BoolcL >T^ Gop>Tig]it]^'?_ 'Offa. COPYRIGHT DEPOSm KErRESKNTATIVK ENCxLISH PLAYS / REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS FROM THE MIDDLE AGES TO THE END OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES BY JOHN S. P. TATLOCK Stanford University AND V ROBERT G. MARTIN Northwestern University ^''■'Vc*' NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1916 Copyright, 1916, by , The Century Co. V lA ^ m -5 ISIB.' ' \ R45 ,T3 Copy ^' 'CI.A433li74 -VL .'p " V-' V D- M- J. W. T. Vide quattro stelle Non viste mai fuor che alia prima gente -S PREFACE In the present collection, for the first time, representative English plays from the earliest period to our own generation are included in one volume. The drama in our day shows a vitality, an originality and a literary excellence unknown for two centuries; and partly in consequence of this, the drama of the past is being studied and read in our schools and colleges, and among people at large, to such an extraordinary extent as justifies such a convenience as this. In a single volume of readable form it is obviously impossible to include all celebrated or influential plays, or plays of all types. Some long periods with few plays of high excellence, such as the nineteenth century, are difficult to represent ade- quately at all in so small a collection. As to principles of choice, a collection merely of the best plays would be deficient in balance and in meaning for the student ; one merely of typical plays would be deficient in attractiveness and in- terest for the reader. Choice must be made on practical and not purely theoret- ical grounds, by a series of checks and balances; now one consideration will prevail, now another. Probably no two editors would independently agree, and it is impossible to content every reader. In the present case the principal con- siderations have been excellence, influence and historical importance, representa- tive and typical character (for a body of drama or for an age), and the importance of the type. Occasionally the mere celebrity of a play or its author has been allowed to turn the scale. Lyly's Mother Bomhie was chosen, rather than one of his other plays, as exemplifying the strong Latin influence which helped to transform the medieval into the modern drama ; ]\Iarlowe 's Edward II as one of his best plays and as exemplifying the plays on English history written by so many besides Shakespeare; Dryden's Conquest of Granada rather than All for Love as being more influential, original and characteristic; Bulwer's Lady of Lyons as extremely popular in its day, and as characteristic of a long and barren period which it would be unsatisfying ,to leave almost unrepresented. It is un- necessary to explain the entire omission of Shakespeare ; in so small a collection it was the only way to do him full justice and honor. The editorial matter is meant to be, as Bacon said of his Essays, "certain brief notes, set down rather significantly than curiously." The introductions, while giving the necessary facts, are devoted rather to criticism and interpreta- tion of the plays in themselves and in reference to their time. The foot-notes are meant simply to answer tersely questions which any attentive reader not PREFACE familiar with a play or with the language of its time is likely to ask. The brief bibliography mentions general works, important or convenient editions, some historical and critical studies, and biographies. Here is recorded the source for the text of the several plays, and also, for supplementary reading, other plays of like character, and a few of types unrepresented in the collection. All pains have been taken to make the texts both accurate and readable; in no case have careless and popular modern editions been followed, yet in general textual problems and apparatus have been disregarded. Even in the medieval texts no changes have been made, except as consistently as possible to modernize the spelling (even at the cost of slightly increasing the original roughness of verse and rime) ; the reader may rest assured that he is getting, as the modern reader very properly wishes, that which the author wrote and that only. Elsewhere..), also the spelling, punctuation and capitalizing have been modernized, and some latitude has been allowed as to stage-directions. It should be added that Mr. ]\Iartin is mainly responsible for the editing of the medieval and Elizabethan plays, except for the introductions to Jonson and Webster; and Mr. Tatlock for those and for the remainder of the volume. The editors find pleasure in thanking those who have lightened and otherwise assisted their work. They are particularly obliged to Professor W. A. Neilson, who generously allowed them to make use of certain of his texts, ^ the best there are for numerous Elizabethan dramas; and to ]Marjorie Fenton Tatlock, for constant assistance and advice. They heartily thank Professors J. M. Manly, R. W. Bond, and G. R. Noyes, C. F. McClumpha Esqre., G. A. Aitken Esqre., M. V. 0., and Professor Dr. F. Lindner for gracious permissions to use texts of the miracle plays and Everyman, of Dry den, Otway, Steele, and Fielding. They also thank various fellow literary-students who advised as to the choice of plays. J. S. P. T. R. G. M. 1 In The Chief Elirjabethan Dramatists (Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1911). TABLE OF CONTENTS I. THE MIDDLE AGES 1. Thr Miracle Play page Noah's Flood 3 Abraham and Isaac 13 The Second Shepherds' Play 19 2. The Morality Everyman 31 II. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 1. Mother Bombie John Lyly 45 2. The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable - , Death op Edward the Second . . . Christopher Marlowe . . 74 3. The Shoemakers' Holiday, or The Gen- / TLB Craft Thomas Delcker . l/ . . 119 4. A Woman Killed with Kindness . . Thomas Hey wood . . . 155 5. Philaster, or Lo\'E Lies A-Bleeding . . Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher 190 6. The Alchemist Ben Jonson . / . . . 233 7. The Duchess of Malfi John Webster .... 292 8. The Wild-Goose Chase John Fletcher .... 340 9. The Changeling Thomas Middleton and Wil- liam Eotuley .... 383 [II. THE RESTORATION 1. Almanzor and Almahide, or The Con- quest OP Granada John Dryden 420 2. Venice Preserved, or A Plot Discovered Thomas Otway .... 458 3. The Way of the World William Congreve . . . 502 [V. THE EIGHTEENTH CEXTLTIY 1. Cato Joseph Addison .... 543 2. The Conscious Lo\-ers Sir Richard Steele . . . 577 3. The Tragedy of Tragedies; or, The Life AND Death op Tom Thumb the Great . Henry Fielding . . . .613 4. She Stoops to Conquer, or The Mis- takes OF A Night . . . ' . . . . Oliver Goldsmith . . . 638 5. The School for Scand^vl Bichard Brinsley Sheridan . 671 TABLE OF CONTENTS V. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY page 1. The Cenci -P^*"^^ Bysshe Slielleij . . 715 2. The Lady of Lyons, or Lo\t: and Pride . Edicard Bulwer-Uition . . 754 3. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon Bohert Broivning . . .782 4. Lady Windermere's Fan Oscar Wilde 806 835 Bibliography REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS I. THE MIDDLE AGES MIRACLE PLAYS Pope Urban IV, when he instituted in 1264 the church festival of Corpus Christi, be- came a real thougli unwitting patron of the drama. On the continent, Corpus Christi Day, the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, was soon establislied as an occasion for pre- senting religious plays. In England espe- cially was the day notable, for the trade guilds, the associations of craftsmen roughly corresponding to the trade unions of our day, adopted it as their chief holiday, and assisted the church in its celebration with a procession through the town. In another way also they came to the aid of the church by taking over a form of activity which had for some time been growing in disfavor with the church authorities; namely, the per- formance of the liturgical plays. Originally introduced at Christmas and Easter for the edification of ignorant audiences, these be- came so popular that their primary didactic purpose was in danger of being forgotten. From motives in which religion and busi- ness — for the church feast brought visitors and trade to town — were oddly mixed, the guilds added pageantry to their procession, and were soon giving performances on a scale more sumptuous than the church had ever reached. By the time that the miracle, or, as they are sometimes called, mystery, plays passed from the hands of Mother Church into the care of the guilds, they had already developed into a great drama of many acts, covering scriptural and apocryphal history from the Fall of the Angels to the Last Judgment. They were, therefore, well adapted for guild performance. Each guild took one section of the Bible story and tried to outdo its rivals in effectiveness of presentation. A quaint humor often marked the distribution of the separate plays among the various guilds. It is not difficult to see why, in the York plays, the Shipwrights undertook the Building of the Ark, and the Fishmongers the Flood; nor why in the same cycle the Gold- smiths selected the story of the Three Kings, with their offerings of gold and spices; the Vintners, the Miracle at Cana; the Bakers, the Last Supper. To the Tanners was as- signed the Fall of Lucifer and the torments of the fallen angels in hell, where the tan- ning process was likely to be thorough; while the Cooks, well trained in taking things from the fire, could present, more fittingly than any other craft, the Harrying of Hell, with its delivery of well-roasted prophets and martyrs. The performances took place upon pageant wagons, which could be drawn from place to place through the town. At street corners or open squares stations were assigned for the acting of the plays. When the play of the creation had been acted at the first station the pageant wagon moved on to the second station, while the story of the fall of Adam and Eve took its place at the first station, and so on. This method made possible the simultaneous production of many plays, each little audience, of course, seeing the entire sequence in the proper order. The wagons seem usually to have been built with two platforms, the lower curtained in and serv- ing as a dressing room for the actors, the upper as the stage. Stage properties were of the simplest. Among the most prominent was Hell mouth, a great gaping pair of jaws at one side of the stage, painted flame color and belching forth the smoke of the torment, from which leaped forth the Devil with his boisterous "Ho! Ho!" and into which he pitched the lost souls with his wooden pitch- fork and himself plunged at the end of the play. Some attempt was made at appropri- ateness of costume: God appeared in white leather, with gilded face and hair, the Devil in black leather, with full equipment of horns, hoofs, and a tail. But Herod boasted the full panoply of a knight of chivalry, and in general anachronism of attire as well as of speech was rampant. We have records of such dramatic activity lasting from the thirteenth until far into the sixteenth century, all over England, as well as in Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Not only the cathedral towns but market towns and even villages had their collective or indi- vidual miracle plays. The greatest activity, however, seems to have been localized in cer- tain places. There are extant manuscripts, the earliest belonging to the fifteenth century, for four great cycles of miracle plays : the York, Chester, Towneley or Wakefield, and Coventry cycles. While each has its indi- THE MIDDLE AGES vidual characteristics, all cover about the same ground and influences of one cycle upon another are evident. Of the authors prac- tically nothing is known, but we infer that they were churchmen. What we know of the history of the miracles makes it seem im- probable that any one man should have cre- ated all the plays of a cycle. As they come down to us they may rather represent the bringing together and amplification of the work of many hands, and such a cycle as that of York, with its forty-eight episodes, may have been in process of development for dec- ades before its text was reduced to the com- parative orderliness of our manuscript ver- sion. Occasionally, as in some plays of the Towneley cycle, there are manifest excellences in the handling of situation, the characteriza- tion, and the quality of the verse, which lead us to infer composition by a hand more competent than that of the average clerical playwright. A modern reader is likely to underesti- mate the dramatic efl'ectiveness of the miracle plays. Their writers had, of course, little or no apprehension of the niceties of technique — they were concerned chiefly with making the teaching of the play so plain that the most ignorant spectator must understand; hence the wearisome repetitions, the expound- ing of Christian doctrines in long didactic passages which sadly interrupt the action, the introduction of Doctor or Expositor to drive the moral home. Tlie literary value of the miracles is not great. But thoy possess the virtues of strength and sincerity and human interest. With no flnesse but with indubitable power they present some of the great episodes in the Bible story, in particu- lar those of Christ's life and passion. By frequent bits of homely realism they made their audiences realize the humanness of the Bible figures, and that was a useful service. The occasional coarseness of language and situation should not blind us to the simple reverence of purpose and treatment. The im- pressiveness of the Passion Play at Oberam- mergau is sufficient evidence that the theory of the miracle play is sound. The three plays which follow fairly repre- sent the miracle at its best. Though the long didactic beginning of the Towneley Noah's Flood is characteristic in its dullness, the play brightens up at once when Noah re- turns to the bosom of his family. From the rank and file of miracle personages a few stand out with special clearness, usually be- cause the spirit of comedy has touched them into life. Of these Noah's wife seems to have been a particular favorite, for in the York and Chester cycles she plays the shrew as she does here, and in them also the taming of the shrew is done in the same rough-and- tumble fashion. One of the unintentionally amusing things about the play is the naivete with which tlie passage of time is recorded, { e. g., on p. 11). The local allusion of Noah's wife ( " Stafford blue," p. 8 ) , and the oaths by Peter (p. 10), Mary (p. 8), and " God's pain" (i.e., Christ's suii'erings on the cross, p. 8), illustrate the lack of historical sense. The Brome play is so called because the manuscript was found in Brome Hall, Sufl'olk. Abraham and Isaac is the most truly pathetic of all the miracle plays. The scene is pathetic rather than tragic because, since Abraham is from the first determined to obey the will of God, his natural revul- sion against killing his son never reaches the intensity of the struggle with fate, involved in true tragedy. But this is as close an ap- proach to tragedy as we find at this stage of the drama. Despite the ineptitude and slowness of the beginning, the playwright really vinderstands how to handle his ma- terial in such a way as to produce on the audience the effect he desires. A briefer treatment would have been better — he holds the situation till he gets the maximum emotional response, but the tension of suspense is undeniable. The characteriza- tion is not quite individual; we feel about Abraham and Isaac that they are rather types of parenthood and childhood than an individual father and an individual son. The child's actual physical terror of the bright sword and his messages to his mother are notable as showing how the miracle authors sometimes visualized and humanized their material. The Towneley Second Shepherds' Play {Second because the Towneley cycle contains two versions of the announcement to the shepherds) is the flower of the miracle plays. Here is an admirable acting play, with plot, characterization, atmosphere. The exposi- tion is clear and reasonably rapid, providing a neat differentiation of the three shepherds as they make their appearance one after an- other. Mak and Gill are masterpieces in miniature of comic characterization, done with deftness and gusto. The action mounts steadily to the climax; the imderstanding of the value of suspense at the climactic point, when the discomfited shepherds actually leave the house, only to return in response to the youngest shepherd's kindly thought of a gift to the child is proof enough that the man who made this play was a real dramatist. After the punishment of Mak there is an artless transition to the angels' song and the tradi- tional bit of the gifts to the Christ child. Th& blending of Yorkshire setting and figures with the Bible story is naive and delightful. This episode of jNIak is true farce comedy, comedy better than anything else England was to pro- duce till the middle of the sixteenth century. MIRACLE PLAYS NOAH'S FLOOD NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS God. First Sox. FiBST Wife. Noah. Secoxd Son. Second Wife Noah's Wife. Third Son. Third Wife. Noah. Mightful God very, maker of all that is, Three persons without nay,^ one God in endless bliss, Thou made both night and day, beast, fowl, and fish; All creatures that live may, wrought thou at thy wish. As thou well might; The sim, the moon, verament,- Thou made, the firmament, The stars also, full fervent. To shine thou made full bright. Angels thou made full even, all orders that is. To have the bliss in heaven : this did thou more and less. Full marvelous to neven; ^ yet was there unkindness More by folds seven than I can well ex- press. For why? Of all angels in brightness God gave Lucifer most lightness; Yet proudly he flitted * his dais. And set him even him by. He thought himself as worthy as him that him made In brightness, in beauty; therefore he him degraded, Put him in a low degree soon after, in a braid,^ Him and all his meinie,^ where he may be unglad For ever. Shall they never win away Hence unto doomsday, But burn in bale "^ for ay ; Shall they never dissever. Soon after that gracious lord to his like- ness made man. That place to be restored even as he be- gan. Of the Trinity by accord, Adam, and Eve, that woman. To multiply without discord in jDaradise put he them. And sithen ^ to both Gave in commandment On the tree of life to lay no hand. But yet the false fiend Made him with man wroth, Enticed man to gluttony, stirred him to sin in pride. But in jjaradise securely ^ might no sin abide. And therefore man full hastily was put out in that tide, In woe and wandreth '^^ for to be, pains ^^ full unrid ^' To know. First in earth, sithen in hell With fiends for to dwell. But ^^ he his mercy mell ^* To those that will him trow.^^ Oil of mercy he us bight, ^® as I have heard rede,^''^ To every living wight that would love him and dread; But now before his sight eveiy living lede,i8 Most part day and night, sin in word and deed, Full bold; "^^ 1 denial. 5 moment. 9 certainly. l-t unless. 17 say. 2 truly. 6 company. 10 wretchedness. 14 'nterpose. 18 people 3 name. 7 torment. 11 MS. in pains. 15 believe. 4 forsook. 8 afterward. 12 cruel. 5 16 promised. THE MIDDLE AGES Some in pride, ire, and envy, Some in covetyse ^^ and gluttony, Some in sloth and lecheiy. And otherwise many fold. Therefore I dread lest God on ns will take vengeance, For sin is now allowed without any re- pentance ; Six hundred years and odd have I, with- out distance,^*' On earth, as any sod, lived with gTeat grievance Alway ; And now I wax old. Sick, sorry, and cold, As muck upon mould I wither away. But yet will I cry for mercy and call : Noah thy servant am I, Lord over all ! Therefore me and my fry,-^ shall with me fall. Save from villainy, and bring to thy hall Tn heaven. And keep me from sin This world within ; Comely King of manldnd, I pray thee hear my steven! -^ God. Since I have made all-thing that is living, Duke, emperor, and king, with mine own hand, For to have their liking by sea and by sand. Every man to my bidding should be bow- ing Full fervent. That made man such a creature. Fairest of favor; Man must love me paramour,^^ By reason, and repent. Methought I showed man love when I made him to be All angels above, like to the Trinity, And now in gTeat reproof full low lies he On earth, himself to stuf¥ with sin that displeases me Most of all; Vengeance will I take On earth for sin's sake. My grame -* thus will I wake, Both of ^^ great and small. I repent full sore that ever made I man; By me he sets no store, and I am his sov- ereign. I will destroy therefore both beast, man, and woman; All shall perish, less and more; that bar- gain may they ban,^*' That ill has done. On earth I see right nought But sin that is unsought; ^^ Of those that well has wrought Find I but a few. Therefore shall I fordo -^ all this middle- earth 2^ With floods that shall flow, and run with liideous rerd ; ^° I have good cause thereto : for me no man is afeared. As I say shall I do : of vengeance draw my sword. And make end Of all that bears life. Save Noah and his wife. For they would never strive With me nor me offend. [To] him to mickle win^^ hastily will I go. To Noah my servant, ere I blin,^^ to warn him of his woe. On earth I see but sin running to and fro. Among both more and min,^^ each one other's foe With all their intent ; All shall I fordo With floods that shall flow. Work shall I them woe. That will not repent. Noah, my friend, I thee command, from cares thee to keel,''* A shijD that thou ordain ^^ of nail and board full well. Thou w^as alway well working, to me true as steel, To my bidding obedient; friendship shall thou feel To meed.^" Of length thy ship be Three hundred cubits, warn I thee, Of height even thirty. Of fifty also in breadth. 19 covetousness ; the seven deadly sins iire here listed. 20 without dispute, beyond doubt. 21 offspring; tinder- .24 anger, stand who before / 25 against. shall. f 26 rue. 22 voice. 27 iinatoned. 23 as a lover. 28 destroy. 20 world. 30 uproar. 31 joy. 3 1 cool, assuage s.') make. 30 reward. 32 cease. 33 less. NOAH'S FLOOD Anoint thy ship with pitch and tar with- out and also within, The water out to spar : ^"^ this is a noble gin ; ^^ Ijook no man thee mar. Three chess ^^ chambers begin; Thou must spend many a spar this work ere thou win To end fully. Make in thy ship also Parlors one or two, And houses of office mo,*" For beasts that there must be. One cubit in height a window shall thou make ; On the side a door with sleight *^ beneath shall thou take; With thee shall no man fight, nor do thee no kind wrake."*^ When all is done thus right, thy wife, that is thy make,*^ Take in to thee; Thy sons of good fame, Shem, Japhet, and Ham, Take in also them, Their wives also three. For all shall be fordone that live on land but ye, With floods that from above shall fall, and that plenty ; It shall begin full soon to rain inces- santly. After days seven be done, and endure days fortv, Without fail. Take to thy ship also, Of each kind, beasts two, Male and female, but no mo. Ere thou pull up thy sail. For they may thee avail when all this thing is wrought ; Stutf thy ship with victual, for hunger that ye perish not. Of beasts, fowl, and cattle, for them have thou in thought ; For them is my counsel, that some succor be sought In haste; They must have com and hay. And other meat alway. Do now as I thee say, In the name of the Holy Ghost. Noah. Ah, benedicite ! ** What art thou that thus Tells afore that shall be? Thou art full marvelous ! Tell me, for charity, thy name so gra- cious. God. My name is of dignity, and also full glorious To know. I am God most mighty. One God in Trinity, Made thee and each man to be; To love me well thou ought. Noah. I thank thee, Lord so dear, that would vouchsafe Thus low to appear to a simple knave ; Bless us. Lord, here, for charity I it crave ; The better may we steer the ship that we shall have. Certain. God. Noah, to thee and to thy fry My blessing grant I : Ye shall wax and multiply. And fill the earth again. When all these floods are past and fully gone away. Noah. Lord, homeward will I haste as fast as that I mav. My [wife] « will I f raist *« what she will say. And I am aghast that we get some fray Betwixt us both ; For she is full teethy,*'^ For little oft angiy. If anything wrong be, • Soon is she wroth. TJien lie goes to his wife. God speed, dear wife; how fare ye? Wife. Now, as ever might I thrive, the worse I thee see! Do tell me belive,*^ where has thou thus long been? To death may we drive, or life for thee,** For want. When we sweat or swink,^" Thou does what thou think. Yet of meat and of drink Have we very scant. Noah. Wife, we are hard stead with tid- ings new. 37 shut. 40 more. 43 mate. 46 ask. 49 for all you care 38 device. 41 skill. 44 bless me 1 47 testy. 50 work. 39 tiers of. 42 kind of wrong. 45 missing in MS. 48 quickly. 8 THE MIDDLE AGES Wife. But thou were worthy be clad in Stafford blue,^i For thou art alway adread, be it false or true. But God knows I am led, and that may I rue, Full ill; For I dare be thy borrow,^^ From even unto morrow Thou speaks ever of sorrow ; God send thee once thy fill ! We women may wary ^^ all ill husbands ; I have one, by Mary! that loosed me of my bands ! If he teen ^-^ I must tarry, howsoever it stands, "With semblance full sorry, wringing both my hands For dread. But yet other while. What with game and with guile, I shall smite and smile, And quit him his meed.