shakespeare midterm

Midsummer Night's Dream abbreviation

MND

When was MND written?

1595; elizabethan period

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour/Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in/Another moon; but, oh, methinks, how slow/This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires/Like to a stepdame or a dowager/Long withering out a young man's revenue

Theseus - MND

Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword/And won thy love doing thee injuries;/But I will wed thee in another key,/With pomp, with triumph, and with reveling

Theseus - MND

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;/Four nights will quickly dream away the time;/And then the moon, like to a silver bow/New-bent in heaven—shall behold the night/Of our solemnities.

Hippolyta - MND

Either to die the death or to abjure/For ever the society of men./Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires,/Know of your youth, examine well your blood,/Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,/You can endure the livery of a nun,/For aye to be in shady cloister mewed,/To live a barren sister all your life,/Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon./Thrice blessèd they that master so their blood/To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;/But earthlier happy is the rose distilled/Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,/Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.

Theseus - MND

What say you, Hermia? Be advised, fair maid:/To you, your father should be as a god,/One that composed your beauties, yea, and one/To whom you are but as a form in wax/By him imprinted, and within his power/To leave the figure or disfigure it.

Theseus - MND

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

So is Lysander.

In himself he is,/But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,/The other must be held the worthier.

I would my father looked but with my eyes.

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

Theseus/Hermia - MND

I have a widow aunt, a dowager/Of great revenue, and she hath no child./From Athens is her house remote seven leagues,/And she respects me as her only son./There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,/And to that place the sharp Athenian law/Cannot pursue us

Lysander - MND

elizabeth i suitors

phillip ii of spain, duke of anjou, robert dudley (earl of leicester)

Sickness is catching; oh, were favor so,/Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;/My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,/My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.

Helena - MND

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she./But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so./He will not know what all but he do know./And, as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,/So I, admiring of his qualities..Things base and vile, holding no quantity,/Love can transpose to form and dignity./Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,/And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind./Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste./Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste.

Helena - MND

mimetic desire

rené girard's theory that desire is not authentic, but product of social group (demetrius' affections shifting between helena and hermia)

By the simplicity of Venus' doves,/By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,/And by that fire which burned the Carthage queen/When the false Trojan under sail was seen,/By all the vows that ever men have broke,/In number more than ever women spoke,/In that same place thou hast appointed me/Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.

Hermia - MND

who is puck associated with (in folklore?)

robin goodfellow

I saw—but thou couldst not—/Flying between the cold moon and the earth,.Cupid, all armed. A certain aim he took/At a fair vestal thronèd by the west,/And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,/As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts./But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft/Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon;/And the imperial votaress passèd on/In maiden meditation, fancy-free./Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell./It fell upon a little western flower,/Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,/And maidens call it "love-in-idleness."

Oberon - MND

Thou rememberest/Since once I sat upon a promontory/And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back/Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath/That the rude sea grew civil at her song/And certain stars shot madly from their spheres/To hear the sea-maid's music?

Oberon - MND (references kenilworth castle and robert dudley)

This man hath bewitched the bosom of my child./—Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes/And interchanged love tokens with my child./Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung/With feigning voice verses of feigning love/And stolen the impression of her fantasy/With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits,/Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats—messengers/Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth./With cunning hast thou filched my daughter's heart,/Turned her obedience, which is due to me

Egeus - MND

comedic endings

young lovers are reunited and marry, restrictive laws are overturned and replaced

The spring, the summer,/The childing autumn, angry winter, change/Their wonted liveries, and the mazèd world,/By their increase now knows not which is which./And this same progeny of evils comes/From our debate, from our dissension;/We are their parents and original

Titania - MND

Her dotage now I do begin to pity./For, meeting her of late behind the wood/Seeking sweet favors for this hateful fool,/I did upbraid her and fall out with her.

I then did ask of her her changeling child,/Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent/To bear him to my bower in fairyland./And now I have the boy, I will undo/This hateful imperfection of her eyes.

