یا با خود به کلاس آورد  ،یا تصویر آن را بر روی تخته کشید ، یا با لوحه به   

    نمایش گذاشت یا با انجام عملی مفهوم آن را منتقل کرد  و در نهایت توضیح مختصری به

    انگلیسی  یا فارسی داده و  از کلمات متضاد و مترادف کمک گرفت.

 

   روش تدریس لغات جدید :

 

   الف- مرحله معرفی (:( Presentation

     1- از دانش آموزان بخواهید که کتابهای خود را بسته  و به شما گوس دهند .

       2- واژه جدید را چند بار تلفظ کنید و معنی آن را با استفاده از فلاش کارت ، لوحه ، و یا

           خود شئ ( در صورتی که در کلاس موجود باشد) به دانش آموزان تفهیم کنید .

      3- واژه جدید را در یک یا دو جمله جدید به کار ببرید تا مفهوم آن کاملا درک شود .

      4- هر واژه را روی تخته نوشته و یا از روی فلاش کارت به دانش آموزان نشان دهید .

         در این مرحله هر واژه را چند بار تکرار نمائید تا فرم نوشتاری آن را در حالی که تلفظ

         واژه را می شنوند ، ببیند.

 

   ب- مرحله تمرین (Practice  )

     1- از دانش آموزان بخواهید به صورت گروهی  و انفرادی واژگان را بعد از شما تکرار

          کنند.

     2- از دانش آموزان بخواهید به صورت گروهی  و انفرادی واژگان را بعد از شما با دیدن 

          تصاویر تکرار کنند .

     3- از دانش آموزان بخواهید به صورت گروهی  و انفرادی واژگان را بعد از شما با دیدن

          فرم نوشتاری تکرار کنند .

 

ج- مرحله تولید و کاربرد ( Production )

     1- کلمه های تدریس شده را با  به کارگیری از شیوه های زیر ارزشیابی کنید.

         یکی از دستورالعمل های زیر را به دانش آموزان بدهید : 

       - یک .............. به من نشان بده . Show me a ……………          

       - به ................  اشاره کن Point to a ………………….            .

       - یک .............  به من بده.         Give me a ……………….               

       - تصویر یک ........ را بکش.   Draw a picture of a ……..       

    2- جمله ای با یک جای خالی بنویسید و از دانش آموزان بخواهید با یکی از کلمات جدید 

       تدریس شده آن را کامل کنند.

    3- از دانش آموزان بخواهید تا کلمات تدریس شده را در جمله بکار ببرند.

 

لغات جدید بکمک تصاویر

 

1- معرفی کلمه :   ضمن اشاره به تصویر و کلمه ، کلمات مربوط به هر تصویر را چند بار

    تکرار کنید . در این مرحله دانش آموزان فقط گوش می دهند.

 

2- تکرار گروهی : ضمن اشاره به کلمه تصویر را بگویید و از دانش آموزان بخواهید بعد از

     شما تکرار کنند. این عمل را با تک تک  تصاویر انجام دهید.

 

3 - اشاره معلم و تکرار گروهی : به تصاویر اشاره کنید بدون آنکه کلمات را بر زبان آورید

    با حرکات    دست ، دانش آموزان را به گفتن کلمه مربوط به هر تصویر تشویق کنید.

 

4- تکرار انفرادی : از چند نفر به طور انفرادی بخواهید تا با اشاره شما به تصاویر ، کلمه

    مربوط به آن را ادا کنند. لازم به یادآوری است که دانش آموزان مجازند فقط بعد از معلم

    کلمات را بطور انفرادی یا گروهی تکرار کنند.

 

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:44 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

مهارت های چهارگانه :

 

1- مهارت شنیداری (listening  )

    برای آموزش زبان خارجی لازم است ابتدا دانش آموزان در حد لزوم در معرض زبان قرار گیرند تا

    مهارت های دریافتی زبان (receptive skills  ) را در خود تقویت نمایند و سپس از آنها خواسته  

    شود تا دست به تولیدزبان بزنند ، مهارت شنیداری برای رسیدن به این هدف نقش مهمی ایفا می کند .

    مهارت شنیداری می تواند به دانش آموزان کمک کند تا دانش پایه زبانی را در خود تقویت کنند. انجام

    فعالیت های زیر می تواند به توسعه مهارت شنیداری کمک کند:

      1- شنیدن و تکرار کردن (listen and repeat  )

      2- شنیدن و اشاره کردن یا شنیدن جور کردن (listen and point  or listen and match  )

      3- شنیدن و خواندن (listen and repeat  )

      4- شنیدن و انجام دادن (listen and do  )

 

2- مهارت گفتاری (Speaking  )

    این مهارت به دانش آموزان فرصت می دهد تا الگوهای زبانی جدید را بطور شفاهی تمرین کرده و

    تولید نمایند . انجام فعالیت های زیر می تواند به توسعه مهارت گفتاری کمک کند:

     1- ایفای نقش (role play )

     2- انجام تمرینات شفاهی (oral drills )

     3- بازگو کردن یک متن کوتاه شنیده شده یا خوانده شده

     4- شرح فعالیت های روزمره

     5- حدس زدن و کامل کردن ادامه یک متن از طریق گوش کردن یا یک متن ناقص

     6- توصیف یک تصویر و یا چند تصویر مربوط به هم.

     7- مقایسه بین دو یا چند تصویر

 

3- مهارت خواندن  (Reading  )

    در تدریس  مهارت خواندن ، زبان آموزان ابتدا به صورت منظم با حروف الفبا آشنا می شوند. سپس

    با روش دیدن و گفتن (look and say  ) بیان کلمات را به عنوان یک واحد به طور شفاهی تمرین

    می کنند. خواندن کلمات جدید با روش  (listen  and  read  ) انجام می شود و معانی آن نیز به

    وسیله تصا ویر درک می شوند. تشخیص کلمات جدید و تسلط بر شکل نوشتاری آنها به وسیله

    تمرینات موجود در کتاب کار و به کارگیری جداول و غیره  تقویت می گردد. در گام بعدی به دانش

    آموزان کمک میگرد دتا بین حروف نوشته شده در یک کلمه وتلفظ آنها ارتباط برقرار کنند (phonics  ) .

     به تدریج زبان آموزان مهارت خواندن خود را با خواندن جملات کوتاه توسعه می دهند تا جایی که قادر  خواهند  بود تا متون خواندنی را خوانده و درک نمایند و به سئوالات آن پاسخ دهند.

    

4- مهارت نوشتن (Writing  )

    از آنجایی که نگارش زبان فارسی با انگلیسی که یک زبان خارجی می باشد متفاوت است . لازم ا ست

     که دانش آموزان به  انجام یک سلسله فعالیت های که در اصطلاح  فعالیت های ” پیش نوشتاری“ گفته   میشود

     مبادرت ورزند. هدف از این نوع فعالیت ها ایجاد هماهنگی در کنترل حرکات دست و چشم ، رعایت فاصله و

     تمرین  و ممارست در حرکات روان و سریع قلم با خودکار جهت دست یابی به ریتم طبیعی نوشتن حروف در

    انگلیسی می باشد. مهارت دستخط  با حرکات ساده شروع شده و ابتدا با نمرین الگوهای حروف و سپس به نوشتن

    حروف بزرگ و کوچک ادامه می یابد . در نهایت به ارتباط  حروف با یکدیگر به شکل تقریبا سر هم

    (semi – cursive  ) ختم می گردد . با انجام این کار دانش آموزان به یک دستخط زیبا ، واضح و  روان    دست   پیدا خواهد کرد. در مرحله بعد ، مهارت نوشتن از طریق انجام تمرینات در کتاب درسی و کتاب کار توسعه

    می یابد و در نهایت نوشتن کنترل شده  جملات و ساختارهای گرامری تدریس شده با نظارت معلم انجام می شود.

 

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:34 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

Chapter 21


Chapter 21
THE discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth
had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, his feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride.
Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was well talked over. -- To
Elizabeth
, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self imposed.

``I found,'' said he, ``as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; -- that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.''

She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth
felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,

``This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.''

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in
Grosvenor street
, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. ``I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.'' To these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

``It is unlucky,'' said she, after a short pause, ``that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? -- Mr. Bingley will not be detained in
London
by them.''

``Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you --''

``When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.''

``It is evident by this,'' added Jane, ``that he comes back no more this winter.''

``It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he should.''

``Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. -- He is his own master. But you do not know all. I will read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from you.'' ``Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?''

``What think you of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?'' -- said Jane as she finished it. ``Is it not clear enough? -- Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?''

``Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. -- Will you hear it?''

``Most willingly.''

``You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.''

Jane shook her head.

``Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. -- No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of your merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.''

``If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,'' replied Jane, ``your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself.''

``That is right. -- You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.''

``But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?''

``You must decide for yourself,'' said Elizabeth, ``and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.''

``How can you talk so?'' -- said Jane faintly smiling, -- ``You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.''

``I did not think you would; -- and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.''

``But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!''

The idea of his returning no more
Elizabeth
treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one.

She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.

Chapter 22


Chapter 22
THE Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. ``It keeps him in good humour,'' said she, ``and I am more obliged to you than I can express.'' Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of; -- its object was nothing less than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of coming out a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of
Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still, he would be her husband. -- Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth
would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them.

``My dear Madam,'' he replied, ``this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.''

They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,

``But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir? -- You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of offending your patroness.''

``My dear sir,'' replied Mr. Collins, ``I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence.''

``You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that we shall take no offence.''

``Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.''

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with
Elizabeth
related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,

``Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear
Charlotte
, -- impossible!''

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied,

``Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? -- Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?''

But
Elizabeth
had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.

``I see what you are feeling,'' replied
Charlotte
, -- ``you must be surprised, very much surprised, -- so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.''

Elizabeth quietly answered ``Undoubtedly;'' -- and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins, was a most humiliating picture! -- And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.

Chapter 23


Chapter 23
ELIZABETH was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter, -- to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,
``Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? -- Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?''

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters, by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing appease her. -- Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see
Elizabeth
without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could
Elizabeth
persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.

Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and
Elizabeth
felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. -- It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. -- She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.

Even
Elizabeth began to fear -- not that Bingley was indifferent -- but that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London
, might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane, her anxiety under this suspence was, of course, more painful than
Elizabeth
's; but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back, she should think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any thing concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

``Indeed, Mr. Bennet,'' said she, ``it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for her, and live to see her take my place in it!''

``My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.''

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before,

``I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate, If it was not for the entail I should not mind it.''

``What should not you mind?''

``I should not mind any thing at all.''

``Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility.''

``I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail. How any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! -- Why should he have it more than anybody else?''

``I leave it to yourself to determine,'' said Mr. Bennet.

END OF VOL. I VOLUME II

Chapter 24


Chapter 24
MISS Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in
London
for the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what ever manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it, as, she thought, he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying,

``Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.''

Elizabeth
looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.

``You doubt me,'' cried Jane, slightly colouring; ``indeed you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not that pain. A little time therefore. -- I shall certainly try to get the better.''

With a stronger voice she soon added, ``I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to any one but myself.''

``My dear Jane!'' exclaimed
Elizabeth
, ``you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.''

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister's warm affection.

``Nay,'' said
Elizabeth, ``this is not fair. You wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. I only want to think you perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte
's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it is unaccountable!''

``My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte
's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.''

``To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding, than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him, cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger, security for happiness.''

``I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,'' replied Jane, ``and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned two instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I intreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking that person to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.''

``And men take care that they should.''

``If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.''

``I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,'' said
Elizabeth
; ``but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business,''

``And do you impute it to either of those?''

``Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.''

``You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him.''

``Yes, in conjunction with his friend.''

``I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.''

``Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.''

``Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to chuse Miss Darcy,'' replied Jane; ``but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make every body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken -- or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.''

Elizabeth
could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. ``So, Lizzy,'' said he one day, ``your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.''

``Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane's good fortune.''

``True,'' said Mr. Bennet, ``but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will always make the most of it.''

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom, which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what
Elizabeth
had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known any thing of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes -- but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.

Chapter 25


Chapter 25
AFTER a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable
Charlotte
by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks.
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.

``I do not blame Jane,'' she continued, ``for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves.''

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and
Elizabeth
's correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.

When alone with
Elizabeth
afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. ``It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,'' said she. ``I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.''

``An excellent consolation in its way,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``but it will not do for us. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.''

``But that expression of "violently in love" is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley's love?''

``I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance, and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?''

``Oh, yes! -- of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of service -- and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as useful as anything.''

Elizabeth
was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister's ready acquiescence.

``I hope,'' added Mrs. Gardiner, ``that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.''

``And that is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of
London
-- ! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have heard of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.''

``So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond with the sister? She will not be able to help calling.''

``She will drop the acquaintance entirely.''

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time, than as she hoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him.

The Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by
Elizabeth's warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth
on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had been in the way of procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something of that gentleman's reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might agree with it, and was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.

Chapter 26


Chapter 26
MRS. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
``You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against him; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is -- you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on your resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.''

``My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.''

``Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.''

``Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.''

``
Elizabeth
, you are not serious now.''

``I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw -- and if he becomes really attached to me -- I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. -- Oh! that abominable Mr. Darcy! -- My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honor; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.''

``Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not remind your mother of inviting him.''

``As I did the other day,'' said
Elizabeth
, with a conscious smile; ``very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from that. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied.''

Her aunt assured her that she was; and
Elizabeth
having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point without being resented.

Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she ``wished they might be happy.'' Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave,
Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte
said,

``I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.''

``That you certainly shall.''

``And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?''

``We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.''

``I am not likely to leave
Kent
for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.''

Elizabeth
could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit.

``My father and Maria are to come to me in March,'' added
Charlotte
, ``and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them.''

The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for
Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth
perceived that she must wait for her own visit there, to know the rest.

Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in
London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth
hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.

``My aunt,'' she continued, ``is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street.''

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. ``I did not think Caroline in spirits,'' were her words, ``but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to
London
. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them here.''

Elizabeth
shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will prove what she felt.

``My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal, apology for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it, I need not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy: your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.

Your's, &c.''

This letter gave
Elizabeth
some pain; but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as, by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded
Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth
was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that she would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in his case than in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances, she thus went on: -- ``I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards him; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and
Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the plain.''

Chapter 27


Chapter 27
WITH no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London
was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her -- their opinion of every body -- would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing.

Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas and his daughter Maria, a good humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise.
Elizabeth
loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch-street by
noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth
, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Elizabeth
then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.

Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well.

``But, my dear
Elizabeth
,'' she added, ``what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.''

``Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.''

``If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think.''