^^ Noah. We! hold thy tongue, ramskyt, or I shall thee still ! Wife. By my thrift, if thou smite, I shall turn thee until! Noah. We shall assay as tight. Have at thee, Gill! Upon the bone shall it bite. Wife. Ah, so ! Marry, thou smites ill ! But I suppose I shall not in thy debt Flit of this flet ! ^^ Take thee there a languet ^^ To tie up thy hose ! Noah. Ah! wilt thou so? Marry, that is mine ! Wife. Thou shall ^^ three for two, I swear by God's pain ! Noah. And I shall quit thee then, in faith, ere syne.^'' Wife. Out upon thee, ho ! Noah. Thou can both bite and whine With a rerd ! ^^ For all if she strike Yet fast will she screech; In faith, I hold none [such] In all middle-earth. But I will keep charity, for I have at do." Wife. Here shall no man tany thee; I pray thee, go to! Full well may we miss thee, as ever have I ro.*'- To spin will I dress ^^ me. Noah. We ! farewell, lo ! But, wife. Pray for me busily Till eft •'^ I come unto thee. Wife. Even as thou prays for me, As ever might I thrive. Noah. I tarry full long from my work, I trow; Now my gear will I fang,^^ and thither- ward draw. I may full ill go, the sooth for to know; But if ^^ God help among, I may sit down daw ^'^ To ken. Now assay will I How I can of wrightry ; ^^ In nomine Patris, et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. To begin of this tree my bones will I bend; I trow from the Trinity succor will be sent. It fares full fair, methinks, this work to my hand ; Now blessed be he that this can amend. Lo, here the length, Three hundred cubits evenly; Of breadth, lo, is it fifty; The height is even thirty Cubits full strength.«9 Now my gown will I cast, and work in my coat ; Make will I the mast, ere I flit one foot. Ah, my back, I trow, will burst ! this is a Sony note ! It is wonder that I last, such an old dote,7° All dold,'^! To begin such a work. My bones are so stark. No wonder if they wark,^^ For I am full old. 51 beaten black and blue. 52 pledge. 53 curse. 54 grieve. 55 give him his de- serts. 56 flee from dwelling. 57 thong. this 58 understand have. 59 long. GO of. n. 30. 61 work to do. 62 rest. 63 prepare. 64 again. 65 take. 66 unless. 67 a sluggard. 68 carpentry. 69 Qy. streght? 70 dotard. 71 stupid, stiff. 72 ache. NOAH'S FLOOD The top and the sail both will I make, The helm and the castle '^^ also will I take; To drive each nail will I not forsake ; This gear may never fail, that dare I un- dertake Anon. This is a noble gin : These nails so they run Through more and min, These boards each one ; Window and door, even as he said, Three chess ^* chambers, they are well made. Pitch and tar full sure thereupon laid. This will ever endure, therefore am I paid ; For why? It is better wToug^ht Than I could have thought ; Him that made all of nought I thank only. Now will I hie me and nothing be lither/^ My wife and my meinie to bring even hither. Tent ^® hither tidily, wife, and consider; Hence must us flee, all sam '''' together In haste. Wife. Why, sir, what ails you? Who is that assails you? To flee it avails you And '^^ ye be aghast. Noah. There is yam on the reel other, my dame. Wife. Tell me that each a deal,'^^ else get ye blame. Noah. He that cares may keel, blessed be his name ! He has [spoken] ^'^ for our sele *^ to shield us from shame, And said. All this world about With floods so stout. That shall run in a rout, Shall be overlaid. He said all shall be slain but only we. Our baii'ns that ai'e bain,^^ and their wives three ; A ship he bade me ordain to save us and our fee ; ^^ Therefore with all our main thank we that free Beeter of bale.^* Hie us fast, go we thither. Wife. I wot never whither; I daze and I didder ^^ For fear of that tale. Noah. Be not afeared; have done. Truss sam our gear. That we be there ere noon without more dere.^® 1 Son. It shall be done full soon. Broth- ers, help to bear. 2 Son. Full long- shall I not hone ^^ to do my dever,*^ Brother Shem. 3 Son. Without any yelp,^^ At my might shall 1 help. Wife. Yet for dread of a skelp,®° Help well thy dam. Noah. Now are we there as we should be; Do get in our gear, our cattle and fee, Into this vessel here, my children free. Wife. I was never barred ere, as ever might I thee,^^ In such an hostry ^^ as this. In faith, I can not find Which is before, which is behind. But shall we here be pinned, Noah, as have thou bliss? Noah. Dame, as it is skill,^^ here must us abide grace; Therefore, wife, with good will come into this place. Wife. Sir, for Jack nor for Jill will I turn my face. Till I have on this hill spun a space On my rock.^* Well were he might get me! Now will I down set me ; Yet rede ^^ I no man let ®® me, For dread of a knock. Noah. Behold to the heaven the cataracts all. That are open full even, great and small. And the planets seven left has their stall ; These thunders and levin ^'^ down gar^^ fall. Full stout, Both halls and bowers. T3 poop. 74 cf. n. 39 above. 75 lazy. 76 take heed. 77 together. 78 if. 79 every bit. 80 suggested by Manly. 81 happiness, 82 obedient. 83 property. 84 helper of misery. 8."; tremble. 86 harm, hindrance. 87 delay. 88 duty (devoir). 89 boasting. 90 blow. 91 thrive. 92 hostelry. inn. 96 hinder. 97 lightning 98 make. 93 reason. 94 distaff. 95 advise 10 THE MIDDLE AGES Castles and towers, Full sharp are these showers That runs about. Therefore, wife, have done; come into ship fast. Wife. Yea, Noah, go clout thy shoon ; ^^ the better will they last. 1 Wife. Good mother, come in soon, for all is overcast, Both the sun and the moon. 2 Wife. And many a wind blast ^ Full sharp ; These floods so they run; Therefore, mother, come in. Wife. In faith, yet will I spin; All in vain ye carp. 5 Wife. If ye like, ye may spin, mother, in the ship. Noah. Now is this twice; come in, dame, on my friendship. Wife. Whether I lose or win, in faith, thy fellowship Set I not at a pin. This spindle will I slip Upon this hill, Ere I stir one foot. Noah. Peter ! I trow we dote. Without any more note, Come in if ye will. Wife. Yea, water nighs so near that I sit not dry; Into ship Avith a birr- therefore will I hie. For dread that I drown here. Noah. Dame, securely. It is bought full dear, ye abode so long by Out of ship. Wife. I will not for thy bidding Go from door to midden.^ Noah. In faith, and for your long tarrying Ye shall lick on the whip. Wife. Spare me not, I pray thee, but even as thou think. These gi'eat words shall not flay * me. Noah. Abide, dame, and drink, For beaten shall thou be with tliis staff till thou stink. Are strokes good? Say me! Wife. What say ye, Wat Wink? Noah. Speak ! Cry me mercy, I say ! Wife. Thereto say I nay. Noah. But thou do, by this day. Thy head shall I break. Wife. Lord, I were at ease and heartily full whole. Might I once have a mess of widow's cole ^ ; For thy soul, without lese,*' should I deal penny dole.'^ So would more, no frese,® that I see on this sole ^ Of wives that are here ; For the life that they lead, Would their husbands were dead ! For, as ever eat I bread. So would I our sire ^° were. Noah. Ye men that has wives, while they are young. If ye love yoirr lives, chastise their tongue. Methinks my heart rives, both liver and lung, To see such strifes wedmen ^^ among. But I, As have I bliss, Shall chastise this. Wife. Yet may ye miss, Nicol Needy! Noah. I shall make thee still as stone, be- ginner of blunder! I shall beat thee, back and bone, and break all in sunder. Out, alas, I am gone ! thee, man's wonder! See how she can groan, under ! But, wife. In this haste let us ho,^- For my back is near in two. Wife. And I am beaten so blue That I may not thrive. Wife. Noah. out upon and I lie 1 Son. Ah, why fare ye thus, father and mother both "? 2 Son. Ye should not be so spitous,^^ standing in such a woth.^'* 3 Son. These ^^ are so hideous, with many a cold cothe.^® shoes, verb; 99 patch thy 1 probably blows. 2 rush. 3 dunghill ; the whole phrase means "do any slightest thing." 4 put to flight. 5 broth, fare; MS. coyll, Scotch hail. 6 lying. 7 alms (in memory of the dead). 8 doubt. 9 place ; Noah's wife is here speaking directly to the au- dience, as does Noah in the next stanza. 10 i.e. Noah. 11 married people. 12 stop. 13 malicious. 14 peril. 15 Manly suggests These [strifes]. 16 disease. NOAH'S FLOOD 11 Noah. We will do as ye bid us ; we will no more be wroth, Dear bairns. Now to the helm will I hent/'' And to my ship tent.^^ Wife. I see in the firmament, Methinks, the seven stars. Noali. This is a gTeat flood, wife, take heed. Wife. So methoug-ht, as I stood; we are in gTeat dread, These waves are so wood.^^ Noah. Help, God, in this need ! As thou art steersman good, and best, as I rede. Of all, Thou rule in this race,^° As thou me behight ^^ has. Wife. This is a parlous case ; Help, God, when we call ! Noah. Wife, tent the steer-tree,-^ and I shall assay The deepness of the sea that we bear,-^ if I may. Wife. That shall I do full wisely. Now go thy way. For upon this flood have we floated many a day With pain. Noah. Now the water will I sound. Ah ! it is far to the ground ; This travail, I expound. Had I to tine.2* Above all hills bedene -^ the flood is risen late Cubits flfteen ; but in a higher state It may not be, I ween, for this well I wit. This forty days has rain been; it will therefore abate Full leal.26 This water in haste Eft will I test ; Now am I aghast : It is waned a great deal. Now are the weathers -''' ceased and cata- racts knit,^® Both tlie most and the least. Wife. Methinks, by my wit, The sun shines in the east; lo, is not yond it^ We should have a good feast were these floods flitted,29 So spitous. Noah. We have been here, all we, Three hundred days and fifty. Wife. Yea, now wanes the sea; Lord, well is us! Noah. The third time will I prove what deepness we bear. Wife. How long shall thou hove *? ^° Lay ^^ in thy line there. Noah. I may touch with my loof^^ the ground even here. Wife. Then begins to grow to us merry cheer. But, husband, Wliat ground may this be? Noah. The hills of Armenia. Wife. Now blessed be he That thus for us can ordain ! Noah. I see the tops of hills high, many at a sight; Nothing to let ^^ me, the weather is so bright. Wife. These are of mercy tokens full right. Noah. Dame, thou counsel me what fowl best might And could, With flight of wing. Bring, without tarrying. Of mercy some tokening, Either by north or south, For this is the flrst day of the tenth month. Wife. The raven, durst I lay,^* will come again soon; As fast as thou may, cast him forth; have done. He may happen today come again, ere noon. With graith.^^ Noah. 1 will cast out also Doves one or two. Go your way, go, God send you some wathe ! ^® Now are these fowls flown into sere ^^ countries ; Pray we fast each one, kneeling on our knee, 17 seize. 22 helm. had in vain. 29 gone. 34 wager. 18 cf. n. 76 above. 2. I hnve. 2r, completely. 30 tarry. 3.5 without delay 19 wild. 24 This work (i.e. 20 thoroughly. 31 cast. 36 hunting. 20 difficulty. the sounding), I 27 tempests. 32 hand. 37 several. 21 promised. perceive, I have 28 restrained. 33 hinder. 12 THE MIDDLE AGES To him that is alone worthiest of degree, That he would send anon our fowls some fee To glad us. Wife. They may not fail of land, The water is so waning. Noah. Thank we God all-wielding, That lord that made us. It is a wonder thing, methinks soothly, They are so long tarrying, the fowls that we Cast out in the morning. Wife. Sir, it may be They tarry till they bring.^^ Noah. The raven is a-hungi"y Alway ; He is without any reason ; And ^^ he find any carrion, As peradventure may [befall,] '*° He will not away. The dove is more gentle, her trust I unto. Like unto the turtle,*^ for she is ay true. Wife. Hence but a little she comes. Lo, lo! She brings in her bill some novels *- new. Behold! It is of an olive tree A branch, thinks me. Noah. It is sooth ; perdy. Right so is it called. Dove, bird full blest, fair might thee be- fall ! Thou att true for to trust, as stone in the wall. Full well I it wist thou would come to thy hall. Wife. A true token is't we shall be saved all; For why? The water, since she came Of deepness plumb. Is fallen a fathom And more, hardily. ''^ 1 Son. These floods are gone, father, be- hold ! 2 Son. There is left I'ight none, and [for] that be ye bold. 3 Son. As still as a stone our ship is stalled. Noah. Upon land here anon that we were, fain I would. My children dear, Shem, Japhet, and Ham, With glee and with game. Come, go we all sam ; We will no longer abide here. Wife. Here have we been, Noah, long enough, With tray •** and with teen,*^ and dreed *^ mickle woe. Noah. Behold, on this green neither cart nor plough Is left, as I ween, neither tree nor bough. Nor other thing. But all is away; Many castles, I say. Great towns of array. Flitted has this flowing.*^ Wife. These floods not afright all this world so wide Has moved with might, on sea and by side. Noah. To death are they dight,*^ proudest of pride. Every wight that ever was spied With sin ; All are they slain. And put unto pain. Wife. From thence again May they never win. Noah. Win? No, iwis,''^ but ^^ he that might has Would mind of ^^ their miss, and admit them to grace. As he in bale is bliss, I pray him in this space, In heaven high with his to purvey us a place. That we With his saints in sight. And his angels bright. May come to his light. Amen, for charity. 3S i.e. some bootv 41 turtle-dove. 44 affliption. 47 this flood has re- 43 certainly. 30 if. 42 tidings. 4r> grief. moved. 50 unless. 40 MS. befon. 43 certainly. 46 endured. 48 delivered. 51 remember ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 13 ABRAHAM AND ISAAC NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS Abraham. An Angel Isaac. Doctor. God. [Enter Abraham and Isaac] Ah. Father of Heaven, omnipotent, With all my heart to thee I call; Thou hast given me both land and rent, And my livelihood thou hast me sent; I thank thee highly evermore for all. First of the earth thou madest Adam, And Eve also to be his wife ; All other ci'eatures of them two came ; And now thou hast granted to me, Abra- ham, Here in this land to lead my life. In mine age thou hast granted me this, That this young child with me shall won ; ^ I love nothing so much, iwis,^ Except thine own self, dear Father of bliss, As Isaac here, my own sweet son. I have divers children mo, The which I love not half so well ; This fair sweet child he cheers me so. In every place where that I go, That no disease ^ here may I feel. And therefore, Father of Heaven, I thee pray For his health and also for his grace; Now, Lord, keep him both night and day. That never disease nor no fray Come to my child in no place. Now come on, Isaac, my own sweet child, Go we home and take our rest. Isaac. Abraham, mine own father so mild, To follow you I am full prest,* Both early and late. Ah. Come on, sweet child, I love thee best Of all the children that ever I begat. [God speaks from above.] 1 dwell. 2 certainly. 3 dis-ease, trouble ; so hereafter. 4 ready. Deus. Mine angel, fast hie th^e thy way. And unto middle-earth ^ anon thou go. Abraham's heart now will I assay. Whether that he be steadfast or no. Say I commanded him for to take Isaac, his young son, that he loves so well. And with his blood sacrifice he make. If any of my friendship he will feel. Show him the way unto the hill Where that his sacrifice shall be. I shall assay now his good will. Whether he loveth better his child or me. All men shall take example by him My commandments how they shall keep. Ah. Now, Father of Heaven, that formed all things, My prayers I make to thee again, For this day my tender offering Here must I give to thee, certain. Ah, Lord God, Almighty King, What manner ^ best will make thee most fain? If I had thereof very knowing, It should be done with all my main Full soon anon. To do thy pleasure on a hill, Verily, it is my will, Dear Father, God in Trinity! [Enter Angel.] Angel. Abraham, Abraham, will thou rest ! Our Lord commandeth thee for to take Isaac, thy young son, that thou lovest best. And with his blood sacrifice that thou make. Into the land of Vision thou go. And offer thy child unto thy Lord ; 5 the world. 6 i.e. of offering. 14 THE MIDDLE AGES I shall thee lead and show also. Unto God's hest/ Abraham, accord, And follow me upon this green ! Ah. Welcome to me be ray Lord's sand,^ And his best I will not withstand ; Yet Isaac, my young son in laud, A full dear child to me hath been ! I had liefer, if God had been pleased. For to have forborne all the good that I have. Than [that] Isaac, my son, should have been diseased. So God in heaven my soul may save ! I loved never thing so much on earth, And now I must the child go kill ! Ah, Lord God, my conscience is strongly stirred, And yet, my dear Lord, I am sore afeared To grutch ° anything against your will. I love my child as my life. But yet I love my God' much more; For though my heart would make any strife, Yet will I not spare for child nor wife. But do after my Lord's lore.^° Though I love my son never so well, Yet smite off his head soon I shall. Ah, Fatker of Heaven, to thee I kneel, A hard death my son shall feel. ■ For to honor thee. Lord, withal! Angel. Abraham, Abraham, this is Avell said. And all these commandments look that thou keep ; But in thy heart be nothing dismayed. Ah. Nay, nay, forsooth ! I hold me well pleased To please my God to the best that I have. For though my heart be heavily set To see the blood of my own dear son. Yet for all this I will not let. But Isaac, my son, I will go fet,^^ And come as fast as ever we can. [Exit Angel] Now, Isaac, my own son dear. Where art thou, child'? Speak to me. Is. My fair sweet father, I am here. And make my prayers to the Trinity. Ah. Rise up, my child, and fast come hither. My gentle bairn that art so wise, For we two, child, must go together. And unto my Lord make sacrifice. Is. I am full ready, my father, lo ! Given to your hands, I stand right here. And whatsoever ye bid me do, It shall be done with glad cheer, Full well and fine. Ah. Ah, Isaac, my own son so dear, God's blessmg I give thee, and mine. Hold this fagot upon thy back. And here myself fire shall bring. Is. Father, all this here will I pack, I am full fain to do your bidding. Ah. Ah, Lord of Heaven, my hands I wring. This child's words all to-wound ^- my heart! Now, Isaac, son, go we our way L^nfo yon mount, with all our main. Is. Go we, my dear father, as fast as I may; To follow you I am full fain, Although I be slender. Ah. Ah, Lord, my heart breaketh in twain, This child's words, they be so tender ! Ah, Isaac son, anon lay it down. No longer upon thy back it hold, For I must make ready boon ^^ To honor my Lord God as I should. Is. Lo, my dear father, where it is! To cheer you, alway I draw me near. But, father, I marvel sore at this. Why that ye make this heavy cheer ; And also, father, ever more dread I: Where is your quick ^* beast that ye should kill? Both fire and wood we have ready. But quick beast have we none on this hill. A quick beast, I wot well, must be dead. Your sacrifice for to make. 7 command. 8 sending, message. n begrudge. 10 bidding. 11 fetch. 12 to has sive force ; sorely. wound 13 prayer. 14 live. ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 15 Ab. Dread thee nought, my child, I thee rede ; ^^ Our Lord will send me unto this stead ^" Some manner of beast for to tahe, Through his sweet sand. Is. Yea, father, but my heart beginneth to quake To see that sharp sword in your hand. Why bear ye your sword drawn so'? Of your countenance I have much won- der. Ah. Ah, Father of Heaven, so I am woe ! This child here breaks my heai't in sunder. Is. Tell me, my dear father, ere that ye cease. Bear ye your sword drawn for me"? Ab. Ah, Isaac, sweet son, peace, peace! For, iwis, thou break my heart in three ! Is. Now truly, somewhat, father, ye think, That ye mourn thus more and more. Ab. Ah, Lord of Heaven, thy grace let sink, For my heart was never half so sore ! Is. I pray you, father, that ye will let me that wit," Whether shall I have any harm or no. Ab. Iwis, sweet son, I may not tell thee yet, My heart is now so full of woe. Is. Dear father, I pray you, hide it not from me. But some of your thought that ye tell me. Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, I must kill thee ! Is. Kill me, father"? Alas, what have I done"? If I have trespassed against you aught, With a yard ^^ ye may make me full mild, And with your sharp sword kill me not. For iwis, father, I am but a child. Ab. I am full sorry, son, thy blood for to spill. But truly, my child, I may not choose. Is. Now I would to God my mother were here on this hill ! She would kneel for me on both her knees To save my life. And sithen ^^ that my mother is not here, I pray you, father, change your cheer. And kill me not with your knife. Ah. Forsooth, son, but if -° I thee kill, I should grieve God right sore, I dread ; It is his commandment and also his will That I should do this same deed. He commanded me, son, for certain, To make my sacrifice with thy blood. Is. And is it God's will that I should be slain ? Ah. Yea, truly, Isaac, my son so good. And therefore my hands I wring! 7s. Now, father, against my Lord's will I will never grutch, loud nor still. He might have sent me a better destiny, If it had been his will.-^ Ab. Forsooth, son, but if I did this deed. Grievously displeased our Lord will be. 7s. Nay, nay, father, God forbid That ever ye should grieve him for me ! Ye have other children, one or two. The which ye should love well by kind.^- I pray you, father, make ye no woe. For be I once dead and from you gone, I shall be soon out of your mind. Therefore do our Lord's bidding. And when I am dead, then pray for me. But, good father, tell ye my mother nothing, Say that I am in another countiy dwell- ing. Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, blessed may thou be ! My heart beginneth strongly to rise To see the blood of thy blessed body ! 7s. Father, since it may be no other wise, Let it pass over, as well as I. But, father, ere I go unto my death, I pray you bless me with your hand. Ab. Now, Isaac, with all my breath. 15 counsel. 16 place. 17 know. 18 rod. 19 since. 20 unless. 21 will is M Both our dame and our sire. When we have run in the mire, They can nip at our hire,^° And pay us full lately. 32 mate. 33 MS. loten. 34 fallow. 35 unless. 36 is slippery, unre- liable. 37 is awry. 38 knaves. 39 stout fellows. 40 heath. 41 if I stumble. 42 lazy servant. 43 pleases to. 44 wait till later. 4r) i e. our meal. 46 work. 47 repents. 48 sleep. 40 thoroughly. 50 take a bit off our wages. THE MIDDLE AGES But hear my truth, master, for the fare that ye make, I shall do thereafter work as I take ; ^^ I shall do a little, sir, and among ^- ever lake,s3 For yet lay my supper never on my stomach In fields. Whereto should I threap f^* With my staff can I leap, And men say "light cheap Litherly foryields." •'•' / Shep. Thou were an ill lad to ride a-wooing With a man that had but little of spend- ing. 2 Shep. Peace, boy, I bade; no more jangling. Or I shall make thee full rad,'^^ by the heaven's king, With thy gauds ! ^ ' Where are our sheep, boy, we scorn? 3 Shep. Sir, this same day at morn I them left in the corn. When they rang Lauds ; ^^ They have pasture good, they can not go wrong. 1 Shep. That is right. By the rood, these nights are long ! Yet I would, ere we yode,^** one gave us a song. 2 Shep. So I thought as I stood, to mirth us among.®" 3 Shep. I grant. 1 Shep. Let me sing the tenory. 2 Shep. And I the treble so high. 3 Shep. Then the mean falls to me; Let see how ye chant."^ Enter Mak, with a cloak thrown over his smock. Mak. Now, Lord, for thy names seven. "- that made both moon and stars, Well more than I can neven,®^ thy will. Lord, of me tharns ; '^* I am all uneven,®^ that moves oft my harns ; ""^ Now would God I were in heaven, for there weep no bainis So still ! 1 Shep. Who is that pipes so poor? Mak. Would God ye wist how I fared ! Lo, a man that walks on the moor, And has not all his will ! 2 Shep. Mak, where has thou gone? Tell us tidings. 3 Shep. Is he come? Then each one take heed to his thing. {Takes his cloak from him.) Mak. What ! I be a yeoman, I tell you, of the king; The self and the same, sent "^ from a great lording, And such. Fie on you ! Go hence Out of my presence ! I must have reverence. Why, who be I? 1 Shep. Why make ye it so quaint? Mak, ye do wrong. 2 Shep. But, Mak, list ye saint ?«« j trow that ye long. 3 Shep. I trow the shrew can paint, the devil might him hang! Mak. I shall make complaint, and make you all to thwang."" At a word. And tell even how ye doth. 1 Shep. But, Mak, is that sooth? Now take out that southern tooth,''° And set in a turd ! 2 Shep. Mak, the devil in your eye! a stroke would I lend you. 3 Shep. Mak, know ye not me? By God, I could teen ^^ you. Mak. God look you all three! methought I had seen you. Ye are a fair company. 1 Shep. Can ye now mean you?'^^ 2 Shep. Shrew, jape ! '^^ Thus late as thou goes, What will men suppose? And thou has an ill noise '^* Of stealing of sheep. Mak. And I am true as steel, all men wit ! But a sickness I feel, that holds me full hot, My belly fares not well, it is out of es- tate. r>i i.e. I '11 work as I 'm paid. 52 now and then. 53 play. 54 argue. 55 a cheap bargain yields poorly. 56 afraid. 5 7 tricks. 5S an early morning service of the church. 59 went. i''0 for mirth among us. 61 (Tlie song is wanting.) 