Oberon - MND

The fairyland buys not the child of me./His mother was a votress of my order,/And in the spicèd Indian air by night/Full often hath she gossiped by my side,/And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,/Marking the embarkèd traders on the flood,/When we have laughed to see the sails conceive/And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind,/Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait/Following—her womb then rich with my young squire—/Would imitate, and sail upon the land/To fetch me trifles and return again,/As from a voyage, rich with merchandise./But she, being mortal, of that boy did die,/And for her sake do I rear up her boy,/And for her sake I will not part with him.

Titania - MND

When my cue comes, call me, and I willanswer. My next is "Most fair Pyramus." Heigh-ho, PeterQuince? Flute, the bellows-mender? Snout the tinker?Starveling? God's my life! Stolen hence and left me asleep!I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream past thewit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he Go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—thereis no man can tell what. Methought I was—and methoughtI had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to saywhat methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, theear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, histongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dreamwas. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream.It shall be called "Bottom's Dream," because it hath no bot-tom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before theDuke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shallsing it at her death.

Bottom - MND

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,/When everything seems double.

So methinks;/And I have found Demetrius like a jewel,/Mine own, and not mine own.

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream.

Hermia/Helena/Demetrius - MND

If we shadows have offended,/Think but this, and all is mended,/That you have but slumbered here/While these visions did appear./And this weak and idle theme,/No more yielding but a dream,/Gentles, do not reprehend;/If you pardon, we will mend./And as I am an honest puck,/If we have unearnèd luck/Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,/We will make amends ere long;/Else the puck a liar call;/So, good night unto you all./Give me your hands, if we be friends,/And Robin shall restore amends.

Puck - MND

And in the wood where often you and I/Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie,/Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,/And thence from Athens turn away our eyes/To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Hermia - MND

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,/Have with our needles created both one flower,/Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,/Both warbling of one song, both in one key,/As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds/Had been incorporate. So we grew together/Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,/But yet an union in partition,/Two lovely berries molded on one stem;/So with two seeming bodies but one heart,/Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,/Due but to one, and crownèd with one crest.

Helena - MND

richard ii abbreviation

R2

when was R2 written?

1595; elizabethan period

r2 setting

14th century england

cousins' war

aka. war of roses, power struggle between two branches of the same family

three factions

lancastrian faction, royalist faction, lord appellants

lancastrian faction

john of gaunt, bolingbroke, and their supporters

royalist faction

richard's favourites (Bushy and Green)

lord appellants

duke of gloucester and other lords who oppose richard's favourites

Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster,/Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,/Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,/Here to make good the boist'rous late appeal,/Which then our leisure would not let us hear,/Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

I have, my liege.

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded himIf he appeal the duke on ancient malice;/Or worthily, as a good subject should,/On some known ground of treachery in him?

Richard/John of Gaunt - R2

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me./Let's purge this choler without letting blood./This we prescribe, though no physician;/Deep malice makes too deep incision./Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed;/Our doctors say this is no month to bleed./[to Gaunt] Good uncle, let this end where it begun;/We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Richard - R2

We were not born to sue, but to command;/Which since we cannot do to make you friends,/Be ready, as your lives shall answer it/At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day:/There shall your swords and lances arbitrate/The swelling difference of your settled hate./Since we cannot atone you, we shall see/Justice design the victor's chivalry./Lord marshal, command our officers at arms/Be ready to direct these home alarms.

Richard - R2

And list what with our council we have done./For that our kingdom's earth should not be soiled/With that dear blood which it hath fosterèd;/And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect/Of civil wounds plowed up with neighbours' swords,/Which so roused up with boist'rous untuned drums,/With harsh resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,/And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,/Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace/And make us wade even in our kindred's blood./Therefore we banish you our territories./You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,/Till twice five summers have enriched our fields,/Shall not regreet our fair dominions,/But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Richard - R2

Have I deservèd at your highness' hands./The language I have learned these forty years,/My native English, now I must forgo,/And now my tongue's use is to me no more/Than an unstringèd viol or a harp,/Or like a cunning instrument cased up,/Or, being open, put into his hands/That knows no touch to tune the harmony./Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue,/Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips,/And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance/Is made my jailer to attend on me./I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,/Too far in years to be a pupil now./What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,/Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

Mowbray - R2

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes/I see thy grievèd heart. Thy sad aspect/Hath from the number of his banished years/Plucked four away. [to Bolingbroke] Six frozen winter spent,/Return with welcome home from banishment.