``She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.''

``But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune.''

``No -- why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain my affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?''

``But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so soon after this event.''

``A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we?''

``Her not objecting, does not justify him. It only shews her being deficient in something herself -- sense or feeling.''

``Well,'' cried
Elizabeth
, ``have it as you choose. He shall be mercenary, and she shall be foolish.''

``No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.''

``Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.''

``Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.''

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

``We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,'' said Mrs. Gardiner, ``but perhaps to the Lakes.''

No scheme could have been more agreeable to
Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. ``My dear, dear aunt,'' she rapturously cried, ``what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We will know where we have gone -- we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.''

Chapter 28


Chapter 28
EVERY object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state for enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
When they left the high-road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The palings of
Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernable. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, everything declared that they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at a small gate, which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and
Elizabeth
was more and more satisfied with coming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.

Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though every thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on
Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte
talked of the healthfulness of the excercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the country, or the kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows, but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him,
Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of shewing it without her husband's help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth
supposed he must be often forgotten. She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed,

``Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear
Charlotte
is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.''

``Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,'' added
Charlotte
, ``and a most attentive neighbour.''

``Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.''

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had been already written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte
's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door, and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out,

``Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.''

Elizabeth
asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; it was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.

``And is this all?'' cried
Elizabeth
. ``I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter!''

``La! my dear,'' said Maria quite shocked at the mistake, ``it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The other is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!''

``She is abominably rude to keep
Charlotte
out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?''

``Oh!
Charlotte
says, she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss De Bourgh comes in.''

``I like her appearance,'' said
Elizabeth
, struck with other ideas. ``She looks sickly and cross. -- Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.''

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to
Elizabeth
's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

Chapter 29


Chapter 29
MR. Collins's triumph in consequence of this invitation was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady Catherine's condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.
``I confess,'' said he, ``that I should not have been at all surprised by her Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an invitation moreover including the whole party) so immediately after your arrival!''

``I am the less surprised at what has happened,'' replied Sir William, ``from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the Court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.''

Scarcely any thing was talked of the whole day, or next morning, but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner might not wholly overpower them.

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
Elizabeth
,

``Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us, which becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion for any thing more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.''

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. -- Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension, as her father had done to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. -- Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis De Bourgh.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. --
Elizabeth
's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. -- Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be her's, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look.
Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. -- Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth
's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her being so thin, and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. -- He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him, and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son in law said, in a manner which
Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss De Bourgh -- the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss De Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she were indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When the ladies returned to the drawing room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have her judgment controverted. She enquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her how every thing ought to be regulated in so small a family as her's, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry.
Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother's maiden name? -- Elizabeth
felt all the impertinence of her questions, but answered them very composedly. -- Lady Catherine then observed,

``Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake,'' turning to
Charlotte
, ``I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. -- It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. -- Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?''

``A little.''

``Oh! then -- some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to -- You shall try it some day. -- Do your sisters play and sing?''

``One of them does.''

``Why did not you all learn? -- You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as your's. -- Do you draw?''

``No, not at all.''

``What, none of you?''

``Not one.''

``That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.''

``My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates
London
.''

``Has your governess left you?''

``We never had any governess.''

``No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! -- I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.''

Elizabeth
could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not been the case.

``Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must have been neglected.''

``Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.''

``Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. "Lady Catherine," said she, "you have given me a treasure." Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?''

``Yes, Ma'am, all.''

``All! -- What, all five out at once? Very odd! -- And you only the second. -- The younger ones out before the elder are married! -- Your younger sisters must be very young?''

``Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be much in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. -- The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth, as the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! -- I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.''

``Upon my word,'' said her ladyship, ``you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. -- Pray, what is your age?''

``With three younger sisters grown up,'' replied
Elizabeth
smiling, ``your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.''

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and
Elizabeth
suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence!

``You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, -- therefore you need not conceal your age.''

``I am not one and twenty.''

When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table, Lady Catherine was generally speaking -- stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to every thing her Ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names.

When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broke up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir William's, they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door,
Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise into his own hands.

Chapter 30


Chapter 30
SIR WILLIAM staid only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings to driving him out in his gig and shewing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a pleasanter aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the drawing room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversation with
Charlotte
, but was scarcely ever prevailed on to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till
Elizabeth
recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then, they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was not in the commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few; as the style of living of the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses' reach. This, however, was no evil to
Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte
, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine; who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it; and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----; and to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them, from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,

``I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.''

Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth
merely curtseyed to him, without saying a word.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to any body. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of
Elizabeth
after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause, added,

``My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?''

She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:25 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

Chapter 11


Chapter 11
WHEN the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and, seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was ``very glad;'' but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else.
Elizabeth
, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table -- but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, ``How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.''

No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said,

``By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? -- I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.''

``If you mean Darcy,'' cried her brother, ``he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins -- but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards.''

``I should like balls infinitely better,'' she replied, ``if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day.''

``Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.''

Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; -- but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and turning to
Elizabeth
, said,

``Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. -- I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.''

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. ``What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning'' -- and asked Elizabeth
whether she could at all understand him?

``Not at all,'' was her answer; ``but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.''

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives.

``I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,'' said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. ``You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; -- if the first, I should be completely in your way; -- and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.''

``Oh! shocking!'' cried Miss Bingley. ``I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?''

``Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,'' said
Elizabeth
. ``We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him -- laugh at him. -- Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.''

``But upon my honour I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no -- I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.''

``Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!'' cried
Elizabeth
. ``That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh.''

``Miss Bingley,'' said he, ``has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.''

``Certainly,'' replied
Elizabeth
-- ``there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. -- But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.''

``Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.''

``Such as vanity and pride.''

``Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride -- where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.''

Elizabeth
turned away to hide a smile.

``Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,'' said Miss Bingley; -- ``and pray what is the result?''

``I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.''

``No'' -- said Darcy, ``I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. -- It is I believe too little yielding -- certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. -- My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.''

``That is a failing indeed!'' -- cried
Elizabeth
. ``Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. -- I really cannot laugh at it; you are safe from me.''

``There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.''

``And your defect is a propensity to hate every body.''

``And yours,'' he replied with a smile, ``is wilfully to misunderstand them.''

``Do let us have a little music,'' -- cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. -- ``Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst.''

Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying
Elizabeth too much attention.

Chapter 12


Chapter 12
IN consequence of an agreement between the sisters,
Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive hem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth
's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added that, if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. -- Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved -- nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day, to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her -- that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence --
Elizabeth
had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked -- and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teazing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should now escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. --
Elizabeth
took leave of the whole party in the liveliest spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. -- But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and
Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.

Chapter 13


Chapter 13
``I HOPE my dear,'' said Mr. Bennet to his wife as they were at breakfast the next morning, ``that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.''
``Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope my dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.''

``The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger.''

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. -- ``A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure. Why Jane -- you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. -- But -- good lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day.
Lydia
, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment.''

``It is not Mr. Bingley,'' said her husband; ``it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.''

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained. ``About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.''

``Oh! my dear,'' cried his wife, ``I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.''

Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

``It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,'' said Mr. Bennet, ``and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.''

``No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?''

``Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear.''

``Hunsford, near
Westerham, Kent
,

15th October.

DEAR SIR,

THE disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with any one with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.'' -- ``There, Mrs. Bennet.'' -- ``My mind however is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends, -- but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'nnight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

WILLIAM COLLINS.''

``At
four o'clock
, therefore, we may expect this peacemaking gentleman,'' said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. ``He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again.''

``There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.''

``Though it is difficult,'' said Jane, ``to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.''

Elizabeth
was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.

``He must be an oddity, I think,'' said she. ``I cannot make him out. -- There is something very pompous in his stile. -- And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail? -- We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. -- Can he be a sensible man, sir?''

``No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.''

``In point of composition,'' said Mary, ``his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.''

To Catherine and
Lydia
, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet, indeed, said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but Mrs. Bennet who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,

``You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.''

``You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.''

``Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with you, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.''

``I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, -- and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted --''

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture were examined and praised; and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too, in its turn, was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.

Chapter 14


Chapter 14
DURING dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank -- such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had never seen any thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself, -- some shelves in the closets up stairs.
``That is all very proper and civil I am sure,'' said Mrs. Bennet, ``and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?''

``The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from
Rosings Park
, her ladyship's residence.''

``I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?''

``She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.''

``Ah!'' cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, ``then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?''

``She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.''

``Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.''

``Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. -- These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.''

``You judge very properly,'' said Mr. Bennet, ``and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?''

``They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.''

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at
Elizabeth
, requiring no partner in his pleasure.

By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. -- Kitty stared at him, and
Lydia
exclaimed. -- Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with,

``Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.''

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,

``I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; -- for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.''

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.

Chapter 15


Chapter 15
MR. COLLINS was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends -- of atonement -- for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them. -- Miss Bennet's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening she was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's te^te-a`-te^te with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. -- ``As to her younger daughters she could not take upon her to say -- she could not positively answer -- but she did not know of any prepossession; -- her eldest daughter, she must just mention -- she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.''

Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to
Elizabeth -- and it was soon done -- done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth
, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall them.

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny, concerning whose return from
London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia
, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty -- a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation -- a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat -- a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? -- It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips' throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation.

Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the officers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become ``stupid, disagreeable fellows.'' Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.

Mr. Collins, on his return, highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. Philips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole course of his life.

Chapter 16


Chapter 16
As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantlepiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth
felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the -----shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.

When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist.

``I know little of the game, at present,'' said he, ``but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life --'' Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between
Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth
, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

``About a month,'' said
Elizabeth
; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, ``He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.''

``Yes,'' replied Wickham; -- ``his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself -- for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.''

Elizabeth
could not but look surprised.

``You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. -- Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?''

``As much as I ever wish to be,'' cried
Elizabeth
warmly, -- ``I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.''

``I have no right to give my opinion,'' said Wickham, ``as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and to well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish -- and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. -- Here you are in your own family.''

``Upon my word I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one.''

``I cannot pretend to be sorry,'' said Wickham, after a short interruption, ``that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen.''

``I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.'' Wickham only shook his head.

``I wonder,'' said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, ``whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.''

``I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.''

``Oh! no -- it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.''

Elizabeth
found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.

``It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,'' he added, ``which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession -- I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.''

``Indeed!''

``Yes -- the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.''

``Good heavens!'' cried
Elizabeth
; ``but how could that be? -- How could his will be disregarded? -- Why did not you seek legal redress?''

``There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it -- or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.''

``This is quite shocking! -- He deserves to be publicly disgraced.''

``Some time or other he will be -- but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.''

Elizabeth
honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

``But what,'' said she after a pause, ``can have been his motive? -- what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?''

``A thorough, determined dislike of me -- a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood -- the sort of preference which was often given me.''

``I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this -- though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him -- I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!''

After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, ``I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.''

``I will not trust myself on the subject,'' replied Wickham, ``I can hardly be just to him.''

Elizabeth
was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, ``To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!'' -- She could have added, ``A young man too, like you, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable'' -- but she contented herself with ``And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!''

``We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to -- but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged. himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of affection to myself.''

``How strange!'' cried
Elizabeth
. ``How abominable! -- I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! -- If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest, -- for dishonesty I must call it.''

``It is wonderful,'' -- replied Wickham, -- ``for almost all his actions may be traced to pride; -- and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride.''

``Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?''

``Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, -- to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride, which with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.''

``What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy,?''

He shook his head. -- ``I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother, -- very, very proud. -- As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been
London
, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.''

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects,
Elizabeth
could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying,

``I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? -- Do you know Mr. Bingley?''

``Not at all.''

``He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.''

``Probably not; -- but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable, -- allowing something for fortune and figure.''

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. -- The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.

``I know very well, madam,'' said he, ``that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things, -- and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.''

Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

``Lady Catherine de Bourgh,'' she replied, ``has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.''

``You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.''

``No, indeed, I did not. -- I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.''

``Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.''

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another.

``Mr. Collins,'' said she, ``speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.''

``I believe her to be both in a great degree,'' replied Wickham; ``I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class.''

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.

Chapter 17


Chapter 17
ELIZABETH related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; -- she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. -- The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained.
``They have both,'' said she, ``been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.''

``Very true, indeed; -- and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? -- Do clear them too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.''

``Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, -- one, whom his father had promised to provide for. -- It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no.''

``I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony. -- If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.''

``It is difficult indeed -- it is distressing. -- One does not know what to think.''

``I beg your pardon; -- one knows exactly what to think.''

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point, -- that Mr. Bingley, if he had been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to
Elizabeth
, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card; Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attention of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it.

``While I can have my mornings to myself,'' said she, ``it is enough. -- I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every body.''

Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion that, though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and, if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.

``I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,'' said he, ``that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, -- a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.''

Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Wickham for those very dances: -- and to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help for it however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. -- It now first struck her that she was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly agreeable to her. Elizabeth
, however, did not chuse to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; -- the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

Chapter 18


Chapter 18
TILL
Elizabeth
entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,
``I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.''

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. -- Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill humour, which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was exstacy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind;
Charlotte
tried to console her.

``I dare say you will find him very agreeable.''

``Heaven forbid! -- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! -- To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! -- Do not wish me such an evil.''

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand,
Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth
made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:

``It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.''

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.

``Very well. -- That reply will do for the present. -- Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. -- But now we may be silent.''

``Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?''

``Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as as possible.''

``Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?''

``Both,'' replied
Elizabeth
archly; ``for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. -- We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.''

``This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,'' said he. ``How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. -- You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.''

``I must not decide on my own performance.''

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, ``When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.''

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and
Elizabeth
, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said,

``Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends -- whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.''

``He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,'' replied
Elizabeth
with emphasis, ``and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.''

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy he stopt with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.

``I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear Sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy: -- but let me not interrupt you, Sir. -- You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.''

The latter part of this address was scarcely, heard by Darcy; but Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said,

``Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.''

``I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. -- We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.''

``What think you of books?'' said he, smiling.

``Books -- Oh! no. -- I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.''

``I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. -- We may compare our different opinions.''

``No -- I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.''

``The present always occupies you in such scenes -- does it?'' said he, with a look of doubt.

``Yes, always,'' she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming,

``I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.''

``I am,'' said he, with a firm voice.

``And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?''

``I hope not.''

``It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.''

``May I ask to what these questions tend?''

``Merely to the illustration of your character,'' said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. ``I am trying to make it out.''

``And what is your success?''

She shook her head. ``I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.''

``I can readily believe,'' answered he gravely, ``that report may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.''

``But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.''

``I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,'' he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another.

They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her,

``So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! -- Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy, in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all, is a most insolent thing indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favorite's guilt; but really, considering his descent one could not expect much better.''