62 The seven sacred names of God in rabbinical litera- ture. 63 name. 64 lacks; i.e. thy will toward me leaves something to be desired. 65 upset. 66 brains. 67 lit. messenger; MS. sond. 68 play the saint. 69 be flogged. you talk like a 711 i.e. which makes south of England man. deceitfully. 71 hurt, beat. 7 2 remember. 73 joke on. 74 reputation. THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 23 3 Sliep. Seldom lies the devil dead by tlie Mak. Therefore Full sore am I and ill, If I stand stone still; I eat not a needle This month and more. 1 Shep. How fares thy wife"? By my hood, how fares she? 3Iak. Lies weltering, '^^ by the rood, by the fire, lo ! And a house full of brewed "' she drinks well too; 111 speed other good that she will do But so! Eats as fast as she can. And each year that comes to man, She brings forth a lakin,'^* And some years two. But were I not more gracious, and richer by far, I were eaten out of house and of harbor; Yet is she a foul dowse,'''" if ye come near. There is none that trows nor knows a worse Than ken I. Now will ye see what I proffer? To give all in nw coffer To-morn ®° next to offer ^^ Her head-mass penny. 2 Shep. I wot so f orwaked ^- is none in this shire : I would sleep if I took less to my hire. 3 Shep. I am cold and naked, and would liave a fire. 1 Shep. I am weary, for-raked,^^ and run in the mire. Wake thou ! 2 Shep. Nay, I will lie down -by, For 1 must sleep, truly. 3 Shep. As good a man's son was I As any of you. But, Mak, come hither! between shall thou lie down. Mak. Then might I let ^■^ you bcdene **° of that ye would round,®^ No di'ead. From my top to my toe Manus tuas commendo, Pvntio Pilato! Christ's cross me speed ! Then he rises, while the shepherds are asleep, and says: Now were time for a man that lacks what he would. To stalk privily then unto a fold, And nimbly to work then, and be not too bold, For he might aby ^^ the bargain, if it were told. At the ending. Now were time for to reel ; ^^ But he needs good counsel That fain would fare well. And has but little spending. But about you a circle as round as a moon, Till I have done that I will, till that it be noon, That ye lie stone-still, till that I have done. And I shall say there-till of good words a few On height ; «" Over your heads my hand I lift. Out go your eyes, fordo your sight ! °° But yet I must make better shift. And it be right. Lord, Avhat, they sleep hard ! that may ye all hear. Was I never a shepherd, but now will I lere.^i If the flock be scared, yet shall I nip near. How ! Draw hitherward ! now mends our cheer From sorrow. A fat sheep, I dare say, A good fleece, dare I lay. Eft quite "- when I may. But this will I borrow. [Exit, with sheep.] [Scene 2. Mak at the door of his house.] Mak. How, Gill, art thou in"? Get us some light. Wife. Who makes such din this time of the night ■? T5 a proverb, imply- ing suspicion of Mak : it 's not safe to trust ap- pearances. 76 lounging. 77 i.e. ale. 7S plavthing, i.e. baby. "!> dear, donee; ^ironical. 80 tomorrow; MS. inserts at befoi'e next. 81 to pay for her funeral service. 82 worn out with watching. S3 worn out with walking. St hinder. 85 altogether. so whisper ; two lines Seem to be missing here. , 87 pay dearlv for. ss set about" the business. 89 aloud. !)!) This is excellent fooling : Mak pre- tends to cast a charm over the sleeping shep- herds. 91 learn. 92 repay. 24 THE MIDDLE AGES I am set for to spin ; I hope not I might Rise a penny to win. I shrew them on height So fares! A housewife that has been To be raced thus between ! Here may no note ^^ be seen For such small chares.^* Mak. Good Avif e, open the heck ! ^^ Sees thou not what I bring? Wife. I may thole ""^ thee draw the sneck."^ Ah, come in, my sweeting! Mak. Yea, thou there not reck of my long standing. Wife. By the naked neck art thou like for to hang! Mak. Do way ! I am worthy my meat, For in a strait can I get More than they that swink and sweat All the long day. Thus it fell to my lot. Gill, I had such grace. Wife. It were a foul blot to be hanged for the case. Mak. I have scaped, Gillot, oft as hard a glace.^* Wife. But so long goes the pot to the water, men says, At last Comes it home broken. Mak. Well know I the token, But let it never be spoken. But come and help fast. I would he were slain, I list well eat : This twelvemonth was I not so fain of one sheep-meat. Wife. Come they ere he be slain, and hear the sheep bleat — Mak. Then might I be ta'en : that were a cold sweat! Go spar ^^ The gate door. Wife. Yes, Mak, For and they come at thy back — Mak. Then might I aby, for all the pack. The devil of the worse ! ^ Wife. A good bourd -' have I spied, since thou can none : Here shall we him hide till they be gone, In my cradle abide — let me alone — And I shall lie beside in childbed and groan. Mak. Thou rede ! ^ And I shall say thou was lighted * Of a knave child this night. Wife. Now, well is me ! Day bright, That ever I was bred ! This is a good guise and a far cast ; Yet a woman's advice helps at the last ! I wot never who spies; again go thou fast ! Mak. But I come ere they rise, else blows a cold blast ! I will go sleep. [Scene 3. Mak returns to the Shepherds.] Yet sleeps all this meinie,^ And I shall go stalk privily. As it had never been I That carried their sheep. 1 Shep. Resurrex a mortruis! ^ have hold my hand ! Judas carnas dominus! I may not well stand. My foot sleeps, by Jesus ! and I Avater fasting. I thought that we laid us full near Eng- land. 2 Shep. Ah, yea! Lord, what, I have slept well! As fresh as an eel. As light I me feel As leaf on a tree. 3 Shep. Benste "^ be herein ! So my [body] quakes. My heart is out of skin, what-so it makes. Who makes all this din? So my brows black ! To the door will I win. Hark, fellows, wake ! We were four: See ye anywhere of Mak now? 1 Shep. We were up ere thou. 2 Shep. Man, I give God a vow, Yet yede ^ he nowhere. 3 Shep. Methought he was lapt in a wolf- skin. 1 Shep. So are many happed now : namely, within. 93 work. 97 latch. 94 jobs. 98 blow. 95 door. 99 shut. 96 allow. 1 then might I have a devil of a time from the whole pack (roughly). 2 trick. 3 advise well. 4 delivered. 5 company. 6 Mock Latin here and in following line. 7 God's blessing. 8 went. THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 25 3 Shep. When we had long napped, me- thought with a gin " A fat sheep he trapped, but he made no din. 2 Shep. Be still! Thy dream makes thee wood,^° It is but phantom, by the rood. 1 Shep. Now God turn all to good. If it be his will ! 2 Shep. Rise, Mak, for shame! thou lies right long. Mak. Now Christ's holy name be us among ! What is this? For Saint James, I may not well go! I trow I be the same. Ah, my neck has lain wrong Enough, Mickle thank, since yester-even ! Now, by Saint Stephen, I was flayed ^^ with a sweven ! ^- My heart out of-slough ^^ I thought Gill began to croak, and travail full sad, Well near at the first cock, of a young lad For to mend our flock. Then be I never glad ; I have tow on my rock,^^ more than ever I had. Ah, my head ! A house full of young tharms,^^ The devil knock out their harns ! ^'^ Woe is him has many bairns, And thereto little bread ! I must go home, by your leave, to Gill, as I thought. I pray you look my sleeve, that I steal nought : I am loth you to grieve, or from you take aught. [Exit Mak.] 3 Shep. Go forth, ill might thou cheve ! ^^ Now would I we sought. This morn. That we had all our store. 1 Shep. But I will go before. Let us meet. 2 Shep. Where"? 9 trick. 10 mad. 11 frightened. 12 dream. 13 jumped out of my breast ( ? ) . 3 Shep. At the crooked thorn. [Scene 4. Mak's house.'] Mak. {Knocking.) Undo this door! who is here"? How long shall I stand? Wife. Who makes such a bere?^^ — Now walk in the waniand ! ^^ Mak. Ah, Gill, what cheer?— It is I, Mak, your husband. Wife. Then may we see here the devil in a band, Sir Guile ! =« Lo, he comes with a late,^^ As he were holden in the throat. I may not sit at my note ^^ A hand-long while. Mak. Will ye hear what fare she makes to get her a gloze ? -^ And does nought but lakes,-'' and claws her toes. Wife. Why, who wanders, who wakes, who comes, who goes? Who brews, who bakes? What makes me thus hose? And then It is ruth -^ to behold. Now in hot, now in cold; Full woful is the household That wants a woman. But what end hast thou made with the herds,-« Mak? Mak. The last word that they said when I turned my back. They would look that they had their sheep, all the pack. I hope they will not be well paid when they their sheei"* lack, Pardie ! But howso the game goes, To me they will suppose,^'' And make a foul noise, And cry out upon me. But thou must do as thou hight,^^ Wife. I accord me thereto: I shall swaddle him right in my cradle. If it were a greater sleight, yet could I help till.2« I will lie down straight ; come hap ^° me. Mak. I will. to 14 distaff; more provide for. 15 bellies, i.e. chil dren. Ifi orains. 17 thrive. 18 noise. 19 waning of moon — an lucky season. 20 The meaning of these two lines is the un- not clear; appar- 25 pity, ently something 26 shepherds, uncomplimentary. 27 suspect. 21 noise. 28 promised. 22 work. 29 toward our pur- 23 excuse. pose. 24 plays. 30 wrap up. 26 THE MIDDLE AGES Wife. Behind ! Come Coll and his marvow,^^ They will nip us full narrow. Mak. But I may cry out "Harrow !" •''- The sheep if they find. Wife. Hearken ay when they call: they will come anon. Come and make ready all, and sing by thine own; Sing "Lullay!" thou shall, for I must groan. And cry out by the wall on Mary and John, [Full] ^^ sore. Sing "Lullay" on fast When thou hears at the last; And but I play a false cast, Trust me no more. [Scene 5. The fields.] 3 Sliep. Ah, Coll, good morn! Why sleeps thou not"? 1 Shep. Alas, that ever was I born ! We have a foul blot ! A fat wether have we lorn.^* 3 Shep. Marry, Gods forbid! 2 Shep. Who should do us that scorn? That were a foul spot. 1 Shep. Some shrew.^^ I have sought with my dogs, All Horbui-y Shrogs,^^ And of fifteen hogs Found I but one ewe. 3 Shep. Now trow me if ye will : by Saint Thomas of Kent,^'^ Either Mak or Gill was at that assent ! 1 Shep. Peace, man, be still ! I saw when he went. Thou slanders him ill ; thou ought to re- pent, Good speed. 2 Shep. Now as ever might I thee,^^ If I should even here die, I would say it were he That did that same deed. 3 Shep. Go we thither, I rede, and run on our feet. Shall I never eat bi'ead, the sooth till I wit. 1 Shep. Nor drink in my head with him till I meet. 2 . Shep. I will rest in no stead ^^ till that I him greet, My brother. One I will hight : ^° Till I see him in sight Shall I never sleep one night There *^ I do another. [Scene 6. The Shepherds come to Mak's house. 1 3 Shep. Will ye hear how they hack ! *- our sire *^ list croon. 1 Shep. Heard I never none crack so clear out of tune. Call on him. 2 Shep. Mak! undo your door soon. Mak. Who is it that spake, as it were noon, On loft? 4* Who is that, I say"? 3 Shep. Good fellows, were it day! Mak. As far as ye may. Good, speak soft, Over a sick woman's head that is at malease ; *^ I had liefer be dead or she had any disease. Wife. Go to another stead; I may not well quease.*® Each foot that ye tread goes through my nose. So high! 1 Shep. Tell us, Mak, if ye may, How fare ye, I say? Mak. But are ye in this town to-day? Now how fare ye? Ye have run in the mire, and are wet yet ; I shall make you a fire, if ye will sit. A nurse would I hire ; think ye one yet.*'' Well quit is my hire — *^ my dream, this is it— *» A season. I have bairns, if ye knew, Well more than enow; But we must drink as we brew, And that is but reason. I would ye dined ere ye yode; methink that ye sweat. 31 mate. 32 a call for help. 33 Ms. for. 34 lost. 35 knave. 30 Horbury Thick- ets ; Horburj' is a village near Wakefield. The reference helps to localize the Townelev plavs at Wakefield. 37 Thomas a Becket, buried in Canter- bury Cathedral, in Kent. 38 thrive. 39 place. 40 one thing I prom- ise. 41 where. 42 sing; the shep- herds hear Mak and Gill singing their pretended lullabv. 43 i.e. Mak. 44 loudly. 45 in distress. 46 meaning un- known (N. E. D.) ; perhaps wheeze, breathe ? 47 i.e. tell me of one if you can. 48 I am well paid. 49 i.e., this is iust what I dreamed. THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 27 2 Shep. Nay, neither mends our mood,^° drink nor meat. Mak. Why, sir, ails you aught but good ? 3 Shep. Yea, our sheep that we get. Are stolen as they yode; our loss is great. Mak. Sirs, drink ! Had I been there. Some should have bought it full sore. 1 Shep. Mari-y, some men trows that ye were, And that us forthinks.^^ 2 Shep. Mak, some men trows that it should be ye. 3 Shep. Either ye or your spouse; so say we. Mak. Now if ye have suspicion to Gill or to me. Come and rip our house, and then may ye see Who had her, If I any sheep fot,^^ Either cow or stot,^^ And Gill, my wife, rose not Here since she laid her. As I am both true and leal, to God here I pray. That this be the first meal that I shall eat this day. 1 Shep. Mak, as I have seel,^* advise thee, I say; He learned timely to steal, that could not say nay. Wife. I swelt l'^^ Out, thieves, from my won ! ^^ Ye come to rob us, for the nonce. Mak. Hear ye not how she groans'? — Your hearts should melt. Wife. Out, thieves, from my baim ! Nigh him not there ! Mak. Wist ye how she had fared, your hearts would be sore. Ye do wrong, I you warn, that thus comes before To a woman that has fared — but I say no more ! Wife. Ah, my middle! I pray to God so mild. If ever I you beguiled. That I eat "this cliild That lies in this cradle. Mak. Peace, woman, for God's pain, and cry not so : Thou spills thy brain, and makes me full woe. 2 She J). I trow our sheep be slain. What find ye two? 3 Shep. All work we in vain ; as well may we go. But, hatters," I can find no flesh. Hard nor nesh,^^ Salt nor fresh. But two toom ^^ platters : Quick *'" cattle but this, tame nor wild, None, as have I bliss, as loud as he smiled. Wife. No, so God me bless, and give me joy of my child ! 1 Shep. We have marked amiss; I hold us beguiled. 2 Shep. Sir, done! Sir, Our Lady him save! Is your child a knave? '^^ Mak. Any lord might him have, This child to his son. When he wakens he kips,''- that joy is to see. 3 Shep. In good time to his hips, and in seel ! *53 But who were his gossips,^* so soon ready? Mak. So fair fall their lips ! 1 Shep. Hark now, a lie! Mak. So God them thank. Parkin, and Gibbon Waller, I say, And gentle John Home, in good fay,*'^ He made all the garray,'''' With the great shank. ®^ 2 Shep. Mak, friends will we be, for we are all one. Mak. We ! *'^ now I hold for me, for amends get I none. Farewell all three ! all glad were ye gone. [They leave the house.] 3 Shep. Fair words may there be, but love is there none This year. 1 Shep. Gave ye the child anything? 2 Shep. I trow, not one farthing. 3 Shep. Fast again will I fling. Abide ye me there. [He returns to the house.] 50 helps our case. 51 makes us repent. 52 fetched. 53 steer. 54 bliss. 55 faint. 56 house text). (Pl. 57 an exclamation. 58 soft. nn empty. 00 living. 61 boy. 02 snatches. 03 good luck to him ! 64 godparents. 05 faith. OG commotion. 07 long legs. 68 an exclamation. 28 THE MIDDLE AGES Mak, take it to no grief, if I come to thy bairn. Mak. Nay, thou does me great reprief,^" and foul has thou fared. 3 Shep. The child will it not grieve, that little day-star. Mak, with your leave, let me give your bairn But sixpence. Mak. Nay, do way : '^^ he sleeps. 3 Shep. Methink he peeps. Mak. When he wakens he weeps. I pray you go hence. [First and Second Shepherds return.] 3 Shep. Give me leave him to kiss, and lift up the clout. What the devil is this'? He has a long snout ! 1 Shep. He is marked amiss. We wait ill about. 2 Shep. Ill spun weft, I wis, ay comes foul out. Aye, so"? He is like to our sheep! 3 Shep. How, Gib, may I peep'? 1 Shep. I trow, kind ''^ will creep Where it may not go.^- 2 Shep. This was a quaint gaud,'^^ and a far cast ; It was a high fraud. 3 Shep. Yea, sirs, was 't. Let burn this bawd, and bind her fast. A false scold hangs at the last ; So shall thou. Will ye see how they swaddle His four feet in the middle'? Saw I never in a cradle A horned lad ere now. Mak. Peace, bid I! What, let be your fare ! I am he that him gat, and yond woman him bare. 1 Shep. What devil shall he hight,^* Mak? Lo, God, Mak's heir ! 2 Shep. Let be all that. Now God give him care, I say. Wife. A pretty child is he. As sits on a woman's knee; A dilly-down, pardie. To ffar ''^ a man laugh. 3 Shep. I know him by the ear-mark — that is a good token. Mak. I tell you, sirs, hark, his nose was broken. Sithen ^^ told me a clerk that he was for- spoken.'^'^ 1 Shep. This is a false work — I would fain be wroken : ''^ Get a weapon ! Wife. He was taken by an elf,''^^ I saw it myself; When the clock struck twelve. Was he forshapen.^° 2 Shep. Ye two are well feoffed sam ^^ in a stead. 1 Shep. Since they maintain their theft, let do them to dead.®- Mak. If I trespass eft, gird *^ off my head ! With you will I be left.«* 1 Shep. Sirs, do my rede : Foi- this trespass, We will neither ban nor flyte ^^ Fight nor chide. But have done as tight, And cast him in canvas. [They toss Mak in a sheet.] [Scene 7. The fields.] 1 Shep. Lord, what! I am sore, in point for to burst ; In faith, I may no more ; therefore will I rest. 2 Shep. As a sheep of seven score he weighed in my fist. For to sleep anywhere, methink that I list. 3 Shep. Now I pray you. Lie down on this green. 1 Shep. On these thieves yet I mean.^*^ 3 Shep. Whereto should ye tene'?^'^ Do as I say you. An Angel sings '^Gloria in Excelsis" ; then let him say: Rise, herdmen hend,*® for now is he born That shall take from the fiend that «" Adam had lorn : That warlock ^'^ to shend,^i ^\^[^ jiig.}jt jg he bom. 09 injury. 70 have done, quit. Ti nature. 72 walk; this was a fommon proverb, here signifying that nature will show itself true colors. 73 trick. 74 be named. 7.5 make. 70 afterwards. 77 bewitched. 78 revenged. 79 i.e. by the fairies, and a changeling substituted. 80 changed in shape. 81 agreed together. 82 have them put to death. 83 strike. 84 I shall be in your power. 85 curse nor wrangle. 80 consider. 87 grieve. 88 gracious. 89 that which. 90 fiend. 91 overthrow. THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 29 God is made your friend now at this morn. He behests ^- To Bedlem ^^ go see, There lies that free ^^ In a crib full poorly, Betwixt two beasts. Shep. This was a quaint steven ^^ that ever yet I heard. It is a marvel to neven,"^ thus to be scared. Shep. Of Grod's son of heaven, he spake upward. All the wood in a levin,^^ methought that he gard ^® Appear. Shep. He spake of a bairn In Bedlem, I you warn. Shep. That betokens yond star; Let us seek him there. Shep. Say, what was his song? Heard ye not how he cracked it, Three breves to a long? ^^ Shep. Yea, many, he hacked ^ it. Was no crochet wrong-, nor nothing that lacked it. Shep. For to sing us among, right as he knaeked - it, I can. Shep. Let see how ye croon. Can ye bark at the moon"? Shep. Hold your tongues, have done ! Shep. Hark after, then. 2 Shep. To Bedlem he bade that we should gang ; ^ I am full feared that we tarry too long. 3 Shep. Be merry and not sad ; of mirth is our song, Everlasting glad to meed may we fang * Without noise. 1 Shep. Hie we thither forthy,^ If we be wet and weary, To that child and that lady : We have it not to lose. 2 Shep. We find by the prophecy — let be your din ! — Of David and Isaiah, and more than I mind. They prophesied by clergy, that in a virgin Should he light and lie, to slocken ^ our sin And slake it, Our kind from woe; For Isaiah said so, Ecce virgo Concipiet a child that is naked. Shep. Full glad may we be and abide that day. That lovely to see that all mights may.'^ Lord, well were me for once and for ay. Might I kneel on my knee some word for to say To that child. But the angel said In a crib was he laid. He was poorly arrayed, Both meek ^ and mild. Shep. Patriarchs that have been, and prophets befoi^e, They desired to have seen this child that is born. They are gone full clean ; that have they lorn. We shall see him, I ween, ere it be mora, To token.9 When I see him and feel, Then wot I full well It is true as steel That prophets have spoken : To so poor as we are that he would ap- l^ear, First find, and declare by his messenger. Shep. Go we now, let us fare ; the place is us near. Shep. I am ready and yare,^" go we in fere ^^ To that bright.i2 Lord, if thy will it be. We are lewd,^^ all three; Thou grant us somekind glee, To comfort thy wight. [Scene 8. The stable in Bethlehem.] Shep. Hail, comely and clean! hail, young child ! Hail, Maker, as I mean, of a maiden so mild ! Thou hast waried,^* I ween, the warlock so wild. !i2 commands. 03 Bethlehem. 94 noble (child). 95 voice. 96 name 97 in a flash of lightning. 98 made. 99 three short notes to one long note. 1 sang. 2 trilled. 3 go. 4 everlasting "*■ glad- ness may we take as our reward. 5 therefore. 6 do away with. 7 to see that lovely one that shall have all power. 8 Ms. tnener ; Kitt- redge's emenda- tion. 9 for evidence. 10 prepared. 11 together. 12 supply "one" or "child." 13 ignorant. 14 banned. 30 THE MIDDLE AGES The false guiler of teen/^ now goes he I bring thee but a ball; beguiled. Have and play thee with all. Lo, he merries ! ^^ And go to the tennis. Lo, he laughs, my sweeting! A welfare ^^ meeting! Mary. The Father of Heaven, God om- I have holden my highting.^^ nipotent. Have a bob of cherries ! That set all on seven,-* his son has he sent. 2 Shep. Hail, sovereign savior, for thou My name could he neven,-^ and alighted has us sought! ere he went. Hail, freely 13 f ood =° and flower, that I conceived him full even, through might, all-thing has wrought! as he meant ; Hail, full of favor, that made all of And now he is born. nought ! He keep you from woe ! Hail ! I kneel and I cower. A bird have I shall pray him so; I brought Tell forth as ye go. To my bairn. And mind on this mom. Hail, little tiny mop,-i Of our creed thou art crop ! -^ 1 Shep. Farewell, lady, so fair to behold, I would drink in thy cup. With thy child on thy knee. Little day-star! 2 Shep. But he lies full cold. Lord, well is me! now we go, thou be- 3 Shep. Hail, darling dear, full of god- hold. head ! 3 Shep. Forsooth, already it seems to be I pray thee be near, when that I have told need. Full oft. Hail! sweet is thy cheer! My heart 1 Shep. What grace we have found ! would bleed 2 Shep. Come forth, now are we won.^^ To see thee sit here in so poor weed, 3 Shep. To sing are we bound : With no pennies. Let take on loft.-'^ Hail ! put forth thy dall ! -^ [Exeunt.'] 15 woe. Ifi is merry. 17 happy. 18 kept my promise. m noble. 20 child (that which is fed ) . 21 moppet, darling. 22 flower. 23 hand. 24 completed the work of creation in seven days. 25 did he name. 26 successful in our quest. 