How long a time lies in one little word!/Four lagging winters and four wanton springs/End in a word; such is the breath of kings.

Richard/Bolingbroke - R2

I thank my liege that in regard of me/He shortens four years of my son's exile./But little vantage shall I reap thereby;/For ere the six years that he hath to spend/Can change their moons and bring their times about,/My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light/Shall be extinct with age and endless night./My inch of taper will be burnt and done,/And blindfold death not let me see my son.

John of Gaunt - R2

Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand/By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?/Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite/By bare imagination of a feast?

Bolingbroke - R2

Thy deathbed is no lesser than the landWherein thou liest in reputation sick;/And thou, too careless patient as thou art,/Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure/Of those physicians that first wounded thee:/A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,/Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;/And yet, encaged in so small a verge,/The waste is no whit lesser than thy land./Oh, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye/Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,/From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,/Deposing thee before thou wert possessed,

John of Gaunt - R2

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,/Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hooves./As a long-parted mother with her child/Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,/So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,/And do thee favours with my royal hands./Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,/Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;/But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,/And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,/Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet/Which with usurping steps do trample thee./Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies,/And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,/Guard it, I prithee, with a lurking adder/Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch/Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies./Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords./This earth shall have a feeling and these stones/Prove armèd soldiers ere her native king/Shall falter under foul rebellious arms.

Richard - R2

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid/Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,/Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen/In murders and in outrage, boldly here./But when from under this terrestrial ball/He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines/And darts his light through every guilty hole,/Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,/The cloak of night being plucked from off their backs,/Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?/So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,/Who all this while hath reveled in the night,/Shall see us rising in our throne, the East,/His treasons will sit blushing in his face/Not able to endure the sight of day,/But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.

Richard - R2

Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm off from an anointed king./The breath of worldly men cannot depose/The deputy elected by the Lord./For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed/To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,/Heaven for His Richard hath in heavenly pay/A glorious angel. Then, if angels fight,/Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

Richard - R2

Like an unseasonable stormy day,/Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores/As if the world were all dissolved to tears,/So high above his limits swells the rage/Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land/With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel./Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps/Against thy majesty, boys, with women's voices,/Strive to speak big and clap their female joints/In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown./Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows/Of double-fatal yew against thy state./Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills/Against thy seat. Both young and old rebel./And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

Scrope - R2

When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,/Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up,/Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined,/Her knots disordered and her wholesome herbs/Swarming with caterpillars?

First Servant - R2

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,/Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes/Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth./Let's choose executors and talk of wills—/And yet not so, for what can we bequeath/Save our deposèd bodies to the ground?/Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,/And nothing can we call our own but death/And that small model of the barren earth/Which serves as paste and cover to our bones./For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground/And tell sad stories of the death of kings:/How some have been deposed, some slain in war,/Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,/Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed—

Richard - R2

For within the hollow crown/That rounds the mortal temples of a king/Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,/Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,/Allowing him a breath, a little scene,/To monarchize, be feared and kill with looks,/Infusing him with self and vain conceit,/As if this flesh which walls about our life/Were brass impregnable, and humoured thus,/Comes at the last and with a little pin/Bores through his castle wall—and farewell, king.

Richard - R2

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet/With no less terror than the elements/Of fire and water, when their thund'ring smoke/At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven./Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;/The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain/My waters—on the earth, and not on him

Bolingbroke - R2

My lord, in the base court he doth attend/To speak with you. May it please you to come down.

Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaëthon,/Wanting the manage of unruly jades./In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,/To come at traitors' calls and do them grace./In the base court? Come down; down court, down king!

Northumberland/Richard - R2

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,/My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,/My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,/My figured goblets for a dish of wood,/My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff,/My subjects for a pair of carvèd saints/And my large kingdom for a little grave,/A little, little grave, an obscure grave;/Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,/Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet/May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;/For on my heart they tread now whilst I live,/And, buried once, why not upon my head?