``His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,'' said Elizabeth angrily; ``for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of that, I can assure you, he informed me himself.''

``I beg your pardon,'' replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. ``Excuse my interference. -- It was kindly meant.''

``Insolent girl!'' said Elizabeth to herself. -- ``You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.'' She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. -- Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies and every thing else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.

``I want to know,'' said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister's, ``what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon.''

``No,'' replied Jane, ``I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to say that by his account as well as his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.''

``Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?''

``No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.''

``This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?''

``He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him conditionally only.''

``I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,'' said Elizabeth warmly; ``but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley's defence of his friend was a very able one I dare say, but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of both gentlemen as I did before.''

She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.

``I have found out,'' said he, ``by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of this house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with -- perhaps -- a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! -- I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.''

``You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?''

``Indeed I am. I shall intreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine's nephew. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.''

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. -- Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of following his own inclination and when she ceased speaking, replied thus,

``My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom -- provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like yourself.'' And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words ``apology,'' ``Hunsford,'' and ``Lady Catherine de Bourgh.'' -- It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth.

``I have no reason, I assure you,'' said he, ``to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.''

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her, in idea, settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. Bingley. -- It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette, but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

``What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.''

``For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. -- What advantage can it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy? -- You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing.''

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.

At length however Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, -- but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected. -- Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,

``That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.''

Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good. -- Others of the party were now applied to.

``If I,'' said Mr. Collins, ``were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. -- I do not mean however to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. -- In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every body, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards any body connected with the family.'' And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. -- Many stared. -- Many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.

To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teazed by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her, and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther notice; though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriages a quarter of an hour after every body else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing, threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of ``Lord how tired I am!'' accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for her, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.

Chapter 19


Chapter 19
THE next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,
``May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?''

Before Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly answered,

``Oh dear! -- Yes -- certainly. -- I am sure Lizzy will be very happy -- I am sure she can have no objection. -- Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.'' And gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out,

``Dear Ma'am, do not go. -- I beg you will not go. -- Mr. Collins must excuse me. -- He can have nothing to say to me that any body need not hear. I am going away myself.''

``No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. -- I desire you will stay where you are.'' -- And upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added, ``Lizzy, I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.''

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction -- and a moment's consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried to conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone Mr. Collins began.

``Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying -- and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.''

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and he continued:

``My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly -- which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford -- between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, "Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. -- Chuse properly, chuse a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her." Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond any thing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place -- which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the 4 per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.''

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

``You are too hasty, Sir,'' she cried. ``You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me, I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.''

``I am not now to learn,'' replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, ``that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.''

``Upon my word, Sir,'' cried Elizabeth, ``your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. -- You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so, -- Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.''

``Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,'' said Mr. Collins very gravely -- ``but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualifications.''

``Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.'' And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus addressed her,

``When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character.''

``Really, Mr. Collins,'' cried Elizabeth with some warmth, ``you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of its being one.''

``You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: -- It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in its favor; and you should take it into farther consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.''

``I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart.''

``You are uniformly charming!'' cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; ``and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.''

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception, Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.

Chapter 20


Chapter 20
MR. COLLINS was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had stedfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; -- she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe it, and could not help saying so.

``But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,'' she added, ``that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will make her know it.''

``Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam,'' cried Mr. Collins; ``but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.''

``Sir, you quite misunderstand me,'' said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. ``Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.''

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library,

``Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have her.''

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication.

``I have not the pleasure of understanding you,'' said he, when she had finished her speech. ``Of what are you talking?''

``Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.''

``And what am I to do on the occasion? -- It seems an hopeless business.''

``Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.''

``Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.''

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.

``Come here, child,'' cried her father as she appeared. ``I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?'' Elizabeth replied that it was. ``Very well -- and this offer of marriage you have refused?''

``I have, Sir.''

``Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?''

``Yes, or I will never see her again.''

``An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. -- Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.''

Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

``What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to insist upon her marrying him.''

``My dear,'' replied her husband, ``I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.''

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest but Jane with all possible mildness declined interfering; -- and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, ``I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! -- What do you think has happened this morning? -- Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.''

Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. ``Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,'' she added in a melancholy tone, ``for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.''

Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

``Aye, there she comes,'' continued Mrs. Bennet, ``looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. -- I shall not be able to keep you -- and so I warn you. -- I have done with you from this very day. -- I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children, -- Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! -- But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.''

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,

``Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.''

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected conversation. -- ``Oh! Mr. Collins!'' --

``My dear Madam,'' replied he, ``let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,'' he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, ``to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my manner has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.''

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:12 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

Chapter 1


Chapter 1
IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

``My dear Mr. Bennet,'' said his lady to him one day, ``have you heard that
Netherfield Park
is let at last?''

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

``But it is,'' returned she; ``for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.''

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

``Do not you want to know who has taken it?'' cried his wife impatiently.

``You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.''

This was invitation enough.

``Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.''

``What is his name?''

``Bingley.''

``Is he married or single?''

``Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!''

``How so? how can it affect them?''

``My dear Mr. Bennet,'' replied his wife, ``how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.''

``Is that his design in settling here?''

``Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.''

``I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for, as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party.''

``My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.''

``In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.''

``But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood.''

``It is more than I engage for, I assure you.''

``But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know they visit no new comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him, if you do not.''

``You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.''

``I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference.''

``They have none of them much to recommend them,'' replied he; ``they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.''

``Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.''

``You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.''

``Ah! you do not know what I suffer.''

``But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.''

``It will be no use to us if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.''

``Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty I will visit them all.''

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.

Chapter 2


Chapter 2
MR. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with,
``I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.''

``We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,'' said her mother resentfully, ``since we are not to visit.''

``But you forget, mama,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.''

``I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.''

``No more have I,'' said Mr. Bennet; ``and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you.''

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

``Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.''

``Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,'' said her father; ``she times them ill.''

``I do not cough for my own amusement,'' replied Kitty fretfully.

``When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?''

``To-morrow fortnight.''

``Aye, so it is,'' cried her mother, ``and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.''

``Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to her.''

``Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teazing?''

``I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture, somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.''

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, ``Nonsense, nonsense!''

``What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?'' cried he. ``Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you there. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great books, and make extracts.''

Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

``While Mary is adjusting her ideas,'' he continued, ``let us return to Mr. Bingley.''

``I am sick of Mr. Bingley,'' cried his wife.

``I am sorry to hear that; but why did not you tell me so before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.''

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while.

``How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved our girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a word about it till now.''

``Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse,'' said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

``What an excellent father you have, girls,'' said she, when the door was shut. ``I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so pleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do any thing.
Lydia
, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.''

``Oh!'' said
Lydia
stoutly, ``I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I'm the tallest.''

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.

Chapter 3


Chapter 3
NOT all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
``If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,'' said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, ``and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.''

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honour of their invitation, &c. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a large number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from
London
, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room, it consisted of only five altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the oldest, and another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien; and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend to join it.

``Come, Darcy,'' said he, ``I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.''

``I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.''

``I would not be so fastidious as you are,'' cried Bingley, ``for a kingdom! Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.''

``You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,'' said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

``Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.''

``Which do you mean?'' and turning round, he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth
, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, ``She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.''

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and
Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story however with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.
Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia
had been fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book, he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife's views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story to hear.

``Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,'' as she entered the room, ``we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Every body said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of that my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all: indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger --''

``If he had had any compassion for me,'' cried her husband impatiently, ``he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of his partners. Oh! that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!''

``Oh! my dear,'' continued Mrs. Bennet, ``I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw any thing more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown --''

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

``But I can assure you,'' she added, ``that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.''

Chapter 4


Chapter 4
WHEN Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him.
``He is just what a young man ought to be,'' said she, ``sensible, good humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! -- so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!''

``He is also handsome,'' replied
Elizabeth
, ``which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.''

``I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.''

``Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always take you by surprise, and me never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other women in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.''

``Dear Lizzy!''

``Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in any body. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.''

``I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always speak what I think.''

``I know you do; and it is that which makes the wonder. With your good sense, to be honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough; -- one meets it every where. But to be candid without ostentation or design -- to take the good of every body's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad -- belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man's sisters too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.''

``Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.''

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced. Their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies, not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the north of England
; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. -- Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.

His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it and into it for half an hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a great opposition of character. -- Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually giving offence.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; every body had been most kind and attentive to him, there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so -- but still they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose.

Chapter 5


Chapter 5
WITHIN a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the King during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to every body. By nature inoffensive, friendly and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. -- They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
Elizabeth
's intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

``You began the evening well,
Charlotte
,'' said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. ``You were Mr. Bingley's first choice.''

``Yes; -- but he seemed to like his second better.''

``Oh! -- you mean Jane, I suppose -- because he danced with her twice. To be sure that did seem as if he admired her -- indeed I rather believe he did -- I heard something about it -- but I hardly know what -- something about Mr. Robinson.''

``Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question -- "Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point."''

``Upon my word! -- Well, that was very decided indeed -- that does seem as if -- but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.''

``My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,'' said
Charlotte
. ``Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he? -- Poor Eliza! -- to be only just tolerable.''

``I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.''

``Are you quite sure, Ma'am? -- is not there a little mistake?'' said Jane. -- ``I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.''

``Aye -- because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; -- but she said he seemed very angry at being spoke to.''

``Miss Bingley told me,'' said Jane, ``that he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance. With them he is remarkably agreeable.''

``I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; every body says that he is ate up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.''

``I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,'' said Miss Lucas, ``but I wish he had danced with Eliza.''

``Another time, Lizzy,'' said her mother, ``I would not dance with him, if I were you.''

``I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you never to dance with him.''

``His pride,'' said Miss Lucas, ``does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, every thing in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.''

``That is very true,'' replied
Elizabeth
, ``and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.''

``Pride,'' observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, ``is a very common failing I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonimously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.''

``If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,'' cried a young Lucas who came with his sisters, ``I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.''

``Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,'' said Mrs. Bennet; ``and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.''

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

Chapter 6


Chapter 6
THE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but
Elizabeth
still saw superciliousness in their treatment of every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he did admire her; and to her it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength of feeling a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
``It may perhaps be pleasant,'' replied
Charlotte
, ``to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely -- a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.''

``But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.''

``Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.''

``But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.''

``Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chuses.''

``Your plan is a good one,'' replied
Elizabeth
, ``where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.''

``Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have been also spent together -- and four evenings may do a great deal.''

``Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.''

``Well,'' said Charlotte, ``I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.''

``You make me laugh,
Charlotte
; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.''

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister,
Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware; -- to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. ``What does Mr. Darcy mean,'' said she to
Charlotte
, ``by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?''

``That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.''

``But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.''

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,

``Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?''

``With great energy; -- but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic.''

``You are severe on us.''

``It will be her turn soon to be teazed,'' said Miss Lucas. ``I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.''

``You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! -- always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body! -- If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.'' On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, ``Very well; if it must be so, it must.'' And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, ``There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with -- "Keep your breath to cool your porridge," -- and I shall keep mine to swell my song.''

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.

``What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! -- There is nothing like dancing after all. -- I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.''

``Certainly, Sir; -- and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. -- Every savage can dance.''

Sir William only smiled. ``Your friend performs delightfully;'' he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; -- ``and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.''

``You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir.''

``Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?''

``Never, sir.''

``Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?''

``It is a compliment which I never pay to any place, if I can avoid it.''

``You have a house in town, I conclude?''

Mr. Darcy bowed.

``I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself -- for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.''

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,

``My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? -- Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. -- You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.'' And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,

``Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. -- I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.''

Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her hand; but in vain.
Elizabeth
was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

``You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour.''

``Mr. Darcy is all politeness,'' said
Elizabeth
, smiling.

``He is indeed -- but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?''

Elizabeth
looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley.

``I can guess the subject of your reverie.''

``I should imagine not.''

``You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner -- in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! -- What would I give to hear your strictures on them!''

``Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.''

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,

``Miss Elizabeth Bennet.''

``Miss Elizabeth Bennet!'' repeated Miss Bingley. ``I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite? -- and pray when am I to wish you joy?''

``That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.''

``Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.''

He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.

Chapter 7


Chapter 7
MR. BENNET'S property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London
in a respectable line of trade.

The
village of Longbourn
was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head quarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed,

``From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.''

Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but
Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London
.

``I am astonished, my dear,'' said Mrs. Bennet, ``that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of any body's children, it should not be of my own, however.''

``If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it.''

``Yes -- but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.''

``This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.''

``My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. -- When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well -- and indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his regimentals.''

``Mama,'' cried Lydia, ``my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.''

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,

``Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.''

``It is from Miss Bingley,'' said Jane, and then read it aloud.

``My dear Friend,

IF you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's te^te-a`-te^te between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever,

CAROLINE BINGLEY.''

``With the officers!'' cried
Lydia
. ``I wonder my aunt did not tell us of that.''

``Dining out,'' said Mrs. Bennet, ``that is very unlucky.''

``Can I have the carriage?'' said Jane.

``No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.''

``That would be a good scheme,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.''

``Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton; and the
Hursts
have no horses to theirs.''

``I had much rather go in the coach.''

``But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?''

``They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.''

``But if you have got them to-day,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``my mother's purpose will be answered.''

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back.

``This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!'' said Mrs. Bennet, more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for
Elizabeth
:

``My dearest Lizzy,

I FIND myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones -- therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me -- and excepting a sore throat and head-ache, there is not much the matter with me.

Yours, &c.''

``Well, my dear,'' said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, ``if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.''

``Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long is she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the carriage.''

Elizabeth
, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.

``How can you be so silly,'' cried her mother, ``as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.''

``I shall be very fit to see Jane -- which is all I want.''

``Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,'' said her father, ``to send for the horses?''

``No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.''

``I admire the activity of your benevolence,'' observed Mary, ``but every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.''

``We will go as far as Meryton with you,'' said Catherine and
Lydia. -- Elizabeth
accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off together.

``If we make haste,'' said
Lydia
, as they walked along, ``perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.''

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.

She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. -- That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and
Elizabeth
was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. -- Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.

Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well enough to leave her room.
Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth
silently attended her.

When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters, and
Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth
did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three,
Elizabeth felt that she must go; and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern in parting with her that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.

Chapter 8


Chapter 8
AT
five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six Elizabeth
was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves, and then thought no more of the matter; and their indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom
Elizabeth
sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no stile, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,

``She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.''

``She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!''

``Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.''

``Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,'' said Bingley; ``but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.''

``You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,'' said Miss Bingley, ``and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.''

``Certainly not.''

``To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town indifference to decorum.''

``It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,'' said Bingley.

``I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,'' observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, ``that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.''