27 let it ring on high. THE MORALITY EVERYMAN The morality is, by the most recent and most exact definition (W. R. Mackenzie in The English Moralities) "a play allegorical in structure, which has for its main object the teaching of some lesson for the guidance of life, and in which the principal characters are personified abstractions or highly uni- versalized types." It will be readily seen that the morality differs from the miracle in several important respects. Whereas in the typical miracle, the writer found his ma- terial arranged to his hand and took his plot, his chief characters, and sometimes the basis for his dialogue, from the Bible narrative, the author of the morality, though he fre- quently had recourse for plot to the moral allegories of which the Middle Ages were so fond, was compelled to rely more upon his own invention. The purpose of the miracle was to familiarize the audience with Bible history and the doctrines of the church ; the morality was equally didactic but its teach- ing was more abstract. The people of the miracle were historical and real, in the sense that they stepped straight out of the Bible to the stage, where, to be sure, they were sometimes joined by such thoroughly Elig- lish figures as those of the Second Shepherds' Play ; the personages of the morality were virtues and vices acting in accordance with their names, or types of humanity in general, and thus by nature had somewhat less of individuality and human appeal. In one re- spect, however, the conception of character in the morality is stronger than that in the miracle. The morality is based on the idea that character is not static, but subject to change and development; the element of con- flict between vice and virtue, wisdom and folly, at the heart of the morality, is of the very essence of drama. Though the morality is a younger type than the miracle, it must not be thought of as an evolution from the older didactic drama. It was in all probability of inde- pendent origin, springing up apparently about the beginning of the fifteenth century. The oldest surviving example is The Castle of Perseverance, dating from about 1400. Four other moralities are assigned to the fifteenth century; during the sixteenth the type at- tained considerable popularity, and the middle fifty years of that century may be called the morality's heyday. The morality plays may be classified in several groups on the basis of allegorical 31 structure, as follows (the classification is Mackenzie's) : 1, those which depict a conflict between virtues and vices for supremacy, or for the possession of man; 2, those which illustrate a special text; 3, those which give warning of the summons of death; 4, those which take one side of a religious or political controversy. Of the first and largest class, The Castle of Perseverance is a good example : the seven cardinal virtues defend the castle and its lord Mankind against the attack of the seven deadly sins. Not all the warfare of the morality stage symbolized the struggle everlasting of man's spiritual nature; John Bedford's excellent Wit and Science, wherein Science (Learning) and Idleness are at odds over the young gallant Wit, is one of several plaj's in which the strife is intellectual rather than spiritual. Such plays, in their pur- pose to popularize the new learning, show the spirit of the Renascence; advocates and opponents of the Reformation also discov- ered that the stage could be made to serve for propaganda, and there result such morali- ties, in the fourth of our classes, as Lynd- say's political Satire of the Three Estates and Bishop Bale's violently anti-papal Kyng Jolvan. The second class, (which may be typified by All for Money, illustrating the text " The love of money is the root of all evil "), is small and imimportant; the third is even smaller, comprising but two plays, but of these one is the finest of all the moralities, Everyman. To revert to our definition, it is evident that Everyman is allegorical in structure, and that it teaches a lesson for the guidance of life. Apart from the general didacticism, there are passages upholding specific doc- trines and practices of the church — e.g., Everyman's confession and penance (pp. 40-1 ) , the enumeration of the seven sacra- ments, the praise of the priesthood immedi- ately following. These passages, which con- vey the specific ecclesiastical moral of the efficacy of the sacraments, doubtless point to clerical composition. Of the characters, God is individual, with nothing of the typi- cal or abstract about him, Everyman is a highly universalized type, Friendship, Kin- dred and Cousin are also types, while the others are abstractions. Only Everyman hims3lf possesses much vitality, but the de- velopment of his character is done with force and skill. The way in which his first gay nonchalance shades into a daAvning compre- 32 THE MIDDLE AGES hension of his danger as he comes to under- stand the seriousness of Death's summons, his increasing panic as one after another of his false friends deserts him, until he breaks out in an appeal of genuine terror — Good Deeds, I pray you, help me in this need, Or else I am for ever damned indeed — his relief when Knowledge promises to stand by him, his pious assurance of well-being after he has received the sacraments, and the fresh access of fear when his bodily faculties leave him fainting on the brink of the grave — this true picture of human life is presented with grim earnestness, yet with a sympathy which grips the heart. The real power of Everyman lies in its universal appeal — it comes home to men's business and bosoms. The modern revival of the play gave con- vincing proof that the morality was not the lifeless shell it has often been made out, and rendered quite intelligible the hold it had upon sixteenth-century audiences. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS God. Goods. Discretion. Death. Good Deeds. Five-Wits. Everyman. Knowledge. Angel. Fellowship. Confession. Messenger. Kindred. Beauty. Doctor. Cousin. Strength. Here heginneth a treatise how the High Father of Heaven sendeth Death to sum- mon every creature to come and give ac- count of their lives in this world and is in manner of a moral play. Messenger. I pray you all give your audi- ence, And hear this matter with reverence, By figure ^ a, moral play : The Summoning of Everyman called it is, That of our lives and ending shows How transitory we be all day. This matter is wondrous precious, But the intent of it is more gracious, And sweet to bear away. The story saith : — Man, in the beginning. Look well, and take good heed to the ending. Be you never so gay; Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet, Which in the end eauseth the soul to weep. When the body lieth in clay. Here shall you see how Fellowship and Jollity, Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty, Will fade from thee as flower in May. For ye shall hear, how our heaven king 1 in form. Calleth Eveiyman to a general reckon- ing: Give audience, and hear what he doth say. God speaketh. God. I perceive here in my majesty, How that all creatures be to me unkind, Living without dread in worldly pros- perity ; Of ghostly - sight the people be so blind. Drowned in sin, they know me not for their God; In worldly liches is all their mind. They fear not my righteousness, the sharp rod ; My law that I showed, when I for them died, They forget clean, and shedding of my blood red; I hanged between two, it cannot be de- nied ; To get them life I suffered to be dead; I healed their feet, with thorns hurt was my head ; I could do no more than I did truly. And now I see the people do clean for- sake me: They use the seven deadly sins damn- able, 2 spiritual. THE MOEAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 33 As pride, covetise, wrath, and lechery, Now in the world be made commenda- ble, And thus they leave of ang-els the heav- enly comi^any; Every man liveth so after his own pleas- ure, And yet of their life they be nothing sure. I see the more that I them forbear The worse they be from year to year; Ail that liveth appaireth ^ fast ; Therefore I will in all the haste Have a reckoning of every man's per- son. For and "* I leave the people thus alone In their life and wicked tempests. Verily they will become much worse than beasts. For now one would by envy another up eat; Charity they all do clean forget. I hoped well that every man In my glory should make his mansion. And thereto I had them all elect; But now I see, like traitors deject. They thank me not for the pleasure that I to them meant. Nor yet for their being that I them have lent. I proffered the people great multitude of mercy. And few there be that ask it heartily; They be so cumbered with worldly riches, That needs on them I must do justice, On every man living without fear. Where art thou. Death, thou mighty mes- senger *? Death. Almighty God, I am here at your will, Your commandment to fulfil. God. Go thou to Everyman, And show him in my name A pilgrimage he must on him take. Which he in no wise may escape ; And that he bring' with him a sure reck- oning: Without delay or any tarrying. Death. Lord, I will in the world go run over all, And cruelly out search both great and small. Every man will I beset that liveth beastly Out of God's laws, and dreadeth not folly. He that loveth riches I will strike with my dart, His sight to blind, and from heaven to depart,^ Except that alms be his good friend, In hell for to dwell, world without end. Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking; Full little he thinketh on my coming; His mind is on fleshly lusts and his treas- ure, And great pain it shall cause him to en- dure Before the Lord, Heaven King. Enter Everyman. Everyman, stand still! Whither art thou going Thus gaily"? Hast thou thy Maker for- got? Everyman. Why askest thou? Wouldest thou wit "? ® Death. Yea, sir, I will show you; In great haste I am sent to thee From God, out of his majesty. Every. What, sent to me? Death. Yea, certainly. Though thou have forgot him here. He thinketh on thee in the heavenly sphere. As, ere we depart, thou shalt know. Every. What desireth God of me? Death. That shall I show thee: A reckoning he will needs have, Without any longer respite. Every. To give a reckoning longer leisure I crave ; This blind matter troubleth my wit. Death. On thee thou must take a long journey ; Therefore thy book of count with thee thou bring. For turn again thou can not by no way; And look thou be sure of thy reckoning, For before God thou shalt answer, and show Thy many bad deeds and good but a few, How thou hast spent thy life, and in what wise, Before the chief lord of paradise. Have ado that we were in that way. For, wit thou well, thou shalt make none attorney.''^ Every. Full unready I am such reckoning to give. I know thee not ; what messenger art thou? Death. I am Death, that no man dreadeth. For every man I rest,^ and no man spare; S decays. 4 if. B separate. 6 know. 7 advocate. 8 arrest. 34 THE MIDDLE AGES For it is God's commandment That all to me should be obedient. Every. O Death, thou comest when I had thee least in mind ! In thy power it lieth me to save; Yet of my good ^ will I give thee, if thou will be kind, Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have, And defer this matter till another day. Death. Evei-yman, it may not be by no way. I set not by gold, silver, nor riches, Nor by pope, emperor, king, duke, nor princes ; For and I would receive gifts great. All the world I might get, But my custom is clean contrary. I give thee no respite; come hence, and not tarry. Every. Alas, shall I have no longer respite ? I may say Death giveth no warning. To think on thee, it maketh my heart sick, For all unready is my book of reekon- But twelve year and I might have abid- ing, My counting book I would make so cleai", That my reckoning I should not need to fear. Wherefore, Death, I pray thee, for God's mercy. Spare me till I be provided of remedy. Death. Thee availeth not to cry, weep, and pray. But haste thee lightly that thou were gone that journey, And prove thy friends if thou can. For, wit thou well, the tide abideth no man, And in the world each living creature For Adam's sin must die of nature. Every. Death, if I should this pilgrimage take. And my reckoning surely make, Show me, for saint ^° charity. Should I not come again shortly? Death. No, Everyman ; and thou be once there. Thou mayst never more come here. Trust me verily. Every. gracious God, in the high seat celestial. Have mercy on me in this most need ! Shall I have no company from this vale terrestrial Of mine acquaintance that way me to lead? Death. Yea, if any be so hardy. That would go with thee and bear thee company. Hie thee that thou were gone to God's magnificence. Thy reckoning to give before his pres- ence. What, weenest thou thy life is given thee. And thy worldly goods also"? Every. I had wend " so, verily. Death. Nay, nay ; it was but lent thee ; For as soon as thou art gone. Another a while shall have it, and then go therefrom, Even as thou hast done. Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast thy wits five. And here on earth will not amend thy life! For suddenly I do come. Every. wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee, That I might scape this endless sorrow? Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-mor- row, That I may amend me With good advisement. Death. Nay, thereto I will not consent. Nor no man will I respite ; But to the heart suddenly I shall smite Without any advisement. And now out of thy sight I will me hie; See thou make thee ready shortly, For thou maj'st say this is the day That no man living may scape away. Every. Alas! I may well weep with sighs deep; Now have I no manner of company To help me in my journey, and me to keep ; And also my writing is full unready. How shall I do now for to excuse me? I would to God I had never been gotten ! To my soul a full gTeat profit it had been, For now I fear pains huge and great. The time passeth; Lord, help, that all wrought ! For though I mourn it availeth nought. The day passeth, and is almost agone; I wot not well what for to do. To whom were I best my complaint to make ? What and I to Fellowship thereof spake, And showed him of this sudden chance? For in him is all mine affiance ; ^^ 9 property. 10 holy. 11 thought. 12 confidence. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 35 We have in the world so many a day Been good friends in sport and play. I see him yonder, certainly; I trust that he will bear me company; Therefore to him will I speak to ease my sorrow. Well met, good Fellowship, and good morrow ! Fellowship speaketh. Everyman, good morrow ! By this day, Sir, why lookest thou so piteously? If any thing be amiss, I pray thee me say, That I may help to remedy. Every. Yea, good Fellowship, yea, I am in great jeopardy. Fellow. My true friend, show to me your mind; I will not forsake thee, to my life's end. In the way of good company. Every. That was well spoken, and lov- ingly. Fellow. Sir, I must needs know your heaviness ; I liave pity to see you in any distress. If any have you wronged ye shall re- venged be. Though I on the ground be slain for thee, Though that I know before that I should die. Every. Verily, Fellowship, gramercy.^^ Fellow. Tush ! by thy thanks I set not a straw. Show me your grief, and say no more. Every. If I my heart should to you break. And then you to turn your mind from me, And would not me comfort, when ye hear me speak, Then should I ten times sorrier be. Felloio. Sir, I say as I will do indeed. Every. Then be you a good friend at need. T have found you ti'ue here before. Fellow. And so ye shall evemnore; For, in faith, and thou go to hell, I will not forsake thee by the way. Every. Ye speak like a good friend, I be- lieve you well ; I shall deserve it, and I may. Felloxc. I speak of no deserving, by this day. For he that will say and nothing do Is not worthy with good company to go. Therefore show me the grief of your mind. 13 thanks. 14 God. 15 frighten. 16 living. 17 loathsome As to your friend most loving and kind. Every. I shall show you how it is: Commanded I am to go a journey, A long way, hard and dangerous. And give a strait count without delay Before the high judge Adonai.^* Wherefore I pray you, bear me com- pany. As ye have promised, in this journey. Fellow. That is matter indeed ! Promise is duty. But and I should take such a voyage on me, I know it well, it should be to my pain ; Also it makes me afeard, certain. But let us take counsel here as well as we can, For your words would fear ^^ a strong man. Every. Why, ye said, if I had need. Ye would me never forsake, quick ^^ nor dead. Though it were to hell, truly. Fellow. So I said, certainly. But such pleasures be set aside, the sooth to say; And also, if we took such a journey, When should we come again 1 Every. Nay, never again till the day of doom. Fellow. In faith, then will not I come there ! Who hath you these tidings brought*? Every. Indeed, Death was with me here. Fellow. Now, by God that all hath bought. If Death were the messenger. For no man that is living to-day I will not go that loath ^^ journey — Not for the father that begat me! Every. Ye promised other wise, pardie ! ^^ Felloio. I wot well I say so, truly; And yet if thou wilt eat, and drink, and make good cheer, Or haunt to women the lusty company, I would not forsake you while the day is eleai', Trust me verily ! Every. Yea, thereto ye would be ready; To go to mirth, solace, and play. Your mind will sooner apply. Than to bear me company in my long journey. Fellow. Now, in good faith. I will not ^^ that way. But and thou will murder, or any man kill, 18 par Dieu. 19 have no desire. 36 THE MIDDLE AGES In that I will help thee with a good will ! Every. Oh, that is a simple advice indeed ! Gentle Fellow, help me in my necessity; We have loved long', and now I need; Ajid now, gentle Fellowshij?, remember me. Fellow. Whether ye have loved me or no, By Saint John, I will not with thee go ! Every. Yet I pray thee, take the labor and do so much for me To bring" me fonvard, for saint charity, And comfort me till I come without the town. Fellow. Nay, and thou would give me a new gown, I will not a foot with thee go; But and thou had tarried, I would not have left thee so. And as now, God speed thee in thy jour- ney! For from thee I will dej^art as fast as I may. Every. Whither away, Fellowshii? ? will thou forsake me"? Fellow. Yea, by my fay ! =» To God I be- take 2^ thee. Every. Farewell, good Fellowship; for thee my heart is sore. Adieu for ever, I shall see thee no more. Fellow. In faith, Everyman, farewell now at the end; For you I will remember that parting is mourning. Every. Alack! shall we thus depart in- deed 1 Ah, Lady, help ! without any more com- fort, Lo, Fellowship foi'saketh me in my most need. For help in this world whither shall I resort"? Fellowship herebefore with me would merry make, And now little sorrow for me doth he take. It is said, in prosperity men friends may find. Which in adversity be full unkind. Now whither for succor shall I flee, Sith22 that Fellowship hath forsaken me? To my kinsmen I will ti'uly, Praying them to help me in my neces- sity; I believe that they will do so. For kind ^^ will creep where it may not go.24 I will g'o say,^^ for yonder I see them go. Where be ye now, my friends and kins- men ? Kindred. Here be we now at your com- mandment. Cousin, I pray you show us your intent In any wise, and not spare. Cousin. Yea, Everyman, and to us declare If ye be disj^osed to go any whither, For wit you well, [we] will live and die together. Kin. In wealth and woe we will with you hold. For over his kin a man may be bold. Every. Gramercy, my friends and kins- men kind; Now shall I show you the grief of my mind. I was commanded by a messenger. That is an high king's chief officer: He bade me go a pilgrimage to my pain. And I know well I shall never come again ; Also I must give a reckoning strait, For I have a great enemy that hath me in wait,-*^ Which intendeth me for to hinder. Kin. What account is that which ye must render ? That would I know. Every. Of all my works I must show How I have lived and my days spent ; Also of ill deeds, that I have used In my time, sith life was me lent; And of all virtues that I have refused. Therefore I pray you go thither with me, To help to make mine account, for saint charity. Cous. What, to go thither? Is that the matter? Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread and water All this five year and more. Every. Alas, that ever I was born! For now shall I never be meriy If that you forsake me. Kin. Ah, sir, what, ye be a merry man ! Take good heart to you, and make no moan. But one thing I warn you, by Saint Anne, 20 faith. 21 commend. 22 since. 23 kinship. 24 walk; the line is a proverbial ex- pression of the idea that blood-re- lationship will compel assistance, even though the latter be given unwillingly. Cf, Second Shep- herds' Play, p, 28. 25 assay, try. 26 lies in wait for me. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 37 As for me, ye shall go alone. Every. My Cousin, will yon not with me go"? Cous. No, by our Lady ! I have the cramp in my toe. Trust not to me, for, so God me speed, I will deceive you in your most need. Kin. It availeth not us to tiee.^''^ Ye shall have my maid with all my heart ; She loveth to go to feasts, there to be niee,-^ And to dance, and abroad to start : I will give her leave to help you in that journey, If that you and she may agree. Every. Now show me the very effect of your mind ; Will you go with me, or abide behind'? Kin. Abide behind'? yea, that will I and I may! Therefore farewell till another day. Every. How should I be merry or glad"? For fair promises men to me make, But when I have most need, they me for- sake. I am deceived; that maketh me sad. Cous. Cousin Everyman, farewell now. For verily I will not go with you. Also of mine own an unready reckoning I have to account; therefore I make tari-ying. Now, God keep thee, for now I go. Every. Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto *? Lo, fair words make fools fain ; They promise, and nothing will do cer- tain. My kinsmen promised me faithfully For to abide with me steadfastly, And now fast away do they flee : Even so Fellowship promised me. What friend were best me of to pro- vide? I lose my time here longer to abide. Yet in my mind a thing there is — All my life I have loved riches; If that my Good now help me might. He would make my heart full light. I will speak to him in this distress. — Where art thou, my Goods and Riches'? Goods. Who calleth me'? Everyman'? what hast thou haste'? I lie hei'e in corners, trussed and piled so high. And in chests I am locked so fast, Also sacked in bags, thou mayst see with thine eye. I cannot stir; in packs low I lie. What would ye have, lightly me say. Every. Come hither, Good, in all the haste thou may, For of counsel I must desire thee. Goods. Sir, and ye in the world have sor- row or adversity. That can I help you to remedy shortly. Every. It is another disease that grieveth me; In this world it is not, I tell thee so. I am sent for another way to go, To give a strait count general Before the highest Jupiter -^ of all. And all my life I have had joy and pleasure in thee. Therefore I pray thee go with me ; For, peradventure, thou mayst before God Almighty My reckoning help to clean and purify, For it is said ever among, That money maketh all right that is wrong. Goods. Nay, Everyman, I sing another song, I follow no man in such voyages; For and I went with thee. Thou shouldst fare much tlie worse for me; For because on me thou did set thy mind, Thy reckoning I have made blotted and blind, That thine account thou can not make truly ; And that hast thou for the love of me. Every. That would grieve me full sore, When I should come to that fearful an- swer. Up, let us go thither together! Goods. Nay, not so ; I am too brittle, I may not endure ; I will follow [no] man one foot, be ye sure. Every. Alas, I have thee loved, and had great pleasure All my life-days in good and treasure. Goods. That is to thy damnation without lesing,^'' For my love is contrary to the love ever- lasting. But if thou had me loved moderately during,^^ As ^~ to the poor give part of me, Then shouldst thou not in this dolor be. Nor in this great sorrow and care. 27 entice. -8 wanton. 29 A curious intrusion of the name of the pagan deity. 30 lying. 31 for a while. ^2 in such a way as. 38 THE MIDDLE AGES Every. Lo, now was I deceived ere I was ware. And all I may wite ^^ my spending of time. Goods. What, weenest thou that I am thine? Every. I had wend so. Goods. Nay, Everyman, I say no; As for a while I was lent thee, A season thou hast had me in prosper- ity- ... My condition is man's soul to kill ; If I save one, a thousand I do spill,^* Weenest thou that I will follow thee? Nay, from this world not verily. Every. I had wend otherwise. Goods. Therefore to thy soul Good is a thief; For when thou art dead, this is my guise "^ — Another to deceive in the same wise As I have done thee, and all to his soul's reprief.^^ Every. false Good, cursed thou be ! Thou traitor to God, that hast deceived me. And caught me in thy snare. Goods. Marry, thou brought thyself in care, Whereof I am glad, I must needs laugh, I cannot be sad. Every. Ah, Good, thou hast had long my heartly love; I gave thee that which should be the Lord's above. But wilt thou not go with me in deed? I pray thee truth to say. Goods. No, so God me speed, Therefore farewell, and have good day. Every. Oh, to whom shall I make my moan For to go with me in that heavy journey? First Fellowship said he Avould with me go; His words were very pleasant and gay. But afterward he left me alone. Then spake I to my kinsmen all in de- spair, And also they gave me words fair. They lacked no fair speaking, But all forsake me in the ending. Then went I to my Goods, that I loved best. In hope to have comfort, but there had I least; For my Goods sharply did me tell 33 blame to. 34 destroy. 35 practice. 3G reproof, shame 37 by my advice. That he bringeth many into hell. Then of myself I was ashamed, And so I am worthy to be blamed ; Thus may I well myself hate. Of whom shall I now counsel take? I think that I shall never speed Till that I go to my Good-Deed. But alas, she is so weak. That she can neither go nor speak ; Yet will I venture on her now. — My Good-Deeds, where be you? Good-Deeds. Here I lie, cold in the ground ; Thy sins have me sore bound, That I cannot stir. Every. Good-Deeds, I stand in fear; I must you pray of counsel. For help now should come right well. Good-D. Everyman, I have understanding That ye be summoned account to make Before Messias, of Jerusalem King; And you do by me ^^ that journey with you will I take. Every. Therefore I come to you, my moan to make ; I pray you that ye will go with me. Good-D. I would full fain, but I cannot stand, verily. Every. Wliy, is there anything on you fallen'? Good-D. Yea, sir, I may thank you of all; 38 If ye had perfectly cheered ^^ me. Your book of count now full ready had been. Look, the books of your works and deeds eke — Ah, see how they lie under the feet. To your soul's heaviness. Every. Our Lord Jesus, help me ! For one letter here I can not see. Good-D. There is a blind reckoning in time of distress ! Every. Good-Deeds, I pray you, help me in this need. Or else I am for ever damned indeed. Therefore help me to make reckoning Before the redeemer of all thing, That king is, and was, and ever shall. Good-D. Everyman, I am sorrv of your fall. And fain would I help you, and I were able. Every. Good-Deeds, your counsel I pray you give me. Good-D. That shall I do verily; 38 for everything. 39 cherished. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 39 Though that on my feet I may not go, I have a sister, that shall with you also, Called Knowledge, which shall with you abide, Tef^iielp you to make that dreadful reek- l/^ oning'. Knowledge. Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, In thy most need to go by thy side. Every. In good condition I am now in every thing. And am wholly content with this good thing; Thanked be God my Creator! Good-D. And when he hath brought you there. Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart. Then go you with your reckoning and your Good-Deeds together. For to make you joyful at heart Before the blessed Trinity. Every. My Good-Deeds, gramerey; I am well content, certainly. With your words sweet. Know. Now go we together lovingly. To Confession, that cleansing- river. Every. For joy I weep; I would we were there. But, I pray you, give me cognition *° Where dwelleth that holy man, Confes- sion. Knoiv. In the house of salvation: We shall find him in that place, That shall us comfort by God's grace. — Enter Confession. Lo, this is Confession. Kneel down and ask mercy. For he is in good conceit *^ with God almighty. Every. glorious fountain that all uu- eleanness doth clarify, Wash me from the spots of vice unclean, That on me no sin may be seen. I come with Knowledge for my redemp- tion, Redempt with heai'ty and full contrition ; For I am commanded a pilgTimage to take. And great accounts before God to make. Now, I pray you, Shrift,'*- mother of sal- vation, Help my good deeds for my piteous ex- clamation. Confession. I know your sorrow well, Everyman ; •10 knowledge. 41 favor. 42 absolution. Because with Knowledge ye come to me, I will you comfort as well as I can. And a precious jewel I will give thee, Called penance, voider ''^ of adversity ; Therewith shall your body chastised be, With abstinence and perseverance in God's service : Here shall you receive that scourge of me, Which is penance strong, that ye must endure, To remember thy Savior was scourged for thee With sharp scourges, and suffered it pa- tiently ; So must thou, ere thou scajie that pain- ful ijilgrimage. Knowledge, keep him in this voyage. And by that time Good-Deeds will be with thee. But in any wise, be sicker '^^ of mercy. For your time draweth fast ; and ye will saved be. Ask God mercy, and He will grant truly. When with the scourge of penance man doth him bind, The oil of forgiveness then shall he find. Every. Thanked be God for his gracious work. For now I will my penance begin ; This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart, Though the knots be painful and hard within. Knoiv. Everyman, look your penance that ye fulfil. What pain that ever it to you be. And Knowledge shall give you counsel at will, How your account ye shall make clearly. Every. O eternal God, heavenly figure, way of righteousness, goodly vision. Which descended down in a virgin pure Because he would Everyman redeem, Which Adam forfeited by his disobedi- ence, blessed Godhead, elect and high-divine. Forgive my grievous offence ; Here I cry thee mercy in this presence. ghostly treasui^e, ransomer and re- deemer, Of all the world hope and conductor, Mirror of joy, founder of mercy. Which illumineth heaven and earth thereby, Hear my clamorous complaint, though it late be ! 43 MS. voice voider; probably a 44 sure, scribal error. 40 THE MIDDLE AGES Receive my prayers; unworthy in this heavy life Though I be, a sinner most abominable, Yet let my name be wi-itten in Moses' table. Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing. Me for to help at my ending, And save me from the power of my enemy, For Death assaileth me strongly; And, Lady, that I may by means of thy prayer Of your Son's glory to be partner, By the means of his passion I it crave, 1 beseech you, help my soul to save ! — Knowledge, give me the scourge of penance. My flesh therewith shall give acquaint- ance. I will now begin, if God give me grace. Know. Eyeryman, God give you time and space : Thus I bequeath you in the hands of our Savior, Now may you make your reckoning sure. Every. Li the name of the Holy Trinity, My body sore punished shall be : {Scourges himself.) Take this, body, for the sin of the flesh ; Also thou delightest to go gay and fresh. And in the way of damnation thou did me bring; Therefore suffer now strokes of punish- ing. Now of penance I will wade the water clear. To save me from purgatory, that sharp fire. Good-D. I thank God, now I can walk and go, And am delivered of my sickness and woe. Therefore with Everyman I will go, and not spare; His good works I will help him to de- clare. Know. Now, Everyman, be merry and glad ; Your Good-Deeds cometh now, ye may not be sad ; Now is your Good-Deeds whole and sound. Going upright upon the ground. Every. My heart is light, and shall bo evermore ; Now will I smite faster than I did be- fore. Good-D. Everyman, pilgrim, my special friend. Blessed be thou without end ; For thee is prepared the eternal glory. Ye have me made whole and sound. Therefore I will bide by thee in every stound.*^ Every. Welcome, my Good-Deeds! Now I hear thy voice, I weep for very sweetness of love. Know. Be no more sad, but ever rejoice : God seeth thy living in his throne above. Put on this gannent to tky behoof,'**^ Which is wet with your tears. Or else before God you may it miss, When ye to your journey's end come shall. Every. Gentle Knowledge, what do ye it call? Know. It is a garment of sorrow. From pain it will you borrow;*^ Contrition it is. That getteth forgiveness; It pleaseth God passing well. Good-D. Everyman, will you wear it for your healf (Everyman puts on rohe of contrition.) Every. Now blessed be Jesu, Mary's Son, For now have I on true contrition. And let us go now without tarrying. Good-Deeds, have we clear our reckon- ing 7 Good-D. Yea, indeed I have [it] here. Every. Then I trust we need not fear. Now, friends, let us not part in twain. Know. Nay, Everyman, that will we not, certain. Good-D. Yet must thou lead with thee Three persons of great might. Every. Who should they be? Good-D. Discretion and Strength tliey hight,-'^ And thy Beauty may not abide behind. Know. Also ye must call to mind Your Five-wits as for your counsellors. Good-D. You must have them ready at all hours. Every. How shall I get them hither? Know. You must call them all together, And they will hear you incontinent. . Every. My friends, come hither and be present. Discretion, Strength, my Five-wits, and Beauty. Beauty. Here at your will we be all ready. What will ye that we should do? ' 45 hour. 4G benefit. 47 redeem. 48 are called. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 41 Good-D. That ye would with Everyman 8'°' ..... And help him in his pilgrimage. Advise 3'ou, will ye with him or not in that voyage Strength. We will bring him all thither, To his help and comfort, ye may believe me. Discretion. So will we go with him all to- gether. Every. Almighty God, loved miglit thou be, I give thee laud that 1 have hillier brought Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five- wit.s; lack I nought; And my Good-Deeds, with Knowledge clear. All be in my comijany at my will here; I desire no more to my business. Stren. And I, Strength, will by you stand in distress. Though thou would in battle fight on the ground. Five-Wits. And though it were through the world round. We will not depart for sweet nor sour. Beau. No more will I unto death's hour, Whatsoever thereof befall. Discr. Everyman, advise you first of all, Go with a good advisement and deliber- ation. We all give you virtuous monition That all shall be well. Every. My friends, hearken what I will tell : I pray God reward you in his heavenly sphere. Now hearken, all that be here, For I will make my testament Here before you all present. In alms half my good I will give with my hands twain In the way of charity, with good intent. And the other half still shall remain In quethe *^ to be returned there it ought to be. This I do in despite of the fiend of hell, To go quite out of his peril Ever after and this day. Know. Everyman, hearken what I say; Go to Priesthood, I you advise, And receive of him in any wise The holy sacrament and ointment to- gether, Then shortly see ye turn again hither; We will all abide you here. 9 bequest. Five-W. Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye ready were. There is no emperor, king, duke, nor baron, That of God hath commission. As hath the least priest in the world being ; ^° For of the blessed sacraments pure and benign He beareth the keys, and thereof hath the cure For man's redemption, it is ever sure. Which God for our soul's medicine Gave us out of his heart with great pain. Here in this transitory life, for thee and me The blessed sacraments seven there be : Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood good, And the sacrament of God's precious fle.sh and blood, Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and penance ; These seven be good to have in remem- brance. Gracious sacraments of high divinity. Every. Fain would I receive that holy body. And meekly to my ghostly ^^ father I will go. Exit Everyman. Five-W. Everyman, that is the best that ye can do. God will you to salvation bring, For priesthood exceedeth all other thing; To us Holy Scripture they do teach, And convert man from sin, heaven to reach. God hath to them more power given. Than to any angel that is in heaven : With five words he may consecrate God's body in flesh and blood to make. And handleth his Maker between his hands. The priest bindeth and vmbindeth all bands. Both in earth and in heaven. Thou ministei's all the sacraments seven. Though we kiss thy feet thou were worthy. Thou art surgeon that cureth sin deadly: No remedy we find under God But all only priesthood. Everyman, God gave priests that dignity, And setteth them in his stead among us to be; r.o living. 5i spiritual. 42 THE MIDDLE AGES Thus be they above angels in degree. Know. If priests be good, it is so surely. But when Jesus hanged on the cross with great smart, There he gave, out of his blessed heart, The same sacrament in great torment; He sold them not to us, that Lord om- nipotent. Therefore Saint Peter the apostle doth say That Jesus' curse have all they Which God their Savior do buy or sell. Or they for any money do take or tell.^- Sinful priests give the sinners example bad, Their children sit by other men's fires, I have heard, And some haunt women's company, With unclean life, as lusts of lechery; These be with sin made blind. Five-W. I trust to God no such may we find. Therefore let us priesthood honor, And follow their doctrine for our souls' succor ; We be their sheep, and they shepherds be, By whom we all be kept in surety. Peace, for yonder I see Everyman come, Which hath made true satisfaction. Be-enter Everyman. Good-D. Methink it is he indeed. Every. Now Jesu be your alder speed. ^'^ I have received the sacrament for my re- demption. And then mine extreme unction : Blessed be all they that counselled me to take it ! And now, friends, let us go without longer respite; I thank God that ye have tarried so long. Now set each of you on this rod ^* your hand. And shortly follow me. I go before, there I would be; God be your guide. Stren. Everyman, we will not from you go, Till ye have done this voyage long. Discr. I, Discretion, will bide by you also. Know. And though this pilgrimage be never so strong,''^ I will never part you from. Everyman, I will be as sure by thee not this As ever I did by Judas Maccabee. Every. Alas, I am so faint I may stand, My limbs under me do fold. Friends, let us not turn again to land. Not for all the world's gold, For into this cave must I creep. And turn to earth and there to sleep. Beau. What, into this grave f alas! Every. Yea, there shall ye consume more and less. Beau. And what, should I smother here? Every. Yea, by my faith, and never more apjDear. In this world live no more we shall, But in heaven before the highest Lord of all. Beau. I cross out all this! Adieu, by Saint John ! I take my tap in my lap and am gone.^'^ Every. What, Beauty, whither will ye? Beau. Peace! I am deaf, I look not be- hind me. Not and thou wouldest give me all the gold in thy chest. Every. Alas, whereto may I trust? Beauty goeth fast away from me. She promised with me to live and die. Stren. Everyman, I will thee also forsake and deny; Thy game liketh ^'^ me not at all. Every. Why, then ye will forsake me all ! Sweet Strength, tarry a little space. Stren. Nay, sir, by the rood of grace, I will hie me from thee fast. Though thou weep to ^^ thy heart to- brast.59 Every. Ye would ever bide by me, ye said. Stren. Yea, I have you far enough con- veyed ; Ye be old enough, I understand. Your pilgrimage to take on hand. I repent me that I hither came. Every. Strength, you to displease I am to blame ; Will you break promise that is debt? Stren. In faith, I care not; Thou art but a fool to complain. You spend your speech and waste your brain ; Go, thrust thee into the ground ! Every. I had wend surer I should you have found. He that trusteth in his Strength, 52 count. 53 the help of you all. 54 rood, cross. 55 hard. 56 proverbial ex- pression for a hasty departure ; literally tap is a bunch of tow for spinning. •'" pleaseth. 5S till. DO break in pieces. THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 43 She him deceiveth at the length. Both Strength and Beauty forsake me. Yet they promised me fair and lovingly. Discr. Everyman, I will after Strength be gone. As for me I will leave you alone. Every. Why, Discretion, will ye forsake me"? Discr. Yea, in faith, I will go from thee, For when Strength goeth before I follow after evermore. Every. Yet, I pray thee, for the love of the Trinity, Look in my grave once piteously. Discr. Nay, so nigh will I not come. Farewell, every one ! Every. Oh, all thing faileth, save God alone. Beauty, Strength, and Discretion; For when Death bloweth his blast. They all run from me full fast. Five-W. Everyman, my leave now of thee I take; I will follow the other, for here I thee forsake. Every. Alas! then may I wail and weep, For I took you for my best friend. Five-W. I will no longer thee keep; Now farewell, and there an end. Every. Jesu, help ! all have forsaken me! Good-D. Nay, Everyman, I will bide with thee, I will not forsake thee indeed; Thou shalt find me a good friend at need. Every. Gramercy, Good-Deeds, now may I true friends see ; They have forsaken me every one, I loved them better than my Good-Deeds alone. Knowledge, will ye forsake me alsol Know. Yea, Everyman, when ye to death shall go ; But not yet for no manner of danger. Every. Gramercy, Knowledge, with all my heart. Know. Nay, yet I will not from hence depart, Till I see where ye shall be come. Every. Methink, alas, that I must be gone. To make my reckoning and my debts pay. For I see my time is nigh spent away. Take example, all ye that this do hear or see. How they that I love best do forsake me. Except my Good-Deeds that bideth truly. 60 cf. note on Doctor at Good-D. All earthly things is but vanity : Beauty, Strength, and Discretion, do man forsake. Foolish friends and kinsmen that fair spake, All flee save Good-Deeds, and that am I. Every. Have mercy on me, God most mighty, And stand by me, thou Mother and Maid, holy Mary, Good-D. Fear not, I will speak for thee. Every. Here I cry God mercy. Good-D. Short our end, and minish our pain ; Let us go and never come again. Every. Into thy hands, Lord, my soul I commend, Receive it. Lord, that it be not lost ! As thou me boughtest, so me defend. And save me from the fiend's boast, That I may appear with that blessed host That shall be saved at the day of doom. In mcinus tuas — of mights most For ever — commendo spintum meum. {Dies.) Know. Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure; The Good-Deeds shall make all sure. Now hath he made ending; Methinketh that I hear angels sing And make great joy and melody, Where Eveiyman's soul received shall be. Angel. Come, excellent elect spouse to Jesu ; Here above thou shalt go, Because of thy singular virtue. Now the soul is taken the body from Thy reckoning is crystal-clear. Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere. Unto the which all ye shall come That live well before the day of doom. Doctor.^^ This moral men may have in mind ; Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young, And forsake Pride, for he deceiveth you in the end. And remember Beauty, Five-wits, Strength, and Discretion, They all at the last do Eveiyman for- sake. Save his Good-Deeds, there doth he take. But beware, and they be small Before God, he hath no help at all. None excuse may be there for Everyman. end of Abraham and Isaac. 44 THE MIDDLE AGES Alas, bow shall he do then? For after death amends may no man make, For then mercy and pity do him forsake. If his reckoning be not clear when he doth come, God will say — Ite maledicti in ignem ceternum. And he that hath bis account whole and sound. High in heaven be shall be crowned; Unto which place God bring us all thither, That we may live body and soul together. Thereto help the Trinity ! Amen, say ye, for saint charity. FINIS Thus endeth this moral play of Everyman. 11. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD JOHN LYLY MOTHER BOMBIE John Lyly (c. 1554-160G), a Kentishmaii, educated at Oxford (B.A. 1573; M.A. 1575), made a great reputation with his didactic romance Euphues: the Anatomy of Wit, 1579, and its sequel Euphues and his England, 1580, which establislied in popular favor the artificial prose style called Euphuism. About 1580 was acted his first play, Alexander and Campaspe, and he continued to write for the stage for some fifteen years. He applied for the Mastership of the Revels, but failed to win the post. Between 1589 and 1601 he was a member of four parliaments. His impor- tance in English literature lies in his con- tributions to the development of prose style and of refined cofliedy. By the time that John Lyly inaugurated, with Alexander and Campaspe, the great period of Elizabethan drama, the leaven of the Renascence had l)een at work in England for three quarters of a century. Although the miracle play readied its full develop- ment quite unaffected by the new learning, the morality and the secular interlude (the latter as practised by John Heywood between 1520 and 1540), however vernacular they may be in form and spirit, show that the English drama was responding to influ- ences from abroad. Both at court, where humanism took hold early and where transla- tions of Latin comedy were actually per- formed before 1525, and in the schools and colleges, where the plays of Plautus and Ter- ence were studied, acted, and used for models, the rediscovered classics inspired court entertainers and pedagogues to adapta- tion and imitation. To Nicholas Udall be- longs the honor of writing, probably during his term of mastership at Eton, 1534-41, the first regular English comedy, Ralph Roister Doister. In this play Udall, adapting the Miles (iloriosiis of Plautus to English life, brings to comedy a sense of form lacking in miracle, morality, and interlude. Even so native a product as (lammer (lurton's Needle, 1552-3, a farce comedy of village life straight from the soil, was written by a fellow of Christ Church, Oxford, and exhibits in its division into acts and scenes the tendency to regularization. Tragedy, likewise, felt the classic infiuence: Gorboduc, 1562, is our first regular tragedy, English in subject-matter. but in manner patterned on the tragedies of Seneca. Tlie writers of the old didactic drama had vigor and sincerity and strong emotional appeal, but they had no master but experience, no critical facult}^ low artistic standards. To give it a permanent value the English drama needed conscious artists with professional pride and technical training. After some decades of experimental work like that named above, such an artist appeared in the person of Lyly. Lyly's university education and his con- nection with the court determined the style of his work. All but one of his eight plays employ classical material, and that one is done in the manner of Latin comedy. They are the work of a clever young college man, fired with enthusiasm by his reading of classical myth and Latin comedy, delighting in liis already established reputation as a witty master of prose, and ambitious to gain court favor. Edward Blount, who published six of Lyly's plays in 1632, called them " Court Comedies," and the term was well chosen. Tliey were well adapted to appeal to Elizabeth, learned, pleasure-loving, avid of flattery, and to her brilliant group of cour- tiers. Tliree of them deal in thinly veiled al- lusion with matters of court gossip : Endim- ion with the relations of Elizabeth with Mary, Queen of Scots, and her son James ; Hapho and Phao with the Due d'Alenc;on's vain ef- fort to win Elizabeth's hand in marriage; Midas with Piiilip of Spain and his ambition to win back England for Catholicism. Three others are pastoral comedies, using mj'tholog- ical story and figures, and adroitly flatter- ing the Queen. Alexander and Campaspe, presenting a romantic, pseudo-historical epi- sode in the life of Alexander the Great, is seemingly without ulterior purpose, as is the rustic farce-comedy. Mother Bombie. Allus- ive, witty, reflecting in tone the politeness of court manners, these plays were admirably adapted for their time and audience, and justify Lyly's reputation as our first dram- atist to write plays of real artistic value. The play which follows is unique in Lyly's work in that it presents English life and English people unhampered by mythological accessories. The scene is laid in Rochester, in Lyly's owh county of Kent. The occa- sional local allusions and the introduction of 45 46 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD homely figures like the village wise-woman, the hackneyman, and the fiddlers, add a pleas- ant touch of realism. In structure, however, the play is obviously modeled upon the Terentian comedy. No direct source has been found; indeed, the balanced complication of plot is more suggestive of invention than of borrowing. But the material, love-plots of children against their parents, aided by rog- uish servants, and the solution, by revela- tion of a long-concealed substitution of one pair of children for another, are reminiscent of Latin comedy. Then, too, in its approxi- mation to the unities of time, place, and action, the play shows Lyly's classical train- ing; although tlie theory of the unities was first formulated by the Italian critic Castel- vetro in 1570, it is based on the usual prac- tice of the Greek and Roman dramatists. The time is limited to two days in all, a reasonably close approach to the norm of Latin comedy. Unity of place is strictly ob- served, all the action occurring in an open square, about which are located the dwell- ings of the chief characters and the tavern. The only episode which can be objected to as in any way extraneous is the comic business of the hackneyman's suit against Dromio, surely no very serious interruption of the main action. As an early example, then, of classical method applied to English stutt', the play is historically important. Mother Bombie is the most complicated in structure of Lyly's plays. There are three main lines of action — the love-affair of Candius and Livia, opposed by their parents and forwarded by the pages; the proposed matches between Candius and Silena on the one hand, and Aceius and Livia on the other, furthered by the parents, real or supposed, thwarted by the pages, and nearly resulting in the betrothal of Aceius and Silena; the love-story of Msestius and Serena, appar- ently hopeless of fulfilment, but ending hap- pily in the revelation that they are not brother and sister, a discovery which legiti- mizes their union and renders impossible that of the foolish children. The tangling of these threads is done with no small skill, but the complication would be difficult for an audience to follow were it not for the con- stant comments on tlie situation of tlie mo- ment that Lyly puts into the mouths of the actors. Soliloquy and aside are used to their full capacity. The plotting is meclianical even to the paralleling of one scene by another in a manner recalling the use of balance and antithesis in one of Lyly's Euphuistic sen- tences. The first five scenes will serve for illustration. In scene one Memphio informs his servant Dromio of his desire to match his foolish son Aceius to the daughter of his neighbor Stellio, and bids Dromio set about the matter. In scene two Stellio informs his servant Riscio of his desire to match his foolish daughter Silena to the son of his neighbor Memphio, and entrusts the manage- ment of the affair to Riscio. In scene three Prisius and Sperantus agree that their chil- dren must not marry, and the plan of Sper- antus to marry his son Candius to Stellio's daughter finds correspondence in tlie plan of Prisius to marry his daughter Livia to Mem- phio's son. The love-scene between Candius and Livia is witnessed by the fathers, who cap the lovers' speeches with antiphonal com- ments, and each of whom, after disclosing himself, dismisses his offspring with a long reproof. In the first scene of act two Dromio and Riscio echo each other's very words as they reveal the parts they are to play, while Halfpenny and Lucio are no sooner desired than they appear, and the four depart into the tavern to lay out their cam- paign of cozenage. The scene following pre- sents the four scheming fathers entering severally in search of their respective serv- ants, and, after soliloquies of one pattern, disappearing into the tavern door which has already welcomed the boys. Like the Eu- phuistic sentence, nothing could be more pol- ished in its way, or more artificial. The double disguising in act four Lyly brings off with fair success. The approval of the betrothal of Candius and Livia by their fathers, the latter under the impres- sion that they are witnessing the plighting of Aceius and Silena, is truly comic and well managed. Tlie corresponding situation, which brings the climax of the complication in the unmasking of Aceius and. Silena by their fathers is almost too intricate to be quite effective; Lyly evades rather than solves his difficulty by huddling his main group off the stage before he has begun to get out of the situation all the fun there is in it. The denouement is brought about, as usual with Lyly, in brusk and mechani- cal fashion ; here the confession of Vicinia corresponds to the oracle which brings the solution in the three allegorical plays, and to the dens ex machina of the pastoral comedies. Lyly's curious method of group rather than individual characterization is well exempli- fied in Mother Bomhie. Here we have four old men, four knavish pages, three young couples, three fiddlers, three village types, two old women. The groups are somewhat dis- tinguished one from another, but inside the group distinction is almost lacking. Mem- phio and Stellio are rich, Prisius and Sper- antus are poor ; their occupations vary ; but beyond these trivial differences they all act and speak alike. The same is true of the pages, except that, as is customary in plays written for boys to perform, the sliarpest wit is given to the smallest boy, in this case Halfpenny. Such lack of individuality makes us feel about Lyly's people that they are puppets cleverly manipulated, not well rounded human beings. Candius and Livia, JOHN LYLY 47 MsEstius and Serena, are unsatisfactory lov- ers, because the artiticiality of their handling and their speech forbids real passion. As for Accius and Silena, idiocy seems to us scarcely to furnisli material for real comedy, but fools and madmen were regarded as legiti- mate game in an age when people of fashion found amusement in visiting the inmates of 13edlam. Mother Bombie is interesting as a type of the wise-woman, who appears in later Elizabethan inlays, but, except in so far as her oracular utterance urges Vicinia to con- fession, she has no influence on the action. Curious to a modern reader are the parade of schoolboy learning in the Latin quotations and the intolerable punning, more often sim- ulating than attaining wit. Here again we must remember that taste changes and make allowance for the author, a product of Renascence culture, and a conscious stylist, delighting in the use of language for its own sake, and writing for an audience which en- joyed hearing him " torture one poor word ten thousand ways." In general, the style of the play is less Euphuistic tlian that of its predecessors. Lyly tended more and more in his play-writing to abandon the niceties of Euphuism for a more natural style, and Mother Bombie, written about 1590, belongs to his later work. Moreover, Mother Bomhie seems not to have been performed at court, as the earlier plays had been, and the delicate sentence structure of Endimion was perhaps not altogether suited for a popular audience. MOTHER BOMBIE By JOHN LYLY NAMES OF THE CHAEACTERS Memphio, an avaricious old man. Stellio, a icealthy husbandman. Prisius, a fuller. Sperantus, a farmer. Candius, son to Sperantus. M^STius, son to Memphio; supposed son to Vicinia. Accius, supposed son to Memphio. Dromio, a boy, servant to Memphio. Riscio, a boy, servant to Stellio. Halfpenny, a boy, servant to Sperantus. Lucio, a boy, servant to Prisius. Synis, ^ Nasutus, I tJtree fiddlers. Bedunenus, J ACT L Scene 1. Enter Memphio and Dromio. Mem. Boy, there are three things that make my life miserable : a threadbare purse, a curst ^ wife, and a fool to my heir, Dro. Why then, sir, there are three medi- cines for these three maladies : a pike- staff to take a purse on the highway, a holly wand to brush eholer from my mis- tress' tongue, and a young wench for my young master; so that as your worship being wise begot a fool, so he, being a fool, may tread out a wise man. Mem. Aye; but, Dromio, these medicines bite hot on - great mischiefs ; for so 1 shrewish. Hackneyman, Sergeant. Scrivener. Livia, daughter to Prisius. Serena, daughter to Stellio; supposed daugh- ter to Vicinia. Silena, supposed daughter to Stellio. Vicinia, a nurse, mother to Accius and Silena. Mother Bombie, a fortune-teller. Rixula, a girl, servant to Prisius. Scene — Rochester : an open square or street. might I have a rope about my neck, horns upon my head, and in my house a litter of fools. Dro. Then, sir, you had best let some wise man sit on your son, to hatch him a good wit; they say if ravens sit on hens' eggs, the chickens will be black, and so forth. Blem. Why, boy, my son is out of the shell, and is grown a pretty cock. Dro. Carve him, master, and make him a capon, else all your breed will prove cox- combs. Mem. I marvel he is such an ass; he takes it not of his father. Dro. He may for any thing you know. Mem. Why, villain, dost thou think me a fool? Dro. no, sir; neither are you sure that you are his father. 2 are closely akin to. 48 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mem. Rascal, dost thou imagine thy mis- tress naught of her body? ^ Dro. No, but fantastical of her mind; and it may be when this boy was begotten she thought of a fool, and so conceived a fool, yourself being very wise, and she surpassing honest. Mem. It may be; for I have heard of an Ethiopian, that thinking of a fair pic- ture, brought forth a fair lady, and yet no bastard. Dro. You are well read, sir ; your son may be a bastard, and yet legitimate; your- self a cuckold, and yet my mistress vir- tuous; all this in conceit. Mem,. Come, Dromio, it is my grief to have such a son that must inherit my lands. Dro. He needs not, sir ; I '11 beg him for a fool.* Mem. Vile boy ! thy young master ? Dro. Let me have in ^ a device. Mem. I '11 have thy advice, and if it fadge,*' thou shalt eat till thou sweat, play till thou sleep, and sleep till thy bones ache. Dro. Aye, marry, now you tickle me, I am both hungry, gamesome, and sleepy, and all at once. I '11 break this head against the wall, but I '11 make it bleed good matter. Mem. Then this it is; thou knowest I have but one son, and he is a fool. Dro. A monstrous fool! Mem. A wife, and she an arrant scold. Dro. Ah, master, I smell your device; it will be excellent ! Mem. Thou canst not know it till I tell it. Dro. I see it through your brains. Your hair is so thin, and your skull so trans- parent, I may sooner see it than hear it. Mem. Then, boy, hast thou a quick wit, and I a slow tongue. But what is't? Dro. Many, either you would have your wife's tongue in your son's head, that he might be a prating fool ; or his brains in her brain pan, that she might be a fool- ish scold. Mem. Thou dreamest, Dromio ; there is no such matter. Thou knowest I have kept him close, so that my neighbors think hiin to be wise, and her to be temperate, be- cause they never heard them speak. Dro. Well"? Mem. Thou knowest that Stellio hath a good farm and a fair daughter; yea, so fair that she is mewed up,'' and only looketh out at the windows, lest she should by some roisting courtier be stolen away. Dro. So, sir. Mem. Now if I could compass a match be- tween my son and Stellio's daughter, by conference of us parents, and without theirs, I should be blessed, he cozened,® and thou forever set at liberty. Dro. A singailar conceit. Mem. Thus much for my son. Now for my wife: I would have this kept from her, else shall I not be able to keep my house from smoke ; for let it come to one of her ears, and then woe to both mine ! I would have her go to my house into the country whilst we conclude this, and this once done, I care not if her tongue never have done. These if thou canst effect, thou shalt make thy master happy. Dro. Think it done; this noddle shall coin such new device as you shall have your son married by to-morrow. Mem. But take heed that neither the father nor the maid speak to my son, for then his folly will mar all. Dro. Lay all the care on me. Suhlevaho te onere: I will rid you of a fool. Mem. Wilt thou rid me for a fool? Dro. Tush ! quarrel not. Mem. Then for the dowry, let it be at least two hundred ducats, and after his death the farm. Dro. What else? Mem,. Then let us in, that I may furnish thee with some better counsel, and my son with better apparel. Dro. Let me alone. — (Aside.) I lack but a wag more to make of my counsel, and then you shall see an exquisite cozen- age, and the father more fool than the son. — But hear you, sir; I forgot one thing. Mem. What's that? Dro. Nay; Expellas furca licet, usque re- cur ret. ^ Mem. What 's the meaning? Dro. Why, though your son's folly be thrust up with a pair of hoi'us on a fork, yet being natural, it will have his ^° course. Mem. I pray thee, no more, but about it. Exeunt. 3 unchaste. the profit 4 beg to be appoint- managing ed his guardian property). (so that I can get & suggest. from his 6 succeed. 7 confined ; hawks were kept in a mews. 8 cheated. from its course, 9 From Horace (Ep. but it will always I. X. 24) : "You return." may drive nature lo its. MOTHER BOMBIE 49 Scene 2. Enter Stellio and Riscio. Stel. Riscio, my daughter is passing ami- able, but very simple. Bis. You mean a fool, sir. Stel. Faith, I imply so much. Ris. Then I apply it fit : the one she takes of her father, the other of her mother; now you may be sure she is your own. Stel. I have penned her up in a chamber, having only a window to look out, that youths, seeing her fair cheeks, may be enamored before they hear her fond ^^ speech. How likest thou this head"? ^- Bis. There is very good workmanship in it, but the matter is but base; if the stuff had been as good as the mold, your daughter had been as wise as she is beautiful. Stel. Dost thou think she took her fool- ishness of me? Bis. Aye, and so cunningly that she took it not from you. Stel. Well, Quod natura dedit, tollere nemo potest.^^ Bis. A good evidence to prove the fee- simple ^^ of your daughter's folly. Stel. Why? Bis. It came by nature, and if none can take it away, it is perpetual. Stel. Nay, Riscio, she is no natural fool, but in this consisteth her simplicity, that she thinketh herself subtle; in this her rudeness, that she imagines she is courtly ; in this the overshooting of her- self, that she overweeneth of herself. Bis. Well, what follows? Stel. Riscio, this is my plot. Memphio hath a pretty stripling to his son, whom with cockering ^^ he hath made wanton : his girdle must be warmed, the air must not breathe on him, he must lie abed till noon, and yet in his bed break his fast ; that which I do to conceal the folly of my daughter, that doth he in too much cockering of his son. Now, Riscio, how shall I compass a match between my girl and his boy? Bis. Why, with a pair of compasses; and bring them both into the circle, I'll war- rant they '11 match themselves. Stel. Tush ! plot it for me that never speaking to one another, they be in love one with another. I like not solemn wooing, it is for courtiers; let country folks believe others' reports as much as their own opinions. Bis. then, so it be a match you care not. Stel. Not I, nor for a match neither, were it not I thirst after my neighbor's farm. Bis. {Aside.) A very good nature. — Well, if by flat wit I bring this to pass, what 's my reward ? Stel. Whatsoever thou wilt ask. Bis. I '11 ask no more than by my wit I can get in the bargain. Stel. Then about it. Exit. Bis. If I come not about ^^ you, never trust me. I '11 seek out Dromio, the coun- sellor of my conceit. Exit. Scene 3. Enter Prisius and Sperantus. Pris. It is unneighborly done to suffer your son since he came from school to spend his time in love; and unwisely done to let him hover over my daughter, who hath nothing to her dowry but her needle, and must prove a sempster; nor he anything to take to but a grammar, and cannot at the best be but a school- master. Sper. Prisius, you bite and Avhine, wring me on the withers, and yet wince your- self; it is you that go about to match your girl with my boy, she being more fit for seams than for marriage, and he for a rod than a wife. Pris. Her birth requires a better bride- groom than such a gToom. Sper. And his bringing up another-gate ^'' marriage than such a minion. Pris. Marry, gup ! ^^ I am sure he hath no better bread than is made of wheat, nor worn finer cloth than is made of wool, nor learned better manners than are taught in schools. Sper. Nor your minx had no better grand- father than a tailor, who (as I have heard) was poor and proud; nor a bet- ter father than yourself, unless your wife borrowed a better, to make her daughter a gentlewoman. Pris. Twit not me with my ancestors, nor my wife's honesty; if thou dost — {Threatening him.) 11 foolish, 12 Possibly Stellio shows Riscio a portrait of his 13 "What nature has 14 title, daughter. given, no one can !•''> petting. take away." 16 get the better of. 17 another kind of. 18 go up, hold on ! 50 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Sper. Hold thy hands still, thou hadst best; and yet it is impossible, now I remember, for thou hast the palsy. Pris. My hands shake so that wert thou in place where,^^ I would teach thee to cog.-° Sper. Nay, if thou shake thy hands, I warrant thou canst not teach any to cog. But, neighbor, let not two old fools fall out for two young wantons. Pris. Indeed, it beeometh men of our ex- perience to reason, not rail; to debate the matter, not to combat it. Sper. Well, then, this I'll tell thee friendly. I have almost these two years cast in my head how I might match my princox -^ with Stellio's daughter, whom I have heard to be veiy fair, and know shall be very rich : she is his heir ; he dotes, he is stooping old, and shortly must die. Yet by no means, either by blessing or cursing, can I win my son to be a wooer, which I know proceeds not of bash fulness but stubbornness, for he knows his good ; though I say it, he hath wit at will; as for his personage, I care not who sees him ; I can tell you he is able to make a lady's mouth water if she wink not. Pris. Stay, Sperantus, this is like my case, for I have been tampering as long to have a marriage committed between my wench and Memphio's only son : they say he is as goodly a youth as one shall see in a summer's day, and as neat a stripling as ever went on neat's leather; his father will not let him be forth of his sight, he is so tender over him; he yet lies with his mother for 22 catching cold. Now my pretty elf, as proud as the day is long, she will none of him ; she forsooth will choose her own husband : made marriages prove mad marriages; she will choose with her eye, and like with her heart, before she con- sent with her tongue; neither father nor mother, kith nor kin, shall be her carver in 23 a husband, she will fall to where she likes best; and thus the chick scarce out of her shell cackles as though she had been trodden with an hundred cocks, and mother of a thousand eggs. Sper. Well then, this is our best, seeing we know each other's mind, to devise to govern our own children; for my boy, I '11 keep him to his books, and study shall make him leave to love ; I '11 break him of his will, or his bones with a cudgel. Pris. And I '11 no more dandle my daugh- ter; she shall prick on a clout-* till her fingers ache, or I '11 cause her leave to make my heart ache. But in good time, though with ill luck, behold if they be not both together; let us stand close and hear all, so shall we prevent all. {They stand aside.) Enter Candius and Livia. take Sper. (Aside.) This happens pat: heed you cough not, Prisius. Pris. (Aside.) Tush! spit not you; and I '11 warrant, I, my beard is as good as a handkerchief. Liv. Sweet Candius, if thy father should see us alone, would he not fret? The old man methinks should be full of fumes. Can. Tush ! let him fret one heart-string against another, he shall never trouble the least vein of my little finger. The old churl thinks none Avise unless he have a beard hang dangling to his waist. When my face is bedaubed with hair as his, then perchance my conceit may stum- ble on his staidness. Pris. (Aside.) Aye? In what book read you that lesson? Sper. (Aside.) I know not in what book he read it, but I am sure he was a knave to learn it. Can. I believe, fair Livia, if your sour sire should see you with your sweetheart he would not be very patient. Liv. The care is taken. I '11 ask him blessing as a father, but never take coun- sel for an husband ; there is as much odds between my golden thoughts and his leaden advice, as between his silver hairs and my amber locks. I know he will cough for anger that I yield not, but he shall cough me a fool for his labor.^^ Sper. (Aside to Pris.) Where picked your daughter that work, out of broad- stitch? Pris. (Aside.) Out of a flirt's sampler. But let us stay the end; this is but the beginning; you shall hear two children well brought up ! Can. Parents in these days are grown peevish : they rock their children in their cradles till they sleep, and cross them about their bridals till their hearts ache. Marriage among them is become a mar- is a more place. 20 lie ; cog fitting ningly used just below in its first sense of cheating at dice, for which a steady hand would be needed. 21 pert boy. 22 for fear of. 23 provider of. 24 sew cloth. 25 be only a fool for his pains. MOTHER BOMBIE 51 ket. What will you give with your daughter? What jointure will you make for your son*? And many a match is broken off for a penny more or less, as though they could not afford their chil- dren at such a price, when none should cheapen such ware but affection, and none buy it but love. Sper. (Aside.) Learnedly and scholar-like. Liv. Indeed our parents take great care to make us ask blessing and say grace when we are little ones, and growing to years of judgment, they deprive us of the great- est blessing and the most gracious things to our minds, the liberty of our minds; they give us pap with a spoon before we can speak, and when we speak for that we love, pap with a hatchet f^ because their fancies being grown musty with hoary age, therefore nothing can relish in their thoughts that savors of sweet youth; they study twenty years together to make us grow as straight as a wand, and in the end by bowing us, make us crooked as a cammock.-'^ For mine own part, sweet Candius, they shall pardon me, for I will measure my love by mine own judgment, not my father's purse or peevishness. Nature hath made me his child, not his slave; I hate Memphio and his son deadly, if I wist he would place his affection by his father's appointment. Pris. (Aside.) Wittily but uncivilly! Can. Be of that mind still, my fair Livia; let our fathers lay their purses together, we our hearts : I will never woo where I cannot love. Let Stellio enjoy his daughter. But what have vou wrought here"? Liv. Flowers, fowls, beasts, fishes, trees, plants, stones, and what not. Among iflowers, cowslips and lilies, for our names Candius and Livia. Among fowls, turtles -^ and sparrows, for our truth and desires. Among beasts, the fox and the ermine, for beauty and pol- icy. And among fishes, the cockle and the tortoise, because of Venus. Among trees, the vine wreathing about the elm, for our embracings. Among stones, As- beston, which being hot, will never be eold,-^ for our constancies. Among plants, thyme and heartsease, to note that if we take time we shall ease our hearts. Pris. (Aside.) There's a girl that knows her liripoop.^° Sper. (Aside.) Listen, and you shall hear my sou's learning. Liv. What book is thaf? Can. A fine pleasant poet, who entreateth of the art of love, and of the remedy. Liv. Is there art in love? Can. A short art and a certain: three rules in three lines. Liv. I pray thee, repeat them. Can. Principio quod amare velis reperire lahora, Proximus hide labor est placidam exorare puellam, Tertius ut longo tempore diiret amor.^^ Liv. I am no Latinist, Candius; you must construe it. Can. So I will, and pace ^- it too ; thou shalt be acquainted with case, gender and number. First, one must find out a mis- tress whom before all others he voweth to serve. Secondly, that he use all the means that he may to obtain her. And the last, with deserts, faith, and secrecy, to study to keep her. Liv. What 's the remedy ? Can. Death. Liv. What of all the book is the con- clusion 1 Can. This one verse: Non caret effectu quod voluere duo. Liv. What's that? Can. Where two are agreed, it is impossi- ble but they must speed. Liv. Then cannot we miss; therefore give me thy hand, Candius. Pris. (Advancing.) Soft, Livia. take me with you ; ^^ it is not good in law with- out witness. Sper. And as I remember, there must be two witnesses. God give you joy, Can- dius; I was worth the bidding to dinner, though not worthy to be of the counsel. Pris. I think this hot love hath provided but cold cheer. Sper. Tush ! in love is no lack. But blush not, Candius, you need not be ashamed of your cunning; you have made love a book-case, and spent your time well at school learning to love by art and hate 26 A proverbial ex- pression for the rough perform- ance of necessary service, such children ; Lyly so entitled one of his pamphlets, an at- tack on a political opponent. the feeding of 27 a crooked stick. 28 turtledoves, tak- en as types of con- stancy, as spar- rows were of las- civiousness. 29 A bit of Lyly's pseudo-science. 30 "Properly the de- gree of knowledge that would qualify one to wear a liri- poop {liripipium.) or scarf as doc- tor." (Bond). 31 Ovid. Ars Amat. i. 35-38. 32 parse. 33 let me understand 52 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD against nature. But I perceive the worser child the better lover. Pris. And my minion hath wrought well, where every stitch in her sampler is a pricking stitch at my heart. You take your pleasure on parents : they are peev- ish, fools, churls, overgrown with igno- rance, because overworn with age; little shalt thou know the case of a father be- fore thyself be a mother, when thou shalt breed thy child with continual pains, and bringing it forth with deadly pangs, nurse it with thine own paps, and nour- ish it up with motherly tenderness; and then find them to curse thee with their hearts, when they should ask blessing on their knees, and the collop ^^ of thine own bowels to be the torture of thine own soul; with tears trickling down thy cheeks, and. drops of blood falling from thy heart, thou wilt in uttering of thy mind wish them rather unborn than un- natural, and to have had their ci-adles their graves rather than thy death their bridals. But I will not dispute what thou shouldst have done, but correct what thou hast done; I perceive sewing is an idle exercise, and that every day there come more thoughts into thine head than stitches into thy work ; I '11 see whether you can spin a better mind than you have stitched, and if I coop you not up, then let me be the capon. Sper. As for you, sir boy, instead of poring on a book, you shall hold the plough ; I '11 make repentance reap what wantonness hath sown. But we are both well serv'ed : the sons must be masters,^^ the fathers gaffers ; ^^ what we get to- gether with a rake, they cast abroad with a fork, and we must weary our legs to purchase our children arms.^^ Well, seeing that booking is but idleness, I '11 see whether threshing be any occupation ; thy mind shall stoop to my fortune or mine shall break the laws of nature. How like a micher ^'^ he stands, as though he had truanted from honesty ! Get thee in, and for the rest let me alone. In, villain ! Pris. And you, pretty minx, that must be fed with love upon sops,^^ I '11 take an order to cram you with soitows. Get you in, without look or reply. Exeunt Candius and Livia. Sper. Let us follow, and deal as rigor- ously with yours as I will with mine, and you shall see that hot love will soon wax cold. I '11 tame the proud boy, and send him as far from his love as he is from his duty. Pris. Let us about it, and also go on with matching them to our minds; it was happy that we prevented that by chance which we could never yet suspect by cir- cumstance. Exeunt. ACT IL Scene 1. Enter at opposite sides Dromio and Riscio. Dro. Now if I could meet with Riscio it were a world of waggery. Bis. Oh, that it were my chance, Ohviam dare Dromio, to stumble upon Dromio, on whom I do nothing but dream. Dro. His knavery and my wit should make our masters, that are wise, fools; their children, that are fools, beggars; and us two, that are bond, free. Bis. He to cozen and I to conjure would make such alterations that our masters should serve themselves; the idiots, tlieir children, serve us; and we to wake our wits between them all. Dro. Hem quam opportune: look if he drop not full in my dish ! Bis. Lupus in fahula! Dromio, embrace me ! hug me ! kiss my hand ! I must make thee fortunate. Dro. Riscio, honor me ! kneel down to me ! kiss my feet ! I must make thee blessed. Bis. My master, old Stellio, hath a fool to his daughter. Dro. Nay; my master, old Memphio, hath a fool to his son. Bis. I must convey ^^ a contract. Dro. And I must convey a contract. Bis. Between her and Mem^Dhio's son, without speaking one to another. Dro. Between him and Stellio's daughter, without one speaking to the other. Bis. Dost thou mock me, Dromio"? Dro. Thou dost me else. Bis. Not I; for all this is true. Dro. And all this. Bis. Then are we both driven to our wits' ends, for if either of them had been wise 34 piece. 35 gentlemen commoners. 