Richard - R2

essex's rebellion

feb. 1601, earl of essex marched on london because he belieces elizabeth needs to be rescued from her evil ministers and asks for a staging of richard ii

We will descend and fold him in our arms./Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is just,/So be thy fortune in this royal fight./Farewell, my blood, which if today thou shed,/Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Richard - R2

Give me the crown./[to Bolingbroke] Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin/On this side my hand, and on that side thine./Now is this golden crown like a deep well/That owes two buckets, filling one another,/The emptier ever dancing in the air,/The other down, unseen and full of water./That bucket down and full of tears am I,/Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Richard - R2

Ay, no; no, ay—for I must nothing be./Therefore no "no," for I resign to thee./Now mark me, how I will undo myself:/I give this heavy weight from off my head,/And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,/The pride of kingly sway from out my heart./With mine own tears I wash away my balm,/With mine own hands I give away my crown,/With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,/With mine own breath release all duteous oaths./All pomp and majesty I do forswear;/My manors, rents, revenues I forgo;/My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny./God pardon all oaths that are broke to me;/God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee./Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,/And thou with all pleased that hast all achieved./Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,/And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit./"God save King Harry," unkinged Richard says,/"And send him many years of sunshine days."/What more remains?

Richard - R2

Give me that glass, and therein will I read./No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck/So many blows upon this face of mine/And made no deeper wounds? O flattr'ing glass,/Like to my followers in prosperity,/Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face/That every day under his household roof/Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face/That like the sun, did make beholders wink?/Is this the face which faced so many follies,/That was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?/A brittle glory shineth in this face,/As brittle as the glory is the face—

Richard - R2

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,/That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,/That horse that I so carefully have dressed!

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,/How went he under him?

So proudly as if he disdained the ground.

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back./That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;/This hand hath made him proud with clapping him./Would he not stumble, would he not fall down,/Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck/Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Groom/Richard - R2

And if you crown him, let me prophesy/The blood of English shall manure the ground,/And future ages groan for this foul act

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny/Shall here inhabit, and this land be called/The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls./Oh, if you rear this house against this house,/It will the woefullest division prove/That ever fell upon this cursèd earth

Bishop of Carlisle - R2

I have been studying how I may compare/This prison where I live unto the world;/And for because the world is populous/And here is not a creature but myself,/I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer't out./My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,/My soul the father; and these two beget/A generation of still-breeding thoughts;/And these same thoughts people this little world,/In humours like the people of this world,/For no thought is contented.

It is as hard to come as for a camel/To thread the postern of a small needle's eye./'Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot/Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails/May tear a passage through the flinty ribs/Of this hard world, my raggèd prison walls,/And, for they cannot, die in their own pride./Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves/That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,/Nor shall not be the last...

Richard - R2

Though I did wish him dead,/I hate the murderer, love him murdered./The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,/But neither my good word nor princely favour./With Cain go wander through shades of night/And never show thy head by day nor light./Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe,/That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow./Come, mourn with me for that I do lament/And put on sullen black incontinent./I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land/To wash this blood off from my guilty hand./March sadly after; grace my mournings here/In weeping after this untimely bier.

Bolingbroke - R2

Besides I say, and will in battle prove,/Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge/That ever was surveyed by English eye,/That all the treasons for these eighteen years/Complotted and contrivèd in this land/Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and/spring./Further I say, and further will maintain/Upon his bad life to make all this good,/That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death,/Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,/And consequently, like a traitor coward,/Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of/blood,/Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries/Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth/To me for justice and rough chastisement./And, by the glorious worth of my descent,/This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

Bolingbroke - R2

Cousin, throw down your gage./Do you begin.

O heaven, defend my soul from such foul sin!/Shall I seem crestfall'n in my fathers sight?/Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height/Before this out-dared dastard? Ere my tongue/Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong/The slavish motive of recanting fear/And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,/Where shame doth harbor, even in Mowbray's face

Bolingbroke - R2