``Not at all,'' he replied; ``they were brightened by the exercise.'' -- A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.

``I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.''

``I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.''

``Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near
Cheapside
.''

``That is capital,'' added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

``If they had uncles enough to fill all
Cheapside
,'' cried Bingley, ``it would not make them one jot less agreeable.''

``But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,'' replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

``Do you prefer reading to cards?'' said he; ``that is rather singular.''

``Miss Eliza Bennet,'' said Miss Bingley, ``despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.''

``I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,'' cried
Elizabeth
; ``I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.''

``In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,'' said Bingley; ``and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.''

Elizabeth
thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded.

``And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into.''

Elizabeth
assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.

``I am astonished,'' said Miss Bingley, ``that my father should have left so small a collection of books. -- What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!''

``It ought to be good,'' he replied, ``it has been the work of many generations.''

``And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.''

``I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these,''

``Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.''

``I wish it may.''

``But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in
England
than Derbyshire.''

``With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.''

``I am talking of possibilities, Charles.''

``Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.''

Elizabeth
was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister to observe the game.

``Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?'' said Miss Bingley; ``will she be as tall as I am?''

``I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller.''

``How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite.''

``It is amazing to me,'' said Bingley, ``how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.''

``All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?''

``Yes all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens, and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.''

``Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,'' said Darcy, ``has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.''

``Nor I, I am sure,'' said Miss Bingley.

``Then,'' observed
Elizabeth
, ``you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished women.''

``Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.''

``Oh! certainly,'' cried his faithful assistant, ``no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.''

``All this she must possess,'' added Darcy, ``and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.''

``I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.''

``Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?''

``I never saw such a woman, I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.''

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end,
Elizabeth
soon afterwards left the room.

``Eliza Bennet,'' said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, ``is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own, and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.''

``Undoubtedly,'' replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, ``there is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.''

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of, but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

Chapter 9


Chapter 9
ELIZABETH passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her, that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

``Indeed I have, Sir,'' was her answer. ``She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.''

``Removed!'' cried Bingley. ``It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.''

``You may depend upon it, Madam,'' said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, ``that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.''

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

``I am sure,'' she added, ``if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world -- which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to her. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease.''

``Whatever I do is done in a hurry,'' replied he; ``and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.''

``That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,'' said
Elizabeth
.

``You begin to comprehend me, do you?'' cried he, turning towards her.

``Oh! yes -- I understand you perfectly.''

``I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful.''

``That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.''

``Lizzy,'' cried her mother, ``remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.''

``I did not know before,'' continued Bingley immediately, ``that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.''

``Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage.''

``The country,'' said Darcy, ``can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.''

``But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.''

``Yes, indeed,'' cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. ``I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.''

Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.

``I cannot see that
London
has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?''

``When I am in the country,'' he replied, ``I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.''

``Aye -- that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,'' looking at Darcy, ``seemed to think the country was nothing at all.''

``Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,'' said
Elizabeth
, blushing for her mother. ``You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.''

``Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families.''

Nothing but concern for
Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth
, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since her coming away.

``Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley -- is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy! -- He has always something to say to every body. -- That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.''

``Did
Charlotte
dine with you?''

``No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
Charlotte
so very plain -- but then she is our particular friend.''

``She seems a very pleasant young woman,'' said Bingley.

``Oh! dear, yes; -- but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane -- one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.''

``And so ended his affection,'' said
Elizabeth
impatiently. ``There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!''

``I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,'' said Darcy.

``Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.''

Darcy only smiled, and the general pause which ensued made
Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia
was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.

``I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement, and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.''

Lydia
declared herself satisfied. ``Oh! yes -- it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,'' she added, ``I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.''

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on fine eyes.

Chapter 10


Chapter 10
THE day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening
Elizabeth
joined their party in the drawing room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth
took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each.

``How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!''

He made no answer.

``You write uncommonly fast.''

``You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.''

``How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!''

``It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.''

``Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.''

``I have already told her so once, by your desire.''

``I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.''

``Thank you -- but I always mend my own.''

``How can you contrive to write so even?''

He was silent.

``Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's.''

``Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? -- At present I have not room to do them justice.''

``Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?''

``They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.''

``It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill.''

``That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,'' cried her brother -- ``because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. -- Do not you, Darcy?''

``My stile of writing is very different from yours.''

``Oh!'' cried Miss Bingley, ``Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.''

``My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them -- by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.''

``Your humility, Mr. Bingley,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``must disarm reproof.''

``Nothing is more deceitful,'' said Darcy, ``than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.''

``And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?''

``The indirect boast; -- for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself -- and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?''

``Nay,'' cried Bingley, ``this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies.''

``I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, "Bingley, you had better stay till next week," you would probably do it, you would probably not go -- and, at another word, might stay a month.''

``You have only proved by this,'' cried
Elizabeth
, ``that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much more than he did himself.''

``I am exceedingly gratified,'' said Bingley, ``by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.''

``Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?''

``Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for himself.''

``You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.''

``To yield readily -- easily -- to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.''

``To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.''

``You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?''

``Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?''

``By all means,'' cried Bingley; ``Let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.''

Mr. Darcy smiled; but
Elizabeth
thought she could perceive that he was rather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.

``I see your design, Bingley,'' said his friend. -- ``You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.''

``Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.''

``What you ask,'' said
Elizabeth
, ``is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter,''

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that
Elizabeth
would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
Elizabeth
could not help observing, as she turned over some music books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine however, at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her --

``Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?''

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.

``Oh!'' said she, ``I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say "Yes," that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all -- and now despise me if you dare.''

``Indeed I do not dare.''

Elizabeth
, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of
Elizabeth
.

She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.

``I hope,'' said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, ``you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers. -- And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.''

``Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?''

``Oh! yes. -- Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle, the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your
Elizabeth
's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?''

``It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.''

At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.

``I did not know that you intended to walk,'' said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

``You used us abominably ill,'' answered Mrs. Hurst, ``in running away without telling us that you were coming out.'' Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left
Elizabeth
to walk by herself. The path just admitted three.

Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said, --

``This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.''

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered,

``No, no; stay where you are. -- You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye.''

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:6 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 19:51 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

Jane Austen began her second novel, Pride and Prejudice, before she was twenty-one. It was originally titled First Impression because the appearances of the characters created the plot of the novel. However, because the novel is also concerned with the effects of the character’s first impressions, that is their prejudice, Austen found the title Pride and Prejudice more appropriate.

Pride and Prejudice, similar to other Austen novels, is written in gentle or Horacian satire. The main object of Austen’s satire in the novel is the mercenary and the ignorance of the people, a common criticism of the 18th century. Characters in the novel which best carries these qualities are:

Mrs. Bennet, a foolish woman who talks too much and is obsessed with getting her daughters married;
Lydia Bennet, the youngest of the Bennet daughter who is devoted to a life of dancing, fashions, gossips and flirting; and
Mr. Williams Collins, the silly and conceited baboon who is completely stupify by Lady Catherine in every aspect of his life that he has forgotten his own morals and duty.

The tone of the novel is light, satirical, and vivid. Scenes such as Mr. Collins proposal to Elizabeth, and Lady Catherine visits to Lizzy at Longbourn, provides comic relief to the reader while at the same time revealing certain traits of the characters. For example, Lydia’s lack of common sense and responsibility is revealed when she takes pride in being the first Bennet girl to be married. Lydia does not take into consideration the circumstance of her marriage, the personality of her husband, or the prospects of their marriage for the future. Elizabeth Bennet’s ability to laugh off her misfortune and to continue to be optimistic, considering her situation, also contributes to the tone of the novel.

The point of view in Pride and Prejudice is limited omniscient; the story is told through Elizabeth, but not in first person. As a result, the mood of the novel lacks dramatic emotions. The atmosphere is intellectual and cold; there are little descriptions of the setting. The main actions of the novel are the interactions between opinions, ideas, and attitudes, which weaves and advances the plot of the novel. The emotions in the novel are to be perceived beneath the surface of the story and are not to be expressed to the readers directly.

Austen’s powers of subtle discrimination and shrewd perceptiveness is revealed in Pride and Prejudice; she is able to convey such a complex message using a simple, yet witty, style.

The main subject in the novel is stated in the first sentence of the novel: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." In this statement, Austen has cleverly done three things: she has declared that the main subject of the novel will be courtship and marriage, she has established the humorous tone of the novel by taking a simple subject to elaborate and to speak intelligently of, and she has prepared the reader for a chase in the novel of either a husband in search of a wife, or a women in pursuit of a husband.

The first line also defines Austen's book as a piece of literature that connects itself to the 18th century period. Pride and Prejudice is 18th century because of the emphasis on man in his social environment rather than in his individual conditions. The use of satire and wit, a common form of 18th century literature, also contributes to label the book as 18th century. However, because Austen had allowed personal feelings of the characters to be expressed in her work, she can also be classified as Romantic. In the figure of Elizabeth, Austen shows passion attempting to find a valid mode of existence in society. Passion and reason also comes together in the novel to show that they are complementary of marriage.

There are seven different marriages presented in the novel. Excluding the Gardiner and the Lucas, the remaining five marriages contrasts each other to reveal Austen’s opinions and thoughts on the subject of marriage.

The marriage between Darcy and Elizabeth reveals the characteristics that constitute a successful marriage. One of these characteristics is that the feeling cannot be brought on by appearances, and must gradually develop between the two people as they get to know one another. In the beginning, Elizabeth and Darcy were distant from each other because of their prejudice. The series of events which they both experienced gave them the opportunity to understand one another and the time to reconcile their feelings for each other. Thus, their mutual understanding is the foundation of their relationship and will lead them to a peaceful and lasting marriage. This relationship between Elizabeth and Darcy reveals the importance of getting to know one’s partner before marrying.

The marriage between Jane Bennet and Bingley is also an example of successful marriage. Austen, through Elizabeth, expresses her opinion of this in the novel:

"....really believed all his [Bingley] expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself." (Chapter 55)

However, unlike Darcy and Elizabeth, there is a flaw in their relationship. The flaw is that both characters are too gullible and too good-hearted to ever act strongly against external forces that may attempt to separate them:

"You [Jane and Bingley] are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income." (Chapter 55)

Obviously, Lydia and Wickham’s marriage is an example of a bad marriage. Their marriage was based on appearances, good looks, and youthful vivacity. Once these qualities can no longer be seen by each other, the once strong relationship will slowly fade away. As in the novel, Lydia and Wickham’s marriage gradually disintegrates; Lydia becomes a regular visitor at her two elder sister’s home when "her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath." Through their relationship, Austen shows that hasty marriage based on superficial qualities quickly cools and leads to unhappiness.

Although little is told of how Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Bennet got together, it can be inferred by their conversions that their relationship was similar to that of Lydia and Wickham--Mr. Bennet had married a woman he found sexually attractive without realizing she was an unintelligent woman. Mrs. Bennet’s favoritism towards Lydia and her comments on how she was once as energetic as Lydia reveals this similarity. Mr. Bennet’s comment on Wickham being his favorite son-in-law reinforces this parallelism. The effect of the relationships was that Mr. Bennet would isolate himself from his family; he found refuge in his library or in mocking his wife. Mr. Bennet’s self-realization at the end of the novel in which he discovers that his lack of attention towards his family had led his family to develop the way they are, was too late to save his family. He is Austen’s example of a weak father. In these two latter relationships, Austen shows that it is necessary to use good judgement to select a spouse, otherwise the two people will lose respect for each other.

The last example of a marriage is of a different nature than the ones mentioned above. The marriage between Mr. Collins and Charlotte is based on economics rather than on love or appearance. It was a common practice during Austen’s time for women to marry a husband to save herself from spinsterhood or to gain financial security. In Pride and Prejudice, Austen dramatizes gender inequality and shows that women who submit themselves to this type of marriage will have to suffer in tormenting silence as Charlotte does:

"When Mr. Collins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she [Elizabeth] would involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear." (Chapter 28)

These five marriages contribute to the theme that a happy and strong marriage takes time to build and must be based on mutual feeling, understanding, and respect. Hasty marriages acting on impulse, and based on superficial qualities will not survive and will lead to inevitable unhappiness.

In Pride and Prejudice, Austen has denounced the elements of marriage and society that she found distasteful. These are the conclusions of her observation of the people in her world. However in her writing, Jane has also reflected her own enjoyment in life among these people with and without their faults.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 19:35 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

A LITTLE while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart--
What thought, what scene invites thee now
What spot, or near or far apart,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear--
So longed for--as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them--how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

THAT was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 19:29 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

فوايد و كاركردها گوش دادن

 
1 – تمركز بر پيام هاي ديگران
2 – برداشت كامل و درك مناسب تر منظور ديگران
3 – ابراز علاقه، نگراني و توجه به ديگران
4- تشويق ديگران به بيان و ابراز آزادانه و صادقانه مسائل خود
5 – تقويت ارتباط و تعامل خود با ديگران
6 – افزايش تفاهم ما با ديگران
7 – جلوگيري از سوء تفاهم ها
8 – افزايش قدرت يادگيري
9 – كمك به خودآگاهي و گسترش شناخت از خود و ديگران
10 – افزايش روحيه ي مشاركت جويي و كار گروهي


مهارت هاي اساسي گوش دادن فعال


1 – مهارت توجه :
يعني توجه جسمي و غير كلامي به طرف مقابل كه به او نشان دهد دقيقاً به صحبت هاي او گوش مي دهيم مثلاً هنگام گوش دادن با بدني مايل به جلو، در فاصله ي مناسب، رو در روي گوينده قرار گرفته و نگاه ما تا شعاع نيم متري صورت گوينده باشد، ضمن پرهيز از رفتارهاي حواس پرت كن (بازي با كليد و سكه و...) سعي كنيم شنونده اي خشك و بي حركت نباشيم و محيط گفتگو را از عوامل مزاحم و ترس آور دور كنيم.

2 – مهارت پي گيري :
گاهي گوينده نگران و هيجان زده است كه در حالت هاي چهره، تُن صدا و رفتارهاي او نمايان مي شود، در اين صورت بايستي بدون زورگويي او را به صحبت كردن دعوت كنيم. مثلاً با استفاده از جملات در باز كن (امروز سرحال به نظر نمي رسي! خب ! – بعد چي شد! – ادامه بده ! ) با استفاده از كلمات تشويقي كوتاه (هوم – درسته – بله و ...) با استفاده از سؤال هاي كوتاه و باز و يا حتي گاهي سكوت توأم با توجه و مشاهده ي او مي تواند اين موانع را از ميان بردارد.

3 – مهارت انعكاسي :
يعني انعكاس توضيحات و احساسات و معاني درك شده از گوينده به خود او كه نشان دهنده ي درك و فهم و پذيرش او نزد شنونده است.


راهكارهاي عملي گوش دادن فعال


1 – براي درك بيشتر گوينده به علايم غيركلامي (زبان بدن) او توجه كنيم.
2 – خود را به جاي گوينده قرار داده و سعي كنيم دنيا را از ديدگاه او ببينيم و درك كنيم.
3 – با طرح سؤالاتي از خود، حساسيت گيرندگي مان را افزايش دهيم. مثلاً ( چرا او حالا اين موضوع را به من گفت ؟ - منظور او چيست؟ - نكات اصلي حرف او چيست ؟ و...)
4 – به ياد داشته باشيم كه سرعت متوسط تكلم انسان بين 125 تا 175 كلمه در دقيقه است. در صورتي كه سرعت متوسط تفكر انسان بين 400 تا 800 كلمه در دقيقه است. از اين فرصت براي پردازش اطلاعات گوينده خوب استفاده كنيم.
5 – عوامل حواس پرتي را به حداقل برسانيم از جمله :
- بازي كردن با كليد و سكه و ...
- تكان خوردن يا حالت عصبي
- ضرب گرفتن روي ميز با انگشتان
- جا به جا شدن مكرر
- تماشاي تلويزيون
- سر تكان دادن به عابرين
- روزنامه خواندن و .....
6 – ارتباط چشمي مناسب برقرار كنيم. نه آن قدر خيره شويم كه گوينده را معذب كنيم و نه آن قدر به او نگاه نكنيم كه تصور كند به ارتباط با او علاقه اي نداريم .
7 – موانع فيزيكي را از بين ببريم مثلاً در دفتر كار خود، از پشت ميز بيرون آمده و در كنار او بنشينيم و صحبت كنيم.
8 – بهتر است به گونه اي بنشينيم كه بدن ما كمي متمايل به جلو و به طرف گوينده باشد.
9 – احساسات درك شده اش را به او انعكاس دهيم مثلاً ( گويا موضوعي باعث خوشحاليت شده ؟! ، غمگين به نظر مي رسي ! و ...)
10 – با بيان عباراتي گوينده را به ادامه ي صحبت تشويق كنيم مثلاً (خب خُب! - بعد چي شد؟ - جدي ؟! – واقعاً ؟! و ...)
11 – گوينده را با سؤالات پي در پي بمباران نكنيم كه احساس كند مورد بازجويي قرار گرفته است.
12 – در گوش دادن به مطالب مهم ،از يادداشت برداري نكات كليدي غفلت نكنيم.
13 – درك خود را از احساسات گوينده بيان كنيم مثلاً (به نظرم اين موضوع شما را ناراحت كرده !)
14 – گاهي موضوعات مهم مطرح شده را به گوينده يادآور شويم تا ميزان درك خود را مورد ارزيابي قرار دهيم مثلاً ( چند دقيقه اجازه دهيد ببيننم درباره چه چيزهايي صحبت كرديم ، اول ....)
15 – منظور گوينده را با كلمات خودش به او انعكاس دهيم.
16 – براي خوب گوش دادن و درك بهتر گوينده ضروري است تلاش نماييم برخي خصوصيات و توانايي ها را در خود افزايش دهيم، براي مثال تحقيقات نشان داده است كه : - كساني كه خزانه ي واژگان غني تري دارند، شنوندگان بهتري هستند.
- كساني كه پيشرفت تحصيلي بهتري دارند، توانايي گوش دادن آن ها نيز بيشتر است.
- زنان در تفسير و تشخيص پيام هاي غيركلامي از مردان كارآمدترند.
- معمولاً افراد درونگرا، شنوندگان بهتري هستند.
17 – تا وقتي كه گوينده مطلب خود را تمام نكرده و يا منتظر پاسخ نيست، سخن او را قطع نكنيم.
18 - موقع شنيدن سخناني كه خوشايند ما نيست و يا مخالف خواسته ها و تمايلات و افكار ما هستند، صبر و شكيباني از خود نشان داده و با علايم كلامي و غيركلامي نامناسب از خود عكس العمل نشان دهيم.
19 – عوامل مزاحم را از محل گفتگو دور كنيم ، مانند : (خاموش كردن راديو، تلويزيون، ضبط صوت در صورت ضرورت قطع تلفن و يا نصب و يا نصب كاغذي بر روي در اتاق با عنوان لطفاً مزاحم نشويد)
20 – سدها و موانع ارتباطي اكيداً پرهيز كنيم از جمله :
- دستور دادن، تهديد كردن و ترساندن
- موعظه ، نصيحت و سخنراني كردن
- قضاوت و انتقاد كردن
- ارائه ي دلايل منطقي و يا راه حل
- تحقير ، توهين و ناسزا
21 – در پرسش، از سؤال هاي كوتاه و باز استفاده كنيم.

 

منبع: http://salajegheh7.blogfa.com

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 18:4 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

نمود (یا جنبه) Aspect

برجسته کردن مرحله ای از حادثه که فعل به آن دلالت دارد. جنبه دو گونه تظاهر دارد: یا واژگانی‌است      (Lexical) است، و یا دستوری (Grammatical). برای مثال در افعالی مانند باران گرفت- در مقابل باران آمد، نمود Aspect)) تظاهر واژگانی دارد. در باران گرفت فعل گرفتن نشان گر آغاز عمل است، اما هیچ گونه عنصر دستوری معرف نمود نمی باشد، و در معنای واژگانی آن تجلی می یابد.

 

1.                          نمود واژگانی (Lexical Aspect) نمود واژگانی مربوط به معنای ذاتی فعل می شود. در فعل باران گرفت نمود در معنای فعل وجود دارد. یعنی این مولفه معنایی است، که نمود را می رساند.

در فارسی برای ساختن فعل مرکب از فعل ساده استفاده می شود. در زبان ها افعال سنگین(heavy Verb) مستقل به کار می روند؛ در ساخت فعل مرکب ما این افعال سنگین را تبدیل به افعال سبک می کنیم، و آنگاه آن ها را برای فعل مرکب به کار می بریم. افعالی مانند: کشیدن(آه کشیدن)، زدن (در زدن)، کردن(کار کردن)، خوردن(فریب خوردن)، داشتن(قصد داشتن) افعال سنگین می باشند، که در ترکیب با عناصر واژگانی فعل مرکب را می سازند، اما جز فعلی دیگر معنای اولیه خود را از دست می دهد( تبدیل به فعل سبک light Verb می شود).

کار این افعال سبک این است، که نحوه تحقق جز غیر فعلی را نشان می دهد. نوع کنش(Aktionsart= اصطلاحی آلمانی برابر mode of Action)

برای مثال اتو زدن(لحظه ای)، اتو کردن(کنش کلی)، اتو کشیدن(دیرش عمل) نحوه تحقق جز غیر فعلی در افعال سبک نمود یافته است.

2.                          نمود دستوری (Grammatical Aspect):در نمود دستوری یک نقش نمای دستوری مفهوم نمود را نشان می دهد. مانند تکواژ گسته be+ (V) + ing

در زبان آموزی، کودکان Aspect را زود تر از tense می آموزند. زبان هایی نیز وجود دارند، که tense Marker ندارند، اما هیچ زبانی یافت نشده است، که وسیله ای برای بیان نمود نداشته باشد.

 

در همین راستا برای اطلاع در خصوص فعل های لحظه ای و تداومی ر.ک. به مقاله زیر:

-          جهان پناه تهرانی، سیمین دخت. " فعل های لحظه ای و تدامی در فارسی امروز"، مجله زبانشناسی، سال 1 ش. 2، پاییز و زمستان 1363.

برای بحث نمود نیز رجوع کنید به کتاب Understanding syntax اثر Maggie Tallerman که در ایران نیز آفست شده است.

 

منبع: http://sahbaii.blogfa.com/

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 2:30 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

ساختواژه هموندیProsodic Morphology    

 

مقدمه

وقتی ساختواژه واژگانی را بررسی می کنیم توجه اصلی  تنها به پسوند وپیشوند افزایی است، در مدلی دیگر از ساختواژه علاوه بر پسوند وپیشوند افزایی به میانوند افزایی (infixing) نیز توجه می شود. برای آن که بتوان ساختواژه هموندی را شناخت، نخست باید واجشناسی  خودزنجیره‌ایی             (autosegmental phonology) را شناخت.

 

واجشناسی خود زنجیره ای

            این نوع از واجشناسی صور متقدمی هم داشته است. (بنا به نقل گلد اسمیث1990)این نظریه واجی فرزند خلف واجشناسی زایشی است که اساس آن را چامسکی/هله  در SPE (1968) مطرح کردند. صورت های متقدم آن را می توان در واجشناسی مکتب لندن وبعضاً در واجشناسی ساختگرای آمریکایی) Hockett) ملاحظه کرد. این نظریه چنین فرضیه سازی می کند،که نمود های واجی شامل چندین لایه(tiers) مستقل وموازی است (سطوح نمود=level of representation )

در واجشناسی زایا روساخت  نمای واجی زیر بنایی (underlying phonological representation )را مشخص می سازد. نمای واجی خود از راه عمل کرد قاعده های واجی به صورت نمای صوتی ظاهر می شود که چگونگی تلفظ جمله را نشان می دهد... در واجشناسی زایا ، نظام همگانی اصولی که در زیر بنای ساخت آوایی همه زبانهای انسانی قرار دارد نیز مورد بررسی قرار می گیرد.(ساخت آوایی زبان، دکتر مهدی مشکوة الدینی ،مشهد:دانشگاه فردوسی،1377)

واجشناسی خود زنجیری نوعی از واجشناسی است که در تقابل با واجشناسی های زنجیری قرار می گیرد. واجشناسی های زنجیری مجموعه ای از نمود هایی است که شامل ترتیب های خطی زنجیره ها (یا مجموعه نامنظم مشخصات) و مرز هایی است که وابسته به ملاک های نحوی یا ساختواژی می باشند. برعکس دیدگاه خود- زنجیری(autosegmental) واجشناسی را به عنوان مجموعه ای ازلایه ها یا قشر هایی(Tiers) می نگرد که هر لایه ای متشکل از ترتب خطی(linear arrangement)زنجیره هاست(Segments)؛ این لایه ها به توسط ارتباط خط هایی که دلالت دارد بر این که چگونه همساخته شده اند(coarticulated) به هم متصل می شوند.

(A Dictionary of Linguistics and Phonetics, David Crystal)

 

 

http://www.sahbaii.blogfa.com منبع

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 2:19 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

-



 

'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'


 

-

To the
Right Honorable Henry Wriothesly,
Earl of Southampton, and,
Baron of Tichfield.

Right Honorable,

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your honour's in all duty,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


 

-

Venus and Adonis

EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.

'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;

'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'

He burns with bashful shame: she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.

Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
'O, pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy!
'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

'I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.

'Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

'Thus he that overruled I oversway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!

'Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,--
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red--
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where they are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

'The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted:
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

'Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

'Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;
Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning:
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

'Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

'Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

'Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse:
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.

'Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.'

By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him and by Venus' side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'

'Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind?
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone!
I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.

'The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?
Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.

'Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dun and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.'

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

'Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
'Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!'
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.

But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.

He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He veils his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him;
When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said;
Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage;
But when the heart's attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O, what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,
As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.

O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
'O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!

'Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?'
'Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it:
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:
Then love's deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'

'For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go;
My day's delight is past, my horse is gone,
And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.'

Thus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd;
Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire:
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.

'How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master'd with a leathern rein!
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.

'Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold?

'Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy;
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;
O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect, never lost again.'

I know not love,' quoth he, 'nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;
For I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.

'Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing things be any jot diminish'd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young
Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.

'You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;
To love's alarms it will not ope the gate:
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.'

'What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!
Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now press'd with bearing:
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,
Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.

'Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

'Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by
smelling.

'But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'

Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh:
Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,
For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;
A smile recures the wounding of a frown;
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!
The silly boy, believing she is dead,
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;

And all amazed brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!
For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd:
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth;
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumined with her eye;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with his brow's repine;
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

'O, where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?
But now I lived, and life was death's annoy;
But now I died, and death was lively joy.

'O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:
Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine;
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.

'Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.

'A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

'Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste.

'Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,
His day's hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl, night's herald, shrieks, ''Tis very late;'
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light
Do summon us to part and bid good night.

'Now let me say 'Good night,' and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.'
'Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says 'Adieu,'
The honey fee of parting tender'd is:
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:
He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry:

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing,
Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling,
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.

For pity now she can no more detain him;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
She is resolved no longer to restrain him;
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incaged in his breast.

'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,
To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
The warm effects which she in him finds missing
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:
She hath assay'd as much as may be proved;
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee;
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.
'Fie, fie,' he says, 'you crush me; let me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.'

'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O, be advised! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill.

'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.

'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.

'Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
But having thee at vantage,--wondrous dread!--
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

'O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:
Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!'
Distempering gentle Love in his desire,
As air and water do abate the fire.

'This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up Love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.

'What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination:
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy
hounds.

'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

'For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To harken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved by any.

'Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.

'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he,
'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
The night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.
'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends;
And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'
'In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all

'But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.

'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.

'And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances and much misery;

'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.

'And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.

'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

'What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

'So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use more gold begets.'

'Nay, then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme:
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there;

'Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

'What have you urged that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!

'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.'

With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.

Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!'
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She marking them begins a wailing note
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight
In such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:
Their copious stories oftentimes begun
End without audience and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal
But idle sounds resembling parasites,
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
She says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;'
And would say after her, if she said 'No.'

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:
'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:--
And with that word she spied the hunted boar,

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--
'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?

'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.

'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.

'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'

Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best: then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;
A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass;
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.

O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:
Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
Then, gentle shadow,--truth I must confess,--
I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.

''Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he's author of thy slander:
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.

'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprise
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

And, being open'd, threw unwilling light
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept til now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:
Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.

'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:

'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off and, being gone,
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.

'To see his face the lion walk'd along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey
And never fright the silly lamb that day.

'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:
If he did see his face, why then I know
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.

''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.'
With this, she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect:
'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.

'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,
Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.

'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.

'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.

'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis' breath,
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise--
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire--
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.

'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.
[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:49 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]
To the

Right Honorable Henry Wriothesly,

Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your lordship's in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


 

--



The Rape of Lucrece The Argument

Lucius Tarquinius, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own father-in-law Servius Tullius to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife: among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia.

In that pleasant humour they posted to Rome; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece' beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine.

They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls.




 

The Rape of Lucrece



 


FROM the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire
And girdle with embracing flames the waist
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of 'chaste' unhappily set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendor of the sun!
An expired date, cancell'd ere well begun:
Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting
His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate
His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those:
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.
O rash false heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold,
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!

When at Collatium this false lord arrived,
Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived
Which of them both should underprop her fame:
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;
When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.

But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field:
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild
Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield;
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,
When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.

This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,
Argued by beauty's red and virtue's white
Of either's colour was the other queen,
Proving from world's minority their right:
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;
The sovereignty of either being so great,
That oft they interchange each other's seat.

Their silent war of lilies and of roses,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;
Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
To those two armies that would let him go,
Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,--
The niggard prodigal that praised her so,--
In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,
Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth the false worshipper;
For unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil;
Birds never limed no secret bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
And reverend welcome to her princely guest,
Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:

For that he colour'd with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save something too much wonder of his eye,
Which, having all, all could not satisfy;
But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,
That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never coped with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books:
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,
More than his eyes were open'd to the light.

He stories to her ears her husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praises Collatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory:
Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,
And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming hither,
He makes excuses for his being there:
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows the Day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy spright;
For, after supper, long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:
Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;
And every one to rest themselves betake,
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:
Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining;
And when great treasure is the meed proposed,
Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond,
For what they have not, that which they possess
They scatter and unloose it from their bond,
And so, by hoping more, they have but less;
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess
Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

The aim of all is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,
That one for all, or all for one we gage;
As life for honour in fell battle's rage;
Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
The death of all, and all together lost.

So that in venturing ill we leave to be
The things we are for that which we expect;
And this ambitious foul infirmity,
In having much, torments us with defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
The thing we have; and, all for want of wit,
Make something nothing by augmenting it.

Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his lust;
And for himself himself be must forsake:
Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays
To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes:
No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries;
Now serves the season that they may surprise
The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm;
But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly;
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly,
'As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.'

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:

'Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine:
And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine;
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:
Let fair humanity abhor the deed
That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.

'O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave!
True valour still a true respect should have;
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.

'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat;
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me how fondly I did dote;
That my posterity, shamed with the note
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
To wish that I their father had not bin.

'What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

'If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?

'O, what excuse can my invention make,
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,
Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.

'Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life,
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife,
As in revenge or quittal of such strife:
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

'Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known:
Hateful it is; there is no hate in loving:
I'll beg her love; but she is own:
The worst is but denial and reproving:
My will is strong, past reason's weak removing.
Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.'

Thus, graceless, holds he disputation
'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,
And with good thoughts make dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

Quoth he, 'She took me kindly by the hand,
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.
O, how her fear did make her colour rise!
First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

'And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,
That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.

'Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth;
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;
And when his gaudy banner is display'd,
The coward fights and will not be dismay'd.

'Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die!
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand mine eye:
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage;
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage:
Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize;
Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?'

As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost choked by unresisted lust.
Away he steals with open listening ear,
Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust;
Both which, as servitors to the unjust,
So cross him with their opposite persuasion,
That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,
And in the self-same seat sits Collatine:
That eye which looks on her confounds his wits;
That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view so false will not incline;
But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
Which once corrupted takes the worser part;

And therein heartens up his servile powers,
Who, flatter'd by their leader's jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
By reprobate desire thus madly led,
The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforced, retires his ward;
But, as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard:
The threshold grates the door to have him heard;
Night-wandering weasels shriek to see him there;
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch:

And being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks:
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks;
As who should say 'This glove to wanton tricks
Is not inured; return again in haste;
Thou see'st our mistress' ornaments are chaste.'

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;
He in the worst sense construes their denial:
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
Who with a lingering slay his course doth let,
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

'So, so,' quoth he, 'these lets attend the time,
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing;
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands,
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.'

Now is he come unto the chamber-door,
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,
Hath barr'd him from the blessed thing be sought.
So from himself impiety hath wrought,
That for his prey to pray he doth begin,
As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,
Having solicited th' eternal power
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts: quoth he, 'I must deflower:
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact,
How can they then assist me in the act?

'Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide!
My will is back'd with resolution:
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;
The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution;
Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution.
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.'

This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide.
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch:
Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside;
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed.
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head:
By their high treason is his heart misled;
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon
To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.

Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight;
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light:
Whether it is that she reflects so bright,
That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;
But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.

O, had they in that darksome prison died!
Then had they seen the period of their ill;
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece' side,
In his clear bed might have reposed still:
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill;
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss;
Between whose hills her head entombed is:
Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies,
To be admired of lewd unhallow'd eyes.

Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet; whose perfect white
Show'd like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her breath;
O modest wantons! wanton modesty!
Showing life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's mortality:
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,
As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life.

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured.
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred;
Who, like a foul ursurper, went about
From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?
What did he note but strongly he desired?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified;
Slack'd, not suppress'd; for standing by her side,
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins:

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting,
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor children's tears nor mothers' groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting:
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, march'd on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land;
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left there round turrets destitute and pale.

They, mustering to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,
And fright her with confusion of their cries:
She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes,
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and controll'd.

Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking;
What terror or 'tis! but she, in worser taking,
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
The sight which makes supposed terror true.

Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies;
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes:
Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries;
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,--
Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!--
May feel her heart-poor citizen!--distress'd,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity,
To make the breach and enter this sweet city.

First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin
To sound a parley to his heartless foe;
Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanor seeks to show;
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still
Under what colour he commits this ill.

Thus he replies: 'The colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale:
Under that colour am I come to scale
Thy never-conquer'd fort: the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

'Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide;
My will that marks thee for my earth's delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might;
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty was it newly bred.

'I see what crosses my attempt will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rose defends;
I think the honey guarded with a sting;
All this beforehand counsel comprehends:
But will is deaf and hears no heedful friends;
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty.

'I have debated, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;
But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;
Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.'

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon towering in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade,
Whose crooked beak threats if he mount he dies:
So under his insulting falchion lies
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon's bells.

'Lucrece,' quoth he,'this night I must enjoy thee:
If thou deny, then force must work my way,
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee:
That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay,
To kill thine honour with thy life's decay;
And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.

'So thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye;
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy:
And thou, the author of their obloquy,
Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times.

'But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend:
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted;
A little harm done to a great good end
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted
In a pure compound; being so applied,
His venom in effect is purified.

'Then, for thy husband and thy children's sake,
Tender my suit: bequeath not to their lot
The shame that from them no device can take,
The blemish that will never be forgot;
Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour's blot:
For marks descried in men's nativity
Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.'

Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye
He rouseth up himself and makes a pause;
While she, the picture of pure piety,
Like a white hind under the gripe's sharp claws,
Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws,
To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,
Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat,
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding,
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get,
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their bidding,
Hindering their present fall by this dividing;
So his unhallow'd haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth:
Her sad behavior feeds his vulture folly,
A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth:
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
No penetrable entrance to her plaining:
Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face;
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place;
And midst the sentence so her accent breaks,
That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.

She conjures him by high almighty Jove,
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath,
By her untimely tears, her husband's love,
By holy human law, and common troth,
By heaven and earth, and all the power of both,
That to his borrow'd bed he make retire,
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, 'Reward not hospitality
With such black payment as thou hast pretended;
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee;
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended;
End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended;
He is no woodman that doth bend his bow
To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

'My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me:
Thyself art mighty; for thine own sake leave me:
Myself a weakling; do not then ensnare me:
Thou look'st not like deceit; do not deceive me.
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee:
If ever man were moved with woman moans,
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans:

'All which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart,
To soften it with their continual motion;
For stones dissolved to water do convert.
O, if no harder than a stone thou art,
Melt at my tears, and be compassionate!
Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

'In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee:
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?
To all the host of heaven I complain me,
Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely name.
Thou art not what thou seem'st; and if the same,
Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king;
For kings like gods should govern everything.

'How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring!
If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage,
What darest thou not when once thou art a king?
O, be remember'd, no outrageous thing
From vassal actors can be wiped away;
Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.

'This deed will make thee only loved for fear;
But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love:
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like offences prove:
If but for fear of this, thy will remove;
For princes are the glass, the school, the book,
Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look.

'And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn?
Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?
Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern
Authority for sin, warrant for blame,
To privilege dishonour in thy name?
Thou black'st reproach against long-living laud,
And makest fair reputation but a bawd.

'Hast thou command? by him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command thy rebel will:
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil,
When, pattern'd by thy fault, foul sin may say,
He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way?

'Think but how vile a spectacle it were,
To view thy present trespass in another.
Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear;
Their own transgressions partially they smother:
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.
O, how are they wrapp'd in with infamies
That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes!

'To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal,
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier:
I sue for exiled majesty's repeal;
Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire:
His true respect will prison false desire,
And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,
That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.'

'Have done,' quoth he: 'my uncontrolled tide
Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide,
And with the wind in greater fury fret:
The petty streams that pay a daily debt
To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls' haste
Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.'

'Thou art,' quoth she, 'a sea, a sovereign king;
And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these pretty ills shall change thy good,
Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hearsed,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.

'So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave;
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave:
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride:
The lesser thing should not the greater hide;
The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.

'So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state'--
No more,' quoth he; 'by heaven, I will not hear thee:
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,
Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee;
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee
Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,
To be thy partner in this shameful doom.'

This said, he sets his foot upon the light,
For light and lust are deadly enemies:
Shame folded up in blind concealing night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries;
Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd
Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold:

For with the nightly linen that she wears
He pens her piteous clamours in her head;
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.
O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
The spots whereof could weeping purify,
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose again:
This forced league doth force a further strife;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain;
This hot desire converts to cold disdain:
Pure Chastity is rifled of her store,
And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before.

Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk
The prey wherein by nature they delight;
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night:
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring.

O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit
Can comprehend in still imagination!
Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation
Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire,
Till like a jade Self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheek,
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek,
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case:
The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with Grace,
For there it revels; and when that decays,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of times he stands disgraced:
Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced;
To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,
To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection
Have batter'd down her consecrated wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death and pain perpetual:
Which in her prescience she controlled still,
But her foresight could not forestall their will.

Even in this thought through the dark night he stealeth,
A captive victor that hath lost in gain;
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will, despite of cure, remain;
Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain.
She bears the load of lust he left behind,
And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence;
She like a wearied lamb lies panting there;
He scowls and hates himself for his offence;
She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear;
He faintly flies, sneaking with guilty fear;
She stays, exclaiming on the direful night;
He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loathed delight.

He thence departs a heavy convertite;
She there remains a hopeless castaway;
He in his speed looks for the morning light;
She prays she never may behold the day,
'For day,' quoth she, 'nights scapes doth open lay,
And my true eyes have never practised how
To cloak offences with a cunning brow.

'They think not but that every eye can see
The same disgrace which they themselves behold;
And therefore would they still in darkness be,
To have their unseen sin remain untold;
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,
And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,
Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.'

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.
She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.
Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite
Against the unseen secrecy of night:

'O comfort-killing Night, image of hell!
Dim register and notary of shame!
Black stage for tragedies and murders fell!
Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!
Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for defame!
Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator
With close-tongued treason and the ravisher!

'O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night!
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportion'd course of time;
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb
His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

'With rotten damps ravish the morning air;
Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick;
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,
That in their smoky ranks his smother'd light
May set at noon and make perpetual night.

'Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's child,
The silver-shining queen he would distain;
Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled,
Through Night's black bosom should not peep again:
So should I have co-partners in my pain;
And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,
As palmers' chat makes short their pilgrimage.

'Where now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,
To mask their brows and hide their infamy;
But I alone alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

'O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke,
Let not the jealous Day behold that face
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak
Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace!
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
That all the faults which in thy reign are made
May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade!

'Make me not object to the tell-tale Day!
The light will show, character'd in my brow,
The story of sweet chastity's decay,
The impious breach of holy wedlock vow:
Yea the illiterate, that know not how
To cipher what is writ in learned books,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.

'The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name;
The orator, to deck his oratory,
Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame;
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,
Will tie the hearers to attend each line,
How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.

'Let my good name, that senseless reputation,
For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted:
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserved reproach to him allotted
That is as clear from this attaint of mine
As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.

'O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!
O unfelt sore! crest-wounding, private scar!
Reproach is stamp'd in Collatinus' face,
And Tarquin's eye may read the mot afar,
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
Alas, how many bear such shameful blows,
Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows!

'If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,
From me by strong assault it is bereft.
My honour lost, and I, a drone-like bee,
Have no perfection of my summer left,
But robb'd and ransack'd by injurious theft:
In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,
And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

'Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack;
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him:
Besides, of weariness he did complain him,
And talk'd of virtue: O unlook'd-for evil,
When virtue is profaned in such a devil!

'Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
But no perfection is so absolute,
That some impurity doth not pollute.

'The aged man that coffers-up his gold
Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits;
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,
But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless barns the harvest of his wits;
Having no other pleasure of his gain
But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

'So then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd by his young;
Who in their pride do presently abuse it:
Their father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long.
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours
Even in the moment that we call them ours.

'Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers;
The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing;
What virtue breeds iniquity devours:
We have no good that we can say is ours,
But ill-annexed Opportunity
Or kills his life or else his quality.

'O Opportunity, thy guilt is great!
'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason:
Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get;
Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season;
'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason;
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.

'Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;
Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth;
Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud:
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!

'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,
Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste:
Thy violent vanities can never last.
How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd?
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd?
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd?
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.

'The patient dies while the physician sleeps;
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;
Advice is sporting while infection breeds:
Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds:
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.

'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid:
They buy thy help; but Sin ne'er gives a fee,
He gratis comes; and thou art well appaid
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
My Collatine would else have come to me
When Tarquin did, but he was stay'd by thee.

Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,
Guilty of perjury and subornation,
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift,
Guilty of incest, that abomination;
An accessary by thine inclination
To all sins past, and all that are to come,
From the creation to the general doom.

'Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night,
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,
Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare;
Thou nursest all and murder'st all that are:
O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time!
Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.

'Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,
Betray'd the hours thou gavest me to repose,
Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes;
To eat up errors by opinion bred,
Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

'Time's glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn and sentinel the night,
To wrong the wronger till he render right,
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And smear with dust their glittering golden towers;

'To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books and alter their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings,
To dry the old oak's sap and cherish springs,
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,
And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel;

'To show the beldam daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild,
To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled,
To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stones with little water drops.

'Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,
Unless thou couldst return to make amends?
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends:
O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back,
I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack!

'Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight:
Devise extremes beyond extremity,
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night:
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright;
And the dire thought of his committed evil
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.

'Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances,
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans;
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
To make him moan; but pity not his moans:
Stone him with harden'd hearts harder than stones;
And let mild women to him lose their mildness,
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

'Let him have time to tear his curled hair,
Let him have time against himself to rave,
Let him have time of Time's help to despair,
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave,
And time to see one that by alms doth live
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.

'Let him have time to see his friends his foes,
And merry fools to mock at him resort;
Let him have time to mark how slow time goes
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short
His time of folly and his time of sport;
And ever let his unrecalling crime
Have time to wail th' abusing of his time.

'O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,
Teach me to curse him that thou taught'st this ill!
At his own shadow let the thief run mad,
Himself himself seek every hour to kill!
Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill;
For who so base would such an office have
As slanderous death's-man to so base a slave?

'The baser is he, coming from a king,
To shame his hope with deeds degenerate:
The mightier man, the mightier is the thing
That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate;
For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
The moon being clouded presently is miss'd,
But little stars may hide them when they list.

'The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,
And unperceived fly with the filth away;
But if the like the snow-white swan desire,
The stain upon his silver down will stay.
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day:
Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,
But eagles gazed upon with every eye.

'Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools!
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;
To trembling clients be you mediators:
For me, I force not argument a straw,
Since that my case is past the help of law.

'In vain I rail at Opportunity,
At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night;
In vain I cavil with mine infamy,
In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite:
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.
The remedy indeed to do me good
Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood.

'Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree?
Honour thyself to rid me of this shame:
For if I die, my honour lives in thee;
But if I live, thou livest in my defame:
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame,
And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.'

This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth,
To find some desperate instrument of death:
But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth
To make more vent for passage of her breath;
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
As smoke from AEtna, that in air consumes,
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes.

'In vain,' quoth she, 'I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life.
I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain,
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:
But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife:
So am I now: O no, that cannot be;
Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.

'O, that is gone for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die.
To clear this spot by death, at least I give
A badge of fame to slander's livery;
A dying life to living infamy:
Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away,
To burn the guiltless casket where it lay!

'Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know
The stained taste of violated troth;
I will not wrong thy true affection so,
To flatter thee with an infringed oath;
This bastard graff shall never come to growth:
He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
That thou art doting father of his fruit.

'Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state:
But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my forced offence.

'I will not poison thee with my attaint,
Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses;
My sable ground of sin I will not paint,
To hide the truth of this false night's abuses:
My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices,
As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.'

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow sad gait descended
To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow:
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloister'd be.

Revealing day through every cranny spies,
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping;
To whom she sobbing speaks: 'O eye of eyes,
Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy peeping:
Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping:
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do what's done by night.'

Thus cavils she with every thing she sees:
True grief is fond and testy as a child,
Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees:
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild;
Continuance tames the one; the other wild,
Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill.

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare;
No object but her passion's strength renews;
And as one shifts, another straight ensues:
Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words;
Sometime 'tis mad and too much talk affords.

The little birds that tune their morning's joy
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody:
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;
Sad souls are slain in merry company;
Grief best is pleased with grief's society:
True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed
When with like semblance it is sympathized.

'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore;
He ten times pines that pines beholding food;
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'erflows;
Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.

'You mocking-birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes entomb
Within your hollow-swelling feather'd breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb:
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests:
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;
Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.

'Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair:
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear;
For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.

'And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart
Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye;
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.
These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.

'And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day,
As shaming any eye should thee behold,
Some dark deep desert, seated from the way,
That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold,
Will we find out; and there we will unfold
To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds:
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.'

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly,
Or one encompass'd with a winding maze,
That cannot tread the way out readily;
So with herself is she in mutiny,
To live or die which of the twain were better,
When life is shamed, and death reproach's debtor.

'To kill myself,' quoth she, 'alack, what were it,
But with my body my poor soul's pollution?
They that lose half with greater patience bear it
Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion.
That mother tries a merciless conclusion
Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,
Will slay the other and be nurse to none.

'My body or my soul, which was the dearer,
When the one pure, the other made divine?
Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?
Ay me! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine,
His leaves will wither and his sap decay;
So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away.

'Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted,
Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;
Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted,
Grossly engirt with daring infamy:
Then let it not be call'd impiety,
If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole
Through which I may convey this troubled soul.

'Yet die I will not till my Collatine
Have heard the cause of my untimely death;
That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,
Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.
My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath,
Which by him tainted shall for him be spent,
And as his due writ in my testament.

'My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonoured.
'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life;
The one will live, the other being dead:
So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred;
For in my death I murder shameful scorn:
My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born.

'Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou revenged mayest be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me:
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.

'This brief abridgement of my will I make:
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution, husband, do thou take;
Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound;
My shame be his that did my fame confound;
And all my fame that lives disbursed be
To those that live, and think no shame of me.

'Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will;
How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say 'So be it:'
Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee:
Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.'

This Plot of death when sadly she had laid,
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;
For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies.
Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so
As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
For why her face wore sorrow's livery;
But durst not ask of her audaciously
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky,
Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling:
One justly weeps; the other takes in hand
No cause, but company, of her drops spilling:
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing;
Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts,
And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.

For men have marble, women waxen, minds,
And therefore are they form'd as marble will;
The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep;
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep:
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep:
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women's faces are their own fault's books.

No man inveigh against the wither'd flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd:
Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd
With men's abuses: those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Assail'd by night with circumstances strong
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death, to do her husband wrong:
Such danger to resistance did belong,
That dying fear through all her body spread;
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:
'My girl,' quoth she, 'on what occasion break
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are
raining?
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

'But tell me, girl, when went'--and there she stay'd
Till after a deep groan--'Tarquin from hence?'
'Madam, ere I was up,' replied the maid,
'The more to blame my sluggard negligence:
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense;
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

'But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.'
'O, peace!' quoth Lucrece: 'if it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is than I can well express:
And that deep torture may be call'd a hell
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

'Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen:
Yet save that labour, for I have them here.
What should I say? One of my husband's men
Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;
The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.'

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill:
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;
What wit sets down is blotted straight with will;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:
Much like a press of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: 'Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t' afford--
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see--
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So, I commend me from our house in grief:
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.'

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality:
She dares not thereof make discovery,
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse.

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her:
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;
For then eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ
'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.'
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast:
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain court'sies to her low;
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
Imagine every eye beholds their blame;
For Lucrece thought he blush'd to her see shame:

When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect
Of spirit, Life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely:
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy:
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece.
For Helen's rape the city to destroy,
Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets bow'd.

A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life:
Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear,
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife:
The red blood reek'd, to show the painter's strife;
And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioner
Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:
Such sweet observance in this work was had,
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triumphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces;
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art
Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either cipher'd either's heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told:
In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigor roll'd;
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
Show'd deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight;
Making such sober action with his hand,
That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight:
In speech, it seem'd, his beard, all silver white,
Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,
Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice;
All jointly listening, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice,
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice;
The scalps of many, almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the mind.

Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head,
His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear;
Here one being throng'd bears back, all boll'n and
red;
Another smother'd seems to pelt and swear;
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,
As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words,
It seem'd they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind,
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined.

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to
field,
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield,
That through their light joy seemed to appear,
Like bright things stain'd, a kind of heavy fear.

And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought,
To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges; and their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and than
Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,
They join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is stell'd.
Many she sees where cares have carved some,
But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.

In her the painter had anatomized
Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign:
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised;
Of what she was no semblance did remain:
Her blue blood changed to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,
Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead.

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the beldam's woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries,
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:
The painter was no god to lend her those;
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
To give her so much grief and not a tongue.

'Poor instrument,' quoth she,'without a sound,
I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue;
And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong;
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long;
And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

'Show me the strumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear:
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here;
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die.

'Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many moe?
Let sin, alone committed, light alone
Upon his head that hath transgressed so;
Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe:
For one's offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general?

'Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds,
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,
And one man's lust these many lives confounds:
Had doting Priam cheque'd his son's desire,
Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.'

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes:
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:
So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell
To pencill'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow;
She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,
And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament.
At last she sees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent:
His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content;
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,
So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes.

In him the painter labour'd with his skill
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe;
Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so
That blushing red no guilty instance gave,
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertain'd a show so seeming just,
And therein so ensconced his secret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-faced storms,
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.

The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew
For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after slew;
Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,
And little stars shot from their fixed places,
When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces.

This picture she advisedly perused,
And chid the painter for his wondrous skill,
Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused;
So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill:
And still on him she gazed; and gazing still,
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,
That she concludes the picture was belied.

'It cannot be,' quoth she,'that so much guile'--
She would have said 'can lurk in such a look;'
But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while,
And from her tongue 'can lurk' from 'cannot' took:
'It cannot be' she in that sense forsook,
And turn'd it thus,' It cannot be, I find,
But such a face should bear a wicked mind.

'For even as subtle Sinon here is painted.
So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,
As if with grief or travail he had fainted,
To me came Tarquin armed; so beguiled
With outward honesty, but yet defiled
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,
So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.

'Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise?
For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds:
His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds;
Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,
Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.

'Such devils steal effects from lightless hell;
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,
And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell;
These contraries such unity do hold,
Only to flatter fools and make them bold:
So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter,
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.'

Here, all enraged, such passion her assails,
That patience is quite beaten from her breast.
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Comparing him to that unhappy guest
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest:
At last she smilingly with this gives o'er;
'Fool, fool!' quoth she, 'his wounds will not be sore.'

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And time doth weary time with her complaining.
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow,
And both she thinks too long with her remaining:
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining:
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps,
And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.

Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent;
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
By deep surmise of others' detriment;
Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
To think their dolour others have endured.

But now the mindful messenger, come back,
Brings home his lord and other company;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black:
And round about her tear-stained eye
Blue circles stream'd; like rainbows in the sky:
These water-galls in her dim element
Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,
Amazedly in her sad face he stares:
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw,
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares:
Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance,
Met far from home, wondering each other's chance.

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,
And thus begins: 'What uncouth ill event
Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?
Why art thou thus attired in discontent?
Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,
And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.'

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length address'd to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;
While Collatine and his consorted lords
With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her watery nest
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending;
'Few words,' quoth she, 'Shall fit the trespass best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending:
In me moe woes than words are now depending;
And my laments would be drawn out too long,
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.

'Then be this all the task it hath to say
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay
Where thou was wont to rest thy weary head;
And what wrong else may be imagined
By foul enforcement might be done to me,
From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free.

'For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
With shining falchion in my chamber came
A creeping creature, with a flaming light,
And softly cried 'Awake, thou Roman dame,
And entertain my love; else lasting shame
On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
If thou my love's desire do contradict.

' 'For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he,
'Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill
The lechers in their deed: this act will be
My fame and thy perpetual infamy.'

'With this, I did begin to start and cry;
And then against my heart he sets his sword,
Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
I should not live to speak another word;
So should my shame still rest upon record,
And never be forgot in mighty Rome
Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

'Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
And far the weaker with so strong a fear:
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak;
No rightful plea might plead for justice there:
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes;
And when the judge is robb'd the prisoner dies.

'O, teach me how to make mine own excuse!
Or at the least this refuge let me find;
Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse,
Immaculate and spotless is my mind;
That was not forced; that never was inclined
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.'

Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss,
With head declined, and voice damm'd up with woe,
With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across,
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
The grief away that stops his answer so:
But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain;
What he breathes out his breath drinks up again.

As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,
Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Back to the strait that forced him on so fast;
In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past:
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw,
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh:
'Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Another power; no flood by raining slaketh.
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh
More feeling-painful: let it then suffice
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes.

'And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me:
Be suddenly revenged on my foe,
Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me
Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die;
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.

'But ere I name him, you fair lords,' quoth she,
Speaking to those that came with Collatine,
'Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine;
For 'tis a meritorious fair design
To chase injustice with revengeful arms:
Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms.'

At this request, with noble disposition
Each present lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd.
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,
The protestation stops. 'O, speak, ' quoth she,
'How may this forced stain be wiped from me?

'What is the quality of mine offence,
Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
My low-declined honour to advance?
May any terms acquit me from this chance?
The poison'd fountain clears itself again;
And why not I from this compelled stain?'

With this, they all at once began to say,
Her body's stain her mind untainted clears;
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.
'No, no,' quoth she, 'no dame, hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.'

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin's name; 'He, he,' she says,
But more than 'he' her poor tongue could not speak;
Till after many accents and delays,
Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,
She utters this, 'He, he, fair lords, 'tis he,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.'

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed:
That blow did that it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison where it breathed:
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath'd
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.

Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw;
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew
The murderous knife, and, as it left the place,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,
And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd.

About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood a watery rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place:
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows;
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrified.

'Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius cries,
'That life was mine which thou hast here deprived.
If in the child the father's image lies,
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?
Thou wast not to this end from me derived.
If children predecease progenitors,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

'Poor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new born;
But now that fresh fair mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-boned death by time out-worn:
O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
And shivered all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was!

'O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,
If they surcease to be that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive:
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see
Thy father die, and not thy father thee!

By this, starts Collatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;
And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space;
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath
And live to be revenged on her death.

The deep vexation of his inward soul
Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng
Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid,
That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime 'Tarquin' was pronounced plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more;
At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er:
Then son and father weep with equal strife
Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.

The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
The father says 'She's mine.' 'O, mine she is,'
Replies her husband: 'do not take away
My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Collatine.'

'O,' quoth Lucretius,' I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.'
'Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife,
I owed her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.'
'My daughter' and 'my wife' with clamours fill'd
The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece' life,
Answer'd their cries, 'my daughter' and 'my wife.'

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.
He with the Romans was esteemed so
As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
For sportive words and uttering foolish things:

But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein deep policy did him disguise;
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To cheque the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth be, 'arise:
Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool,
Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.

'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds:
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

'Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such relenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me and help to bear thy part,
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will suffer these abominations,
Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced,
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.

'Now, by the Capitol that we adore,
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd,
By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's
store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd,
And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
We will revenge the death of this true wife.'

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow;
And to his protestation urged the rest,
Who, wondering at him, did his words allow:
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow;
And that deep vow, which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence:
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.
[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:37 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

LET the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near!

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender makest
With the breath thou givest and takest,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
'Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix' sight;
Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,

That it cried, How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.

Threnos.

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix' nest
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:33 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

First published by William Jaggard in 1599, this collection of poems, in its entirety, is commonly attributed to Shakespeare. However, a number of the poems were written by others including Richard Barnfield, Bartholemew Griffin, Christopher Marlowe, and Sir Walter Raleigh. Shakespeare has been identified as the author of five poems: numbers I, II, III, V, and XVII.



 

I.

WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.


II. Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, That like two spirits do suggest me still; My better angel is a man right fair, My worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell: For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell; The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

III. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is: If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath, to win a paradise?

IV. Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She showed him favors to allure his eye; To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there,-- Touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refused to take her figured proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer: Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward: He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!

V. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd: Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire: Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen: Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim: The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood: 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!'

VII. Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle; Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty; Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle; Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth; She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

VIII. If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

IX. Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, * * * * * * * Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill: Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; She, silly queen, with more than love's good will, Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds: 'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair sweet youth Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! See, in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here was the sore.' She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

X. Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vaded, Pluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the spring! Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting! Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls, through wind, before the fall should be. I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; For why thou left'st me nothing in thy will: And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave; For why I craved nothing of thee still: O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

XI. Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him: She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. 'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god embraced me,' And then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms; 'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god unlaced me,' As if the boy should use like loving charms; 'Even thus,' quoth she, 'he seized on my lips,' And with her lips on his did act the seizure: And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, To kiss and clip me till I run away!

XII. Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long,

XIII. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it gins to bud; A brittle glass that's broken presently: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress, So beauty blemish'd once's for ever lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.

XIV. Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share: She bade good night that kept my rest away; And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. 'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again tomorrow:' Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether: 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither: 'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

XV. Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark; For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night: The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow; For why, she sigh'd and bade me come tomorrow. Were I with her, the night would post too soon; But now are minutes added to the hours; To spite me now, each minute seems a moon; Yet not for me, shine sun to succor flowers! Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow: Short, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.

* * * * * * * Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music - XVI. IT was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: To put in practise either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel! But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas, she could not help it! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away: Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay; For now my song is ended.

XVII. On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen, gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath, 'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas! my hand hath sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack! for youth unmeet: Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.'

XVIII. My flocks feed not, My ewes breed not, My rams speed not, All is amiss: Love's denying, Faith's defying, Heart's renying, Causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady's love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, There a nay is placed without remove. One silly cross Wrought all my loss; O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame! For now I see Inconstancy More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, All fears scorn I, Love hath forlorn me, Living in thrall: Heart is bleeding, All help needing, O cruel speeding, Fraughted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal; My wether's bell rings doleful knell; My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd Plays not at all, but seems afraid; My sighs so deep Procure to weep, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound Through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight! Clear wells spring not, Sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not Forth their dye; Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping, Nymphs back peeping Fearfully: All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for Love is dead Farewell, sweet lass, Thy like ne'er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: Poor Corydon Must live alone; Other help for him I see that there is none.

XIX. When as thine eye hath chose the dame, And stall'd the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame, As well as fancy partial might: Take counsel of some wiser head, Neither too young nor yet unwed. And when thou comest thy tale to tell, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Lest she some subtle practise smell,-- A cripple soon can find a halt;-- But plainly say thou lovest her well, And set thy person forth to sell. What though her frowning brows be bent, Her cloudy looks will calm ere night: And then too late she will repent That thus dissembled her delight; And twice desire, ere it be day, That which with scorn she put away. What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, Her feeble force will yield at length, When craft hath taught her thus to say, 'Had women been so strong as men, In faith, you had not had it then.' And to her will frame all thy ways; Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise, By ringing in thy lady's ear: The strongest castle, tower, and town, The golden bullet beats it down. Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble true; Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose anew: When time shall serve, be thou not slack To proffer, though she put thee back. The wiles and guiles that women work, Dissembled with an outward show, The tricks and toys that in them lurk, The cock that treads them shall not know. Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman's nay doth stand for nought? Think women still to strive with men, To sin and never for to saint: There is no heaven, by holy then, When time with age doth them attaint. Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed. But, soft! enough, too much, I fear Lest that my mistress hear my song, She will not stick to round me i' the ear, To teach my tongue to be so long: Yet will she blush, here be it said, To hear her secrets so bewray'd.

XX. Live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love.

Love's Answer If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

XXI. As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity: 'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; 'Tereu, tereu!' by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain! None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee; Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing. Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me. Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find: Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call, And with such-like flattering, 'Pity but he were a king;' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement: But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep; Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe. * * * * * * *
[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:28 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

CXXI.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:
For why should others false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

CXXII.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

CXXV.

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul
When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV.

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'

CXXXVI.

If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'

CXXXVII.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.

CXXXVIII.

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

CXXXIX.

O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII.

Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII.

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

CXLIV.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[ ] these rebel powers that thee array;
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII.

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

CL.

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantize of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

CLI.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.

CLIV.

The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:18 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

XCI.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.

XCII.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend;
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O, what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

XCV.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

CIII.

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

CV.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.

CVI.

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII.

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX.

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

CX.

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI.

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

CXII.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

CXIII.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

CXIV.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

CXV.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

CXVII.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds
And given to time your own dear-purchased right
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down
And on just proof surmise accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIII.

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,
Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuked to my content
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CXX.

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:15 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

LXI.

Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

LXII.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

LXV.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII.

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

LXX.

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII.

O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII.

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIX.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

LXXX.

O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.

LXXXI.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

LXXXII.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

LXXXIII.

I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV.

Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

LXXXV.

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:15 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

XXXI.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

XXXII.

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

XXXIV.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV.

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

XXXVI.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVII.

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

XXXVIII.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX.

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain!

XL.

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

XLI.

Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear,
And chide try beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

XLII.

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

XLIII.

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

XLIV.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought
I must attend time's leisure with my moan,
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

XLV.

The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.

XLVI.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie--
A closet never pierced with crystal eyes--
But the defendant doth that plea deny
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To 'cide this title is impanneled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part:
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right thy inward love of heart.

XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

XLVIII.

How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX.

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advised respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass
And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity,--
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

LI.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made,
Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

LII.

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

LIII.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV.

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Else call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

LVII.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O, sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:14 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

SONNETS



TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF
THESE INSUING SONNETS
MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESS
AND THAT ETERNITY
PROMISED BY
OUR EVER-LIVING POET WISHETH
THE WELL-WISHING
ADVENTURER IN
SETTING FORTH
T. T.


I.

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

V.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

IX.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits.

X.

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

XIII.

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

XV.

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XX.

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

XXI.

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
And night doth nightly make grief's strength
seem stronger.

XXIX.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:13 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,
As they did battery to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,
The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,
Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And true to bondage would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,
Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set;
Like usury, applying wet to wet,
Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall
Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;
Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;
Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,
With sleided silk feat and affectedly
Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy.

These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear:
Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies,
What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!'
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh--
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
Of court, of city, and had let go by
The swiftest hours, observed as they flew--
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,
And, privileged by age, desires to know
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promised in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgment I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied
Love to myself and to no love beside.

'But, woe is me! too early I attended
A youthful suit--it was to gain my grace--
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face:
Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodged and newly deified.

'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,
For on his visage was in little drawn
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;
His phoenix down began but to appear
Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin
Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear:
Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear;
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt
If best were as it was, or best without.

'His qualities were beauteous as his form,
For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;
Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm
As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,
When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be.
His rudeness so with his authorized youth
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

'Well could he ride, and often men would say
'That horse his mettle from his rider takes:
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop
he makes!'
And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

'But quickly on this side the verdict went:
His real habitude gave life and grace
To appertainings and to ornament,
Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case:
All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Came for additions; yet their purposed trim
Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him.

'So on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kinds of arguments and question deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep:
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will:

'That he did in the general bosom reign
Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
In personal duty, following where he haunted:
Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted;
And dialogued for him what he would say,
Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey.

'Many there were that did his picture get,
To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;
Like fools that in th' imagination set
The goodly objects which abroad they find
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd;
And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them:

'So many have, that never touch'd his hand,
Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
And was my own fee-simple, not in part,
What with his art in youth, and youth in art,
Threw my affections in his charmed power,
Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.

'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;
Finding myself in honour so forbid,
With safest distance I mine honour shielded:
Experience for me many bulwarks builded
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent
The destined ill she must herself assay?
Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content,
To put the by-past perils in her way?
Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;
For when we rage, advice is often seen
By blunting us to make our wits more keen.

'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,
That we must curb it upon others' proof;
To be forbod the sweets that seem so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgment stand aloof!
The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
Though Reason weep, and cry, 'It is thy last.'

'For further I could say 'This man's untrue,'
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew,
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
Thought characters and words merely but art,
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

'And long upon these terms I held my city,
Till thus he gan besiege me: 'Gentle maid,
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
And be not of my holy vows afraid:
That's to ye sworn to none was ever said;
For feasts of love I have been call'd unto,
Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo.

''All my offences that abroad you see
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;
Love made them not: with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor true nor kind:
They sought their shame that so their shame did find;
And so much less of shame in me remains,
By how much of me their reproach contains.

''Among the many that mine eyes have seen,
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,
Or my affection put to the smallest teen,
Or any of my leisures ever charm'd:
Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy.

''Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood;
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood;
Effects of terror and dear modesty,
Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

''And, lo, behold these talents of their hair,
With twisted metal amorously impleach'd,
I have received from many a several fair,
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,
With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd,
And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify
Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.

''The diamond,--why, 'twas beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invised properties did tend;
The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
With objects manifold: each several stone,
With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan.

''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensived and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender;
For these, of force, must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise;
What me your minister, for you obeys,
Works under you; and to your audit comes
Their distract parcels in combined sums.

''Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,
Or sister sanctified, of holiest note;
Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove,
To spend her living in eternal love.

''But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave
The thing we have not, mastering what not strives,
Playing the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?
She that her fame so to herself contrives,
The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true:
The accident which brought me to her eye
Upon the moment did her force subdue,
And now she would the caged cloister fly:
Religious love put out Religion's eye:
Not to be tempted, would she be immured,
And now, to tempt, all liberty procured.

''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!
The broken bosoms that to me belong
Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
And mine I pour your ocean all among:
I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,
Must for your victory us all congest,
As compound love to physic your cold breast.

''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,
Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,
Believed her eyes when they to assail begun,
All vows and consecrations giving place:
O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,
For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

''When thou impressest, what are precepts worth
Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,
How coldly those impediments stand forth
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!
Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense,
'gainst shame,
And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,
The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.

''Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine;
And supplicant their sighs to you extend,
To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine,
Lending soft audience to my sweet design,
And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.'

'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,
Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face;
Each cheek a river running from a fount
With brinish current downward flow'd apace:
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!
Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses.

'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear!
But with the inundation of the eyes
What rocky heart to water will not wear?
What breast so cold that is not warmed here?
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft,
Even there resolved my reason into tears;
There my white stole of chastity I daff'd,
Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;
Appear to him, as he to me appears,
All melting; though our drops this difference bore,
His poison'd me, and mine did him restore.

'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
In either's aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.

'That not a heart which in his level came
Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;
And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim:
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;
When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury,
He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity.

'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace
The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd;
That th' unexperient gave the tempter place,
Which like a cherubin above them hover'd.
Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd?
Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make
What I should do again for such a sake.

'O, that infected moisture of his eye,
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd,
O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,
O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed,
Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd,
And new pervert a reconciled maid!'

[ بیست و پنجم آذر 1386 ] [ 0:11 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

My mother groaned, my father wept;
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

[ بیست و چهارم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:35 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing,
"Mercy, Pity, Peace
Is the world's release."

Thus he sung all day
Over the new mown hay,
Till the sun went down
And haycocks looked brown.

I heard a Devil curse
Over the heath and the furze,
"Mercy could be no more,
If there was nobody poor,

And pity no more could be,
If all were as happy as we."
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.

Down pour'd the heavy rain
Over the new reap'd grain ...
And Miseries' increase
Is Mercy, Pity, Peace.

[ بیست و چهارم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:33 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two in red and blue and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

[ بیست و چهارم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:33 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands,
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright
And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands,
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough
To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

[ بیست و چهارم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:32 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

[ بیست و چهارم آذر 1386 ] [ 20:30 ] [ جمال پاریاب ]

Act 5. Scene 1


SCENE I. Alexandria. OCTAVIUS CAESAR's camp.

Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MECAENAS, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, and others, his council of war
OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;
Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks
The pauses that he makes.

DOLABELLA
Caesar, I shall.

Exit

Enter DERCETAS, with the sword of MARK
ANTONY

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Wherefore is that? and what art thou that darest
Appear thus to us?

DERCETAS
I am call'd Dercetas;
Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy
Best to be served: whilst he stood up and spoke,
He was my master; and I wore my life
To spend upon his haters. If thou please
To take me to thee, as I was to him
I'll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,
I yield thee up my life.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
What is't thou say'st?

DERCETAS
I say, O Caesar,
Antony is dead.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
The breaking of so great a thing should make
A greater crack: the round world
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to their dens: the death of
Antony
Is not a single doom; in the name lay
A moiety of the world.

DERCETAS
He is dead, Caesar:
Not by a public minister of justice,
Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand,
Which writ his honour in the acts it did,
Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
Splitted the heart. This is his sword;
I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd
With his most noble blood.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Look you sad, friends?
The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
To wash the eyes of kings.

AGRIPPA
And strange it is,
That nature must compel us to lament
Our most persisted deeds.

MECAENAS
His taints and honours
Waged equal with him.

AGRIPPA
A rarer spirit never
Did steer humanity: but you, gods, will give us
Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd.

MECAENAS
When such a spacious mirror's set before him,
He needs must see himself.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
O
Antony!
I have follow'd thee to this; but we do lance
Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day,
Or look on thine; we could not stall together
In the whole world: but yet let me lament,
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
That thou, my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war,
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle,--that our stars,
Unreconciliable, should divide
Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends--
But I will tell you at some meeter season:

Enter an Egyptian

The business of this man looks out of him;
We'll hear him what he says. Whence are you?

Egyptian
A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mistress,
Confined in all she has, her monument,
Of thy intents desires instruction,
That she preparedly may frame herself
To the way she's forced to.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Bid her have good heart:
She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,
How honourable and how kindly we
Determine for her; for Caesar cannot live
To be ungentle.

Egyptian
So the gods preserve thee!

Exit

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say,
We purpose her no shame: give her what comforts
The quality of her passion shall require,
Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke
She do defeat us; for her life in Rome
Would be eternal in our triumph: go,
And with your speediest bring us what she says,
And how you find of her.

PROCULEIUS
Caesar, I shall.

Exit

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Gallus, go you along.

Exit GALLUS

Where's Dolabella,
To second Proculeius?

All
Dolabella!

OCTAVIUS CAESAR
Let him alone, for I remember now
How he's employ'd: he shall in time be ready.
Go with me to my tent; where you shall se