36 coats of arms, token of gentility. 37 truant. 38 sops, sweet cakes dipped in wine, was a luxurious dish. 39 arrange secretly. MOTHER BOMBIE 53 we might have tempered ; if no marriage, yet a close '*° mamage. Dro. Well, let us sharpen our accounts; there 's no better grindstone for a young man's head than to have it whet upon an old man's purse. Oh, thou shalt see my knavery shave like a razor ! Ris. Thou for the edge, and I the point, Avill make the fool bestride our mistress' backs, and then have at the bag with the dudgeon haft,*^ that is, at the dudgeon dagger, by which hangs his tantony *- pouch. Dro. These old huddles have such strong purses with locks, when they shut them they go off like a snaphance.*^ Bis. The old fashion is best : a purse with a ring round about it, as a circle to curse a knave's hand from it. But, Dromio, two they say may keep counsel if one be away; but to convey knavery, two are too few and four too many. Dro. And in good time, look where Half- penny, Sperantus' boy, cometh; though bound up in decimo sexto *** for carriage, yet a wit in folio for cozenage. Enter Halfpenny. Single Halfpenny, what neAvs are now current? Half. Nothing but that such double coi- strels ''^ as you be are counterfeit. Bis. Are you so dapper? We '11 send you for an halfpenny loaf. Half. I shall go for silver though, when you shall be nailed up for slips. *^ Dro. Thou art a slipstring,*'^ I '11 warrant. Half. I hope you shall never slip string-, but hang steady. Bis. Dromio, look here; now is my hand on my halfpenny. Half. Thou liest ; thou hast not a farthing to lay thy hands on : I am none of thine. But let me be wagging; my head is full of hammers,*^ and they have so malletted my wit that I am almost a malcontent. Dro. Why, what's the matter? Half. My master hath a fine scholar to his son, Prisius a fair lass to his daughter. Dro. Well ! Half. They two love one another deadly. Bis. In good time ! Half. The fathers have put them up,^^ utterly disliking the match, and have ap- pointed the one shall have Memphio's son, the other Stellio's daughter; this works like wax, but how it will fadge in the end, the hen that sits next the cock cannot tell. Bis. If thou have but any spice of knavery we '11 make thee happy. Half. Tush ! doubt not of mine ; I am as full for my pitch °° as you are for yours ; a wren's egg is as full of meat as a goose egg, though there be not so much in it; you shall find this head well stuffed, though there went little stuff to it. Dro. Laudo ingenium, I like thy sconce ; ^^ then hearken. Memphio made me of his counsel about marriage of his son to Stellio's daughter; Stellio made Riscio acquainted to plot a match with Mem- phio's son. To be short, they be both fools. Half. But they are not fools that be short ; if I thought thou meantest so, Senties qui vir aim, thou shouldst have a crow to pull.''^ Bis. Be not angry. Halfpenny ; for fel- lowship we will be all fools, and for gain all knaves. But Avhy dost thou laugh? Half. At mine own conceit and quick cen- sure. Bis. What's the matter? Half. Suddenly meth ought you two were asses, and that the least ass was the more ass. Bis. Thou art a fool; that cannot be. Half. Yea, my young master taught me to prove it by learning, and so I can out of Ovid by a verse. Bis. Prithee, how? Half. You must first for fashion's sake confess yourselves to be asses. Dro. Well ! Half. Then stand you here, and you there. Bis. Go to ! Half. Then this is the verse as I point it : Cum mala per longas invaluere moras.^^ So you see the least ass is the more ass. Bis. We '11 bite thee for an ape if thou bob us like asses. But to end all, if thou wilt join Avith us we will make a match between the two fools, for that must be our task ; and thou shalt devise to couple 4 secret. 41 A purse was car- ried hanfring from the ffirdle, and sometimes a dag- ger was thrust through the straps. 42 short for St. An- thony ; meaning obscure. 4.') firelock musket. 44 Halfpenny was evidently a very small boy. 4.5 knaves. 4G counterfeits. 47 one who deserves to be hanged. 48 I 'ui hammering out a device. 40 confined them. 50 degree. 51 headpiece, i.e. wit. 52 a bone to pick with me. 53 Ovid Rem. Am. 92. The only ex- cuse pun for a poor consists Halfpenny's pointing at his fellows as he pro- nounces long-as and mor-aa. 54 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Candius and Livia by overreaching their fathers. Half. Let me alone, Non enirn men pigra juvenilis : there 's matter in this noddle. Enter Lucio. But look where Prisius' boy comes, as fit as a pudding for a dog's mouth. Luc. Pop three knaves in a sheath, I '11 make it a right Tunbridge case and be the bodkin. Ris. Nay, the bodkin is here already; you must be the knife. Tlalf. I am the bodkin ; look well to your ears, I must bore them. Dro. Mew ^* thy tongue or we '11 cut it out ; this I speak representing the person of a knife, as thou didst that in shadow of a bodkin. Luc. I must be gone. Taedet, it irketh; Oportet, it behoveth. My wits work like barm, alias yeast, alias sizing, alias rising, alias God's good. Half. The new wine is in thine head, yet was he fain to take this metaphor from ale; and now you talk of ale, let us all to the wine. Bro. Four makes a mess, and we have a mess of masters that must be cozened; let us lay our heads together, they are married and cannot. Half. Let us consult at the tavern, where, after to the health of Memphio, drink we to the life of Stellio; I carouse to Prisius, and brineh ^^ you Mas.^*^ Sper- antus ; we shall cast up our accounts and discharge our stomachs, like men that can digest anything. Luc. I see not yet what you go about. Dro. Lucio, that can pierce a mud wall of twenty foot thick, would make us believe he cannot see a candle through a paper lanthorn ; his knavery is beyond Ela, and yet he says he knows not Gam ut.^'' Luc. I am ready ; if any cozenage be ripe, I '11 shake the tree. Half. Nay, I hope to see thee so strong to shake three trees ^^ at once. Dro. We burn time, for I must give a reckoning of my day's work; let us close to the bush ^^ ad deliberandum. Half. Indeed, Inter pocula philosophan- dum: it is good to plea among pots. Ris. Thine will be the worst; I fear we shall leave a halfpenny in hand. Half. Why sayest thou that? Thou hast left a print deeper in thy hand ^° already than a halfpenny can leave, unless it should sing worse than an hot iron. Luc. All friends, and so let us sing; 'tis a pleasant thing to go into the tavern clearing the throat. Song. Omnes. lo Bacchus! To thy table Tliou call'st every drunken rabble; We already are stiff drinkers, Then seal us for thy jolly skinkers.si Dro. Wine, O Wine! O juice divine ! How dost thou the nowl ^- refine ! Ris. Plump tliou mak'st men's ruby faces, And from girls canst fetch embraces. Half. By thee our noses swell With sparkling carbuncle. the dear blood of grapes Turns us to antic shapes. Now to show tricks like apes; Now lion-like to roar ; Now goatishly to whore; Now hoggishly i' th' mire; Now flinging hats i' th' fire. lo Bacchus! At thy table Luc. Dro. Ris. Half. Luc- Omnes Make us of thy reeling rabble. Exeunt into tavern. Scene 2. Enter Memphio. Mem. 1 marvel I hear no news of Dromio ; either he slacks the matter or betrays his master. I dare not motion anything to Stellio till I know what my boy hath done ; I '11 hunt him out ; if the loiter- sack ^^ be gone springing into a tavern I '11 fetch him reeling out. Exit into tavern. Enter Stellio. Stel. Without doubt Riscio hath gone be- yond himself in casting beyond the moon.^* I fear the boy be run mad with studying, for I know he loved me so well that for my favor he will venture to run out of his wits; and, it may be, to quicken his invention, he is gone into this Ivy- 54 hold. 55 pledge. 56 master. 57 "Vt and la were respectively the lowest and high- est in the Hex- achord, or scale of six notes, whose names were de- rived from the initial syllables in the lines of a Latin hvinn to St. John." " (Bond.) The implication is that Lucio, though a past master of knav- ery, does not ad- mit knowing any- thing of it. 58 1. e. the gallows. 59 An ivy bush was the sign of a tavern. 60 Felony was pun- ished by brand- ing in the hand. 61 drawers of wine; hence topers. 62 head. 63 loiterer. 64 proverbial for an impossible de- sign. MOTHER BOMBIE 55 bush, a notable nest for a grape owl. I '11 ferret him out, yet in the end use him friendly; I cannot be merry till I hear what 's done in the marriages. Exit into tavern. Enter Prisius. Pris. I think Lucio be gone a-squirreling, but I '11 squirrel him for it ; I sent him on my errand, laut I must go for an an- swer myself. I have tied ui:» the loving worm my daughter, and will see whether fancy can worm fancy out of her head. This green nosegay ^^ I fear my boy liath smelt to, for if he get but a penny in his purse he turns it suddenly into argentum potabile; ^^ I must search every place for him, for I stand on thorns till I hear what he hath done. Exit into tavern. Enter Sperantus. Sper. Well, be as may be is no banning. I think I have charmed my young mas- ter : a hungry meal, a ragged coat, and a dry cudgel have put him quite beside his love and his logic too. Besides his pigs- nie ^^ is put up, and therefore now I '11 let him take the air and follow Stellio's daughter with all his learning, if he mean to be my heir. The boy hath wit sans measure, more than needs ; cat's meat and dog's meat enough for the vantage. Well, without Halfpenny all my wit is not worth a dodkin ; ^^ that mite is miching ®^ in this gTove, for as long as his name is Halfpenny he will be ban- queting for the other halfpenny. Exit into tavern. Scene 3. Enter Candius. Can. He must needs go that the devil drives! A father? A fiend! that seeks to place affection by appointment, and to force love by compulsion. I have sworn to woo Silena, but it shall be so coldly" that she shall take as small delight in my words as I do contentment in his com- mandment. I '11 teach him one school trick in love. But behold ! who is that Cometh out of Stellio's house? It should seem to be Silena by her attire. Enter Silena. By her face I am sure it is she. fair face ! lovely countenance ! How now, Candius, if thou begin to slip at beauty on a sudden, thou wilt surfeit with ca- rousing it at the last. Remember that Livia is faithful; aye, and let thine eyes witness Silena is amiable. Here shall I please my father and myself: I will learn to be obedient, and come what will, I '11 make a way ; if she seem coy I '11 practise all the art of love; if I find her coming,'^" all the pleasures of love. Sil. My name is Silena; I care not who know it, so I do not. My father keeps me close, so he does; and now I have stolen gut, so I have, to go to old Mother Bombie to know my fortune, so I will ; for I have as fair a face as ever trod on shoe sole, and as free a foot as ever looked with two eyes. Can. (Aside.) What? I think she is lunatic or foolish. Thou art a fool, Can- dius : so fair a face cannot be the scab- bard of a foolish mind ; mad she may be, for commonly in beauty so rare there falls passion's extreme. Love and beauty disdain a mean, not therefore because beauty is no virtue, but because it is hap- piness; and we scholars know that virtue is not to be praised, but honored. I will put on my best gi'ace. — (To Silena.) Sweet wench, thy face is lovely, thy body comely, and all that the eyes can see, en- chanting. You see how, unacquainted, I am bold to board ''^ you. Sil. My father boards me already; there- fore I care not if your name were Geof- frey. Can. She raves, or overreaches. — I am one, sweet soul, that loves you, brought hither by report of your beauty, and here languisheth with your rareness. Sil. I thank you that you would call. Can. I will always call on such a saint that hath power to release my sorrows; yield, fair creature, to love. Sil. I am none of that sect. Can. The loving sect is an ancient sect, and an honorable, and therefore love should be in a person so perfect. Sil. Much ! 72 Can. I love thee much ; give me one word of comfort. Sil. V faith, sir, no ! and so tell your mas- ter. 05 i. e. the ivy bush. B6 aurtim potabile, gold liquefied in oil, was much es- teemed as a cor- dial in the old al- chemical pharma- copcBia. 67 pig's eye, a term 69 loitering, of endearment. 70 responsive. 68 a small Dutch 71 accost, coin. 72 an exclamation of contempt. 56 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Can. I have no master, but come to make choice of a mistress. Sil. Ah ha! are you there with your bears'? "^ Can. (Aside.) Doubtless she is an idiot of tbe newest cut. I '11 once more try her. — I have loved thee long, Silena. Sil. In your tother hose. Can. (Aside.) Too simple to be natural, too senseless to be artificial. — You said you went to know your fortune : I am a scholar, and am cunning in palmistiy. Sil. The better for you, sir. Here 's my hand ; what 's o'clock 1 Can. The line of life is good, Venus' mount very perfect : you shall have a scholar to your first husband. Sil. You are well seen ''* in crane's dirt, your father was a poulter. Ha, ha, ha ! Can. Why laugh you*? Sil. Because you should see my teeth. Can. (Aside.) Alas, poor wench, I see now also thy folly; a fair fool is like a fresh weed, pleasing leaves and sour juice. I will not yet leave her; she may dissemble. — I cannot choose but love thee. Sil. I had thought to ask you. Can. Nay then, farewell; either too proud to accept, or too simple to understand. Sil. You need not be so crusty, you are not so hard baked. Can. Now I perceive thy folly, who hath raked together all the odd blind phrases that help them that know not how to dis- course; but when they cannot answer wisely, either with gibing cover their rudeness, or by some new-coined byword bewray their peevishness. I am glad of this ; now shall I have color to refuse the match,' and my father reason to accept of Livia. I will home and repeat to my father our wise encounter, and he shall perceive there is nothing so fulsome as a she fool. Exit. Sil. Good God! I think gentlemen had never less wit in a year. We maids are mad wenches; we gird them and flout them out of all scotch and notch, ''^ and they cannot see it. I will know of the old woman whether I be a maid or no, and then if I be not I must needs be a man. (Knocks at Mother Bombie's door.) God be here! Enter Mother Bomhie. 73 is that what you are after ? 74 skilled. Bom. Who 's there ? Sil. One that would be a maid. Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou shouldst be, and a shame thou art not. Sil. They say you are a witch. Bom. They lie ; I am a cunning woman. Sil. Then tell me something. Bom. Hold up thy hand ; not so high. — Thy father knows thee not; Thy mother bare thee not; Falsely bred, truly begot ; Choice of two husbands, but never tied in bands. Because of love and natural bonds. Sil. I thank you for nothing, because I understand nothing: though you be as old as you are, yet am I as young as I am, and because that I am so fair, there- fore are you so foul; and so farewell, frost, my fortune naught me cost. . Exit. Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou know thy hard fortune, but in the end thou shalt, and that must bewray what none can discover. In the mean season I will profess cunning for all comers. Exit. Scene 4. Enter Dromio, Riscio, Lucio, Halfpenny. Dro. We were all taken tardy. Eis. Our masters will be overtaken '^^ if they tarry. Half. Now must every one by wit make an excuse, and every excuse must be cozenage. Luc. Let us remember our complot. Dro. We will all plod on that; oh, the wine hath turned my wit to vinegar. Ris. You mean 't is sharp. Half. Sharp ? I '11 warrant 't will serve for as good sauce to knavery as — Luc. As what? Half. As thy knaveiy meat for his wit. Dro. We must all give a reckoning for our day's travel. Eis. Tush ! I am glad we scaped the reck- oning for our liquor. If you be exam- ined how we met, swear by chance, for so they met and therefore will believe it; if how much we drunk, let them answer themselves: they know best because they paid it. 75 beyond measure. 76 i, e. by drink. MOTHER BOMBIE 57 Half. We must not tarry : abeundum est mihi; I mixst go and east this matter in a corner. Dro. I prae, sequar; a bowl, and I '11 come after with a broom. Every one remem- ber his cue. Ris. Aye, and his k,^^ or else we shall thrive ill. Half. When shall we meet? Ris. Tomorrow, fresh and fasting. Dro. Fast eating our meat, for we have drunk for tomorrow, and tomorrow we must eat for today. Half. Away, away; if our masters take us here, the matter is marred. Luc. Let us every one to his task. Exeunt. Scene 5. Enter MempMo, Stellio, Prisius, Sperantus. Mem. How luckily we met on a sudden in a tavern, that drunk not together almost these thirty years. Stel. A tavern is the rendezvous, the ex- change, the staple ^^ for good fellows ; I have heard my great-grandfather tell how his great-gTand father should say that it was an old proverb when his great-grand- father was a child that it was a good Avind that blew a man to the wine. Pris. The old time was a good time ! Ale was an ancient drink, and accounted of our ancestors authentical ; Gascon wine was liquor for a lord, sack a medicine for the sick, and I may tell you, he that had a cup of red wine to his oystei's was hoisted in the Queen's subsidy book."^ Sper. Aye, but now you see to what loose- ness this age is grown : our boys carouse sack like double beer, and say that which doth an old man good can do a young man no harm; old men, say they, eat pap, why should not children drink sack"? Their white heads have cozened time out of mind our young years. Mem. Well, the world is wanton since I knew it first : our boys put as much now in their bellies in an hour as would clothe their whole bodies in a year: we have paid for their tippling eight shil- lings, and as I have heard, it was as much as bought Rufus, sometime king of this land, a pair of hose. Pris. Is't possible? Stel. Nay, 't is true ; they say ale is out of request, 't is hogs' porridge, broth for beggars, a caudle for constables, watch- men's mouth glue; the better it is, the more like bird lime it is, and never makes one staid but in the stocks. Mem. I '11 teach my wag-halter to know grapes from barley. Pris. And I mine to discern a spigot from a faucet. Sper. And I mine to judge the difference between a black bowl and a silver goblet. Stel. And mine shall learn the odds be- tween a stand ^^ and a hogshead ; yet I cannot choose but laugh to see how my wag answered me when I struck him for drinking sack. Pris. Why, what said he"? Stel. ^'Master, it is the sovereignest drink in the world, and the safest for all times and weathers; if it thunder, though all the ale and beer in the town turn, it will be constant; if it lighten, and that any fire come to it, it is the aptest wine to burn, and the most wholesomest when it is burnt. ^^ So much for summer. If it freeze, why, it is so hot in operation that no ice can congeal it ; if it rain, why, then he that cannot abide the heat of it, may put in water. So much for winter." And so ran his way, but I '11 overtake him. Sper. Who would think that my hop on my thumb. Halfpenny, scarce so high as a pint pot, would reason the matter"? But he learned his lear ^- of my son, his young master, whom I have brought up at Oxford, and I think must learn here in Kent at Ashford. Mem. Why, what said he? Sper. He boldly rapped it out. Sine Cerere et Baceho friget Venus : ^^ without wine and sugar his veins would wax cold. Mem. They were all in a pleasant vein ! But I must be gone, and take account of my boy's business ; farewell, neighbors, God knows when we shall meet again. — {Aside.) Yet I have discovered^* noth- ing: my wine hath been my wit's friend. I long to hear what Dromio hath done. Exit. Stel. I cannot stay, but this good fellow- ship shall cost me the setting on at our next meeting. — (Aside.) I am glad I blabbed nothing of the marriage; now I 77 punningly on cue, 7S meeting place. 79 ' 'hoisted into the list of wealthy persons who might be called on for a royal loan." (Bond.) 80 cask. 81 heated. 82 learning. 83 a Latin proverb. 84 revealed. 58 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD hope to compass it. I know my boy hath been bungling about it. Exit. Pris. Let us all go, for I must to my clothes that hang on the tenters.^^ (Aside.) My boy shall hang with them, if he answer me not his day's work. Exit. Sper. If all be gone, I '11 not stay. Half- penny, I am sure, hath done me a penny- worth of good, else I '11 spend his body in buying a rod. Exit. ACT IIL Scene 1. Enter Mcestius and Serena. McBS. Sweet sister, I know not how it Cometh to pass, but I find in myself pas- sions more than brotherly. Ser. And I, dear brother, find my thoughts entangled with affections beyond nature, which so flame into my distempered head that I can neither without danger smother the fire, nor without modesty ^^ disclose my fury. M(ES. Our parents are pooi', our love un- natural; what then can happen to make us happy? Ser. Only to be content with our father's mean estate, to combat against our own intemperate desires, and yield to the suc- cess of fortune, who, tlaough she hath framed us miserable, cannot make i;s monstrous. M(ES. It is good counsel, fair sister, if the necessity of love could be relieved by counsel. Yet this is our comfort, that these unnatural heats have stretched themselves no further than thoughts. Unhappy me, that they should stretch so ! Ser. That which nature warranteth laws forbid. Strange it seemeth in sense that because thou art mine, therefore thou must not be mine. M^es. So it is, Serena; the nearer we are in blood, the further we must be from love, and the greater the kindred, the less the kindness must be ; so that between brothers and sisters superstition hath made affection cold, between strangers custom hath bred love exquisite. Ser. They say there is hard by an old cunning woman who can tell fortunes, ex- pound dreams, tell of things that be lost, and divine of accidents to come; she is called the good woman, who yet never did hurt. Mces. Nor any good, I think, Serena. Yet to satisfy thy mind we will see what she can say. Ser. Good brother, let us. Mces. Who is within'? Enter Mother Bomhie. Bom. The dame of the house. M(Es. She might have said the beldam, for her face and years and attire. Ser. Good mother, tell us, if by your cun- ning you can, what shall become of my brother and me. Bom. Let me see your hands, and look on me steadfastly with your eyes. You shall be married tomorow hand in hand, By the laws of God, nature, and the land; Your parents shall be glad, and give you their land. You shall each of you displace a fool, And both together must relieve a fool. If this be not true, call me old fool. M(ES. This is my sister, marry we cannot; our parents are poor and have no land to give us; each of us is a fool to come for counsel to such an old fool. Ser. These doggerel rhymes and obscure words coming out of the mouth of such a weather-beaten witch are thought divina- tions of some holy spirit, being but dreams of decayed brains ; for mine own part, I would thou mightest sit on that stool till he and I marry by law. Bom. I say Mother Bombie never speaks but once, and yet never spake untruth once. Ser. Come, brother, let us to our poor home ; this is our comfoi't, to bewray our passions since we cannot enjoy our love. Mces. Content, sweet sister, and learn of me hereafter that these old saws of such old hags are but false fires to lead one out of a plain path into a deep pit. Exeunt. Scene 2. Enter Dromio and Riscio. Dro. Ingenium quondam fuerat pretiosus auro: the time was when wit would work like wax and crock up ^'^ gold like honey. 85 frames for stretching cloth. 86 shamefacedness. (Bond.) 87 collect. MOTHER BOMBIE 59 Bis. At nunc barbaries grandis habere nihil: but now wit and honesty buy noth- ing in the market. Dro. What, Riscio, how sped'st thou after „ thy potting? Ris. Nay, my master rung all in the tav- ern, and thrust all out in the house. But how sped'st thouf Dro. I? It were a day's work to dis- course it. He spake nothing but sen- tences,®^ but they were vengible long ones, for when one word was out he made pause of a quarter long till he spake another. Ris. Why, what did he in all that time"? Dro. Break interjections like wind, as eJio! ho! to! Ris. And what thou? Dro. Answer him in his own language, as evax! vaJi ! hui! Ris. These were conjunctions rather than interjections. But what of the plot? Dro. As we concluded, I told him that I understood that Silena was very wise and could sing exceedingly; that my device was, seeing Accius his son a proper youth and could also sing sweetly, that he should come in the nick when she was singing, and answer her. Ris. Excellent ! Dro. Then he asked how it should be de- vised that she might come abroad ; I told him that was east ®^ already by my means : then the song being ended, and they seeing one another, noting the ap- parel, and marking the personages, he should call in his son for fear he should overreach his speech. Ris. Very good ! Dro. Then that I had gotten a young gen- tleman that resembled his son in years and favor, that having Accius' apparel should eoui-t Silena ; whom she, tending wise, would after that by small entreaty be won without more words, and so the marriage clapped up by this cozenage, and his son never speak word for him- self. Ris. Thou boy ! So have I done in every point, for the song, the calling her in, and the hoping that another shall woo Accius, and his daughter wed him. I told him this wooing should be tonight, and they early married in the morning, without any words saving to say after the priest. Dro. All this fadges well; now if Half- penny and Lucio have played their parts we shall have excellent sport — and here they come. How wrought the wine, my lads? Enter Halfpenny and Lucio. Half. How? Like wine, for my body being the rundlet ^° and my mouth the vent, it wrought two days over, till I had thought the hoops of my head would have flown asunder. Ltic. The best was our masters were as well whittled as we, for yet they lie by it. Ris. The better for us! We did but a little parboil our livers ; they have sod °^ theirs in sack these forty j^ears. Half. That makes them spit white broth as they do. But to the purpose: Can- dius and Livia will send their attires, you must send the apparel of Accius and Si- lena ; they wonder wherefore, but commit the matter to our quadrupaiiite wit. Luc. If you keep promise to marry them by your device, and their parents con- sent, you shall have ten pounds apiece for your pains. Dro. If we do it not we are undone, for we have broached a cozenage already, and my master hath the tap in his hand that it must needs run out. Let them be ruled and bring hither their apparel, and we will determine ; the rest commit to our intricate considerations. Depart. Exeunt Halfpenny and Lucio. Enter Accius and Silena. Dro. Here comes Accius tuning his pipes. I perceive my master keeps touch. °- Ris. And here comes Silena with her wit of proof ; ^^ marry, it will scarce hold out question shot. Let us in to instruct our masters in the cue. Dro. Come, let us be jogging. But wer 't not a world to hear them woo one an- other? Ris. That shall be hereafter to make us sport, but our masters shall never know it. Exeunt. Scene 3. Enter Accius and Silena singing. Sil. O Cupid, monarch over kings, Wherefore hast thou feet and wings? It is to show how swift thou art, When thou wound'st a tender heart; 8R maxims. 89 planned. 90 keg. 91 soaked. 92 keeps his promise. 93 proof armor. 60 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Thy wings being clipped, and feet held still, Thy bow could not so many kill. Ac. It is all one in Venus' wanton school Who highest sits, the wise man or the fool ; Fools in love's college Have far more knowledge To read a woman over, Than a neat prating lover. Nay, 't is contest That fools please women best. Enter Memphio and Stellio. Mem. Aecius, come in, and that quickly ! What! Walking without leave? Stel. Silena, I pray you look homeward ; it is a cold air, and you want your muffler. Exeunt Aecius and Silena. Mem. (Aside.) This is pat! If the rest proceed, Stellio is like to marry his daughter to a fool; but a bargain is a bargain. Stel (Aside.) This frames to my wish! Memphio is like to marry a fool to his son; Aecius' tongue shall tie all Meni- phio's land to Silena's dowry, let his father's teeth undo them if he can. But here I see Memphio; I must seem kind, for in kindness lies cozenage. Mem. (Aside.) Well, here is Stellio. I '11 talk of other matters, and fly from the mark I shoot at, lapwing-like flying far from the place where I nestle. — Stellio, what make you abroad"? I heard you were sick since our last drinking. Stel. You see reports are no truths; I heard the like of you, and we are both well. I perceive sober men tell most lies, for in vino Veritas; if they had drunk wine they would have told the truth. Mem. Our boys will be sure then never to lie, for they are ever swilling of wine. But, Stellio, I must strain courtesy with you; I have business, I cannot stay. Stel. In good time, Memphio, for I was about to crave your patience to depart; it stands me upon. — (Aside.) Per- haps I may move his patience ei'e it be long. Mem. (Aside.) Good silly Stellio; we must buckle shortly. Exeunt. Scene 4. Enter Halfpenny, Lucio, Rixula, with clothes belonging to Candius and Livia. Luc. Come, Rixula, we have made thee privy to the whole pack ; ^* there lay down the pack. Rix. 1 believe unless it be better handled we shall out of doors. Hcdf. I care not. Omnem solum forti patria: I can live in Christendom as well as in Kent. Luc. And I '11 sing Patria uhicunque bene: every house is my home where I may staunch hunger. Rix. Nay, if you set all on hazard, though I be a poor wench I am as hardy as you both. I cannot speak Latin, but in plain English, if anything fall out cross, I '11 run away. Half. He loves thee well that would run after. Rix. Why, Halfpenny, there 's no goose so gray in the lake that cannot find a gander for her make.^^ Luc. I love a nut-brown lass : 't is good to recreate. Half. Thou meanest a brown nut is good to crack. Luc. Why, would it not do thee good to crack such a nut? Half. I fear she is worm-eaten within, slie is so moth-eaten without. Rix. If you take your pleasure of me, I '11 in and tell your practices against your masters. Half. In faith, sour heart, he that takes his pleasure on thee is very pleasurable. Rix. You mean knavishly, and yet I hope foul water will quench hot fire as soon as fair. Half. Well then, let fair words cool that choler which foul speeches hath kindled; and because we are all in this case, and hope all to have good fortune, sing a roundelay, and we '11 help, — such as thou wast wont when thou beatedst hemp."'' Luc. It was crabs she stamped,^'^ and stole one away to make her a face. Rix. I agree, in hope that the hemp shall come to your wearing; a halfpenny halter may hang you both, that is. Halfpenny and you may hang in a halter. Half. Well brought about. Rix. 'T will when 't is about your neck. Luc. Nay, now she 's in, she will never out. Rix. Nor when your heads are in, as it is likely, they should not come out. But hearken to my song. Thetf sing. 94 plot. 95 mate. 96 Beating hemp was the occupation of those confined in houses of correction. ■ cral)-apples she pounded. MOTHER BOMBIE 61 Song. Rix. Full hard did I sweat When hemp I did beat, Then thouglit I of nothing but hang- ing; The hemj) being spun, My beating was done; Then I wislied for a noise 98 Of crack-halter boys, On those Iienipen strings to be twanging. Long looked I about, The city throughout — Boys. And found no such fiddling varlets. Rix. Yes, at last coming hither, I saw four together. Boys. May thy hemp choke such singing harlots. Rix. To whit, to wlioo, the owl does cry; Phip, phip, the sparrows as they fly; The goose does hiss, the duck cries quack, A rope the parrot, that holds tack oo Boys. The parrot and the rope be thine. Rix. The hanging yours, but the hemp mine Enter Dromio and Riscio, with clothes be- longing to Accius and Silena. Dro. Yonder stand the wags; I am come in g-ood time. Ris. All here before me! You make haste ! Rix. I believe to hanging, for I think you have all robbed your masters ; here 's every man his baggage. Half. That is, we are all with thee, for thou art a very baggage. Rix. Hold thy peace, or of mine honesty I '11 buy a halfpenny purse with thee. Dro. Indeed, that 's big enough to put thy honesty in. But come, shall we go about the matter *? Luc. Now it is come to the pinch, my heart pants. Half. I for my part am resolute, in utrumque paratus, ready to die or to run away. Luc. But hear me. I was troubled with a vile dream, and therefore it is little time spent to let Mother Bombie expound it; she is cunning in all things. Dro. Then will I know my fortune. Rix. And I '11 ask for a silver spoon which was lost last day, which I must pay for. Ris. And I '11 know what will become of our devices. Half. And I. Dro. Then let us all go quickly; we must not sleep in this business, our masters are so watchful about it. They knock at Mother Bombie's door. Enter Mother Bombie. Bom. Why do you rap so hard at the door? Dro. Because we would come in. Bom. Nay, my house is no inn. Half. Cross yourselves, how she looks ! Dro. Mark her not ; she '11 turn us all to apes. Bom. What would you with me'? Ris. They say you are cunning, and are called the good woman of Rochester. Bom. If never to do harm be to do good, I dare say I am not ill. But what 's the matter 1 Luc. I had an ill dream, and desire to know the signification. Bom. Dreams, my son, have their weight ; though they be of a troubled mind, yet are they signs of fortune. Say on. Luc. In the dawning of the day, for about that time by my starting out of sleep I found it to be, methought I saw a stately piece of beef, with a cape cloak of cab- bage, embroidered with pepper; having two honorable pages with hats of mustard on their heads; himself in great pomp sitting upon a cushion of white brewis ^ lined with brown bread. Methought be- ing powdei'ed,^ he was much troubled with the salt rheum ; and therefore there stood by him two great flagons of sack and beer, the one to dry up his rheum, the other to quench his choler. I, as one envying his ambition, hungering and thirsting after his honor, began to pull his cushion from under him, hoping by that means to give him a fall ; and with putting out my hand awaked, and found nothing in all this dream about me but the salt rheum. Dro. A dream for a butcher. Luc. Soft, let me end it. Then I slVim- bered again, and methought there came in a leg of mutton. Dro. What ! All gross ^ meat *? A rack * had been dainty. Luc. Thou fool, how could it come in, un- less it had been a leg? Methought his hose were cut and drawn out with pars- ley. I thrust my hand into my pocket for a knife, thinking to box ^ him, and so awaked. Bom. Belike thou went supperless to bed. 98 band of musi- cians. 99 is appropriate. 1 meat broth, with bread soaked in it. 2 salted. 3 common. 4 neck of mutton. 5 hamstring. 62 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Luc. So I do every night but Sundays. Prisius hath a weak stomach, and there- fore we must starve. Bom. Well, take this for answer, though the dream be fantastical : They that in the morning sleep dream of eating- Are in danger of sickness or of beating, Or shall hear of a wedding fresh a-beat- ing.^ Luc. This may be true. Half. Nay then, let me come in with a dream, short but sweet, that my mouth waters ever since I waked. Methought there sat upon a shelf three damask prunes in velvet caps and pressed satin gowns, like judges ; and that there were a whole handful of currants to be ar- raigned of a riot, because they clung to- gether in such clusters ; twelve raisins of the sun ^ were empaneled in a jury ; and as a leaf of whole mace, which was bailiff, was eariying the quest ® to con- sult, methought there came an angry cook and gelded the jury of their stones, and swept both judges, jurors, rebels, and bailiff into a porridge pot. Whereat I, being melancholy, fetched a deep sigh that waked myself and my bedfellow. Dro. This was devised, not dreamt; and the more foolish, being no dr^am, for that dreams excuse the fantasticalness. Half. Then ask my bedfellow — you know him — who dreamt that night that the king of diamonds was sick. Bom. But thy years and humors, pretty child, are subject to such fancies, which the more unsensible they seem, the more fantastical they are ; therefore this dream is easy. To children this is given from the gods : To dream of milk, fruit, babies, and rods ; They betoken nothing but that wantons must have rods. T)ro. Ten to one thy dream is true; thou wilt be swinged. Rix. Nay, Gammer, I pray you tell me who stole my spoon out of the but- tery. Bom. Thy spoon is not stolen, but mislaid ; Thou art an ill housewife, though a good maid. Look for thy spoon where thou hadst like to be no maid. Bix. Body of me ! let me fetch the spoon ! I remember the place ! Luc. Soft, swift; the place, if it be there now, will be there tomorrow. Bix. Aye, but perchance the spoon will not. Half. Wert thou once put to if? Bix. No, sir boy, it was put to me. Luc. How was it missed"? Dro. I '11 warrant for want of a mist. But what's my fortune, mother? Bom,. Thy father doth live because he doth dye ; Thou hast spent all thy thrift with a die. And so like a beggar thou shalt die. Bis. I would have liked well if all the gerunds had been there, di, do, and dum; but all in die, that 's too deadly. Dro. My father indeed is a dyer, and I have been a dicer ; but to die a beggar, give me leave not to believe, Mother Bom- bie. And yet it may be : I have nothing to live by but knavery, and if the world grow honest, welcome beggary. But what hast thou to say, Riscio? Bis. Nothing till I see whether all this be true that she hath said. Half. Aye, Riscio would fain see thee beg. Bis. Nay, mother, tell us this: what is all our fortunes'? We are about a matter of ledgermain — how will it fadge? Bom. You shall all thrive like cozeners, That is, to be cozened by cozeners; All shall end well, and you be found cozeners. Dro. Gramercy, Mother Bombie; we are all pleased, if you were for your pains. {Offers her money.) Bom. I take no money but good words. Rail not if I tell true; if I do not, re- venge. Farewell. Exit. Dro. Now have we nothing to do but to go about this business. Accius' apparel let Candius put on, and I will array Accius with Candius' clothes. Bis. Here is Silena's attire; Lucio, put it upon Livia, and give me Livia's for Si- lena. This done, let Candius and Livia come forth, and let Dromio and me alone for the rest. Half. What shall become of Accius and Silena? Dro. Tush! their turn shall be next, all must be done orderly. Let 's to it, for now it works. Exeunt. 6 under way. 7 sun-dried. 8 jury. MOTHER BOMBIE 63 ACT IV. Scene 1. Enter Candius and Livia in the clothes of Accius and Silena. Liv. This attire is very fit. But how if this make me a fool and Silena wise? You will then woo me and wed her. Can. Thou knowest that Accius is also a fool, and his raiment fits me, so that if apparel be infectious, I am also like to be a fool, and he wise. What would be the conclusion, I marvel. Enter Dromio and Eiscio. Liv. Here comes our counsellors. Dro. Well said; I perceive turtles fly in couples. Bis. Else how should they couple? Liv. So do knaves go double, else how should they be so cunning in doubling'? Can. Bona verba, Livia. Dro. I understand Latin; that is, Livia is a good word. Can. No, I bid her use good words. Eis. And what deeds? Can. None but a deed of gift. Eis. What gift? Can. Her heart. Dro. Give me leave to pose you, though you be a graduate; for I tell you we in Rochester spur so many hackneys that we must needs spur scholars, for we take them for hackneys. Liv. Why so, sir boy? Dro. Because I knew two hired for ten groats apiece to say service on Sunday, and that 's no more than a post-horse from hence to Canterbury. Bis. He knows what he says, for he once served the post-master. Can. Indeed, I think he served some post to his master. But come, Dromio, post ^ me. Dro. You say you would have her heart for a deed. Can. Well ? Dro. If you take her heart for cor, that heart in her body, then know this : Molle eius levibus, cor enim violabile telis; a woman's heart is thrust through with a feather. If you mean she should give a heart named cervus, then are you worse, for cornua cervus habet; that is to have one's heart grow out at his head, which will make one ache at the heart in their body. Enter Prisius and Sperantus. Liv. I beshrew your hearts, I hear one connng; I know it is my father by his coming. Can. What must we do? Dro. Why, as I told you, and let me alone with the old men. Fall you to your bridal. Pris. Come, neighbor, I perceive the love of our children waxeth key-cold. Sper. I think it was never but lukewarm. Pris. Bavins ^° will have their flashes and youth their fancies, the one as soon quenched as the other burnt. But who be these? Can. Here do I plight my faith, taking thee for the staff of my age, and of my youth the solace. Liv. And I voav to thee affection which nothing can dissolve, neither the length of time, nor malice of fortune, nor dis- tance of place. Can. But when shall we be married? Liv. A good question, for that one delay in wedding brings an hundred dangers in the church : we will not be asked,^^ and a license is too chargeable, and to tariy till tomorrow too tedious. Dro. There's a girl stands on pricks till she be married. Can. To avoid danger, charge, and tedi- ousness, let us now conclude it in the next church. Liv. Agreed. Pris. What be these that hasten so to marry ? Dro. Marry, sir, Accius, son to Memphio, and Silena, Stellio's daughter. Sper. I am sorry, neighbor, for our pur- poses are disappointed. Pris. You see marriage is destiny; made in heaven, though consummated on earth. Eis. How like you them? Be they not a pretty couple? Pris. Yes; God give them joy, seeing in spite of our hearts they must join. Dro. 1 am sure you are not angry, seeing things past cannot be recalled ; and being Avitnesses to their contract, will be also well-willers to the match. Sper. For my part, I wish them well. Pris. And I; and since there is no rem- edy, I am glad of it. 9 pun on Dromio' s po/ie above. 10 fagots. 11 the banns will not be asked. 64 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Bis. But will you never hereafter take it in dudgeon,^^ but use them as well as though yourselves had made the mar- riage ? Pris. Not I. Sper. Nor I. Dro. Sir, here 's two old men are glad that your loves, so long eontinvied, is so happily concluded. Can. We thank them; and if they will come to Meniphio's house, they shall take part of a bad dinner. — (Aside.) This cottons/^ and works like wax in a sow's ear. Exeunt Candius and Livia. Pris. Well, seeing our purposes are pre- vented, we must lay other plots, for Livia must not have Candius. Sper. Fear not, for I have sworn that Candius shall not have Livia. But let us not fall out because our children fall in. Pris. Wilt thou go soon to Memphio's house 1 Sper. Aye, and if you will, let us, that we may see how the young couple bride it, and so we may teach our own. Exeunt. Scene 2. Enter Lticio and Halfpenny. Luc. By this time I am sure the wags have played their parts; there rests noth- ing now for us but to match Accius and Silena. Half. It was too good to be true, for we should laugh heartily, and without laugh- ing my spleen would split. But whist ! here comes the man, — Enter Accius in Candius' clothes. and yonder the maid. Let us stand aside. Enter Silena in Livia' s clothes. Ac. What means my father to thrust me forth in another Ijoy's coat. I '11 war- rant 't is to as much purpose as a hem in the forehead.^* Half. There was an ancient proverb knocked in the head. Ac. I am almost come into my nonage, and yet I never was so far as the prov- erbs of this city. Luc. There 's a quip for the suburbs of Rochester. Half. Excellently applied. Sil. Well, though this furniture ^^ make me a sullen dame, yet I hope in mine own I am no saint. Half. A brave fight is like to be between a cock with a long comb and a hen with a long leg. Luc. Nay, her wits are shorter than her legs. Half. And his comb longer than his wit. Ac. I have yonder uncovered a fair girl; I '11 be so bold as spur ^® her what might a body call her name. Sil. I cannot help you at this time ; I pray you come again tomorrow. Half. Aye, mari-y, sir ! Ac. You need not be so lusty, you are not so honest. Sil. I ciy you mercy, I took you for a joint stool. ^'^ Luc. Here 's courting for a conduit or a bakehouse. Sil. But what are you for a man? Me- thinks you look as pleaseth God. Ac. What, do you give me the boots'? ^^ Half. Whither will they? Here be right cobbler's cuts ! Ac. I am taken with a fit of love ; have you any mind of marriage? Sil. I had thought to have asked you. Ac. Upon what acquaintance? Sil. Who would have thought it? Ac. Much in my gascoigns, more in my round hose ; ^^ all my father's are as white as daisies, as an egg full of meat. Sil. And all my father's plate is made of crimson velvet. Ac. That 's brave with bread ! Half. These two had wise men to their fathers. Luc. Why? Half. Because when their bodies were at work about household stuff their minds were busied about commonwealth matters. Ac. This is pure lawn; what call you this, a pretty face to your hair? Sil. Wisely! You have picked a raisin out of a frail 2° of figs. Ac. Take it as you list; you are in your own clothes. 12 be offended. 13 succeeds. 14 Accius and Si- lena are made to talk almost pure nonsense through the scene, in clothing. 16 ask. 17 a proverbial ex- pression of scorn. 18 mock me. 19 ' 'Gaskins were loose, wide breeches ; the round hose fitted the leg closely. The latter would therefore indicate a closer degree of acquaintance o favor." (Bond.) 20 wicker basket. MOTHER BOMBIE 65 Sil. Saving a reverence,-^ that's a lie! My clothes are better — my father bor- rowed these. Ac. Long may he so do. I could tell that these are not mine, if I would blab it like a woman. Sil. I had as lief you should tell them it snowed. Luc. Come, let us take them off, for we have had the cream of them. Half. I warrant if this be the cream, the milk is very flat. Let us join issue with them. Lttc. To have such issue of our bodies, is worse than have an issue in the body. (To Silena.) God save you, pretty mouse. Sil. Yon may command and go without. Half. There 's a gleek 22 for you ; let me have my gird.-^ — [To Silena.) On thy conscience, tell me what 'tis o'clock? Sil. I ciy you mercy, I have killed your cushion. Half. I am paid,^* and struck dead in the nest. I am sure this soft youth, who is not half so wise as you are fair, nor you altogether so fair as he is foolish, will not be so captious. Ac. Your eloquence passes my recognos- cence. Enter Memphio and Stellio, heliind. Luc. I never heard that before; but shall we two make a match between you"? Sil. I 'II know first who was his father. Ac. My father •? What need you to care? I hope he was none of yours ! Half. A hard question, for it is odds but one begat them both ; he that cut out the upper leather, cut out the inner, and so with one awl stitched two soles together. Stel. (Aside to Luc.) What is she? Luc. 'T is Prisius' daughter. Stel. In good time; it fadges. Mem. (Aside to Half.) What is he? Half. Sperantus' son. Mem. So? 'T will cotton. Ac. Damsel, I pray you, how old are you? Mem. (Aside.) My son would scarce have asked such a foolish question. Sil. I shall be eighteen next bear-baiting. Stel. (Aside.) My daughter would have made a wiser answer. Half. (To Luc.) how fitly this comes off! Ac. My father is a scold; what's yours? Mem. My heart throbs, — I 'II look "him in the face; and yonder I espy Stellio. Stel. ]\Iy mind misgives me, — but whist ! yonder is Memphio. Ac. (To Mem.) In faith, I perceive an old saw and a rusty : no fool to the old fool. I pray you, Avherefore was I thrust out like a scarecrow in this simili- tude? Mem. ]\Iy son ! And I ashamed ! Dro- mio shall die ! SiJ. Father, are you sneaking behind? I pray you, what must I do next? Stel. My daughter! Riscio, thou hast cozened me ! Luc. Now begins the game. Mem. How came you hither? Ac. Many, by the way from your house hither. Mem. How chance in this attire? Ac. How chance Dromio bid me? Mem.. Ah, thy son will be begged for a concealed fool ! -^ Ac. Will I? r faith, sir, no. Stel. Wherefore came you hither, Silena. without leave? Sil. Because I did, and I am here because I am. Stel. Poor wench, thy wit is improved -^ to the uttermost. Half. Aye, 't is an hard matter to have a wit of the old rent, every one racks "^"^ his commons so high. Mem. (Aside.) Dromio told me that one should meet Stellio's daughter and court her in person of my son. Stel. (Aside.) Riscio told me one should meet Memphio's son, and plead in place of my daughter. Mem. (Aside.) But alas! I see that my son hath met with Silena himself, and bewrayed his folly. Stel. (Aside.) But I see my daughter hath prattled with Accius, and discov- ered ^^ her simplicity. Luc. A brave cry to hear the two old nmles weep over the two young fools. WIem. Accius, how likest thou Silena? Ac. I take her to be pregnant. Sil. Truly, his talk is very personable. Stel Come in, girl; this gear must be fetched aboiit.-^ Mem. Come, Accius, let us go in. Luc. (To Stel.) Nay, sir, there is no harm done ; they have neither bought nor 21 begging your par- don ; from the Latin salva rev- erentia, and used apologetically be- fore strong or in- decent language. 22 scoff. 23 taunt. 24 paid in full, dis- comfited. 25 of. p. 48, n. 4. 26 a secondary meaning, to raise the rent of, is punningly re- 28 revealed. ferred to in the 20 this matter must next speech. 27 charges exorbi- tant rent for. be handled in roundabout fash- ion. 60 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD sold; they may be twius for their wits and years. Mem. {To Half.) But why diddest thou tell me it was Sperantus' son? Half. Because I thought thee a fool to ask who thine own son was. Luc. {To St el.) And so, sir, for your daughter education hath done much; oth- erwise by nature they are soft-witted enough. Mem. Alas, their joints are not yet tied ; ^° they are not yet come to years and dis- cretion. Ac. Father, if my hands be tied shall I grow wise'? Half. Aye, and Silena too, if you tie them fast to your tongues. Sil. You may take your pleasure of my tongue, for it is no man's wife. Mem. Come in, Aeeius. Stel. Come in, Silena. I will talk with Memphio's son, but as for Riscio — ! Mem. As, for Dromio — ! Exeunt MempUio, Accius, Stellio, Silena. Half. Ass for you all four! Enter Dromio and Biscio. Dro. How goes the world now'? We have made all sure; Candius and Livia are married, their fathers consenting, yet not knowing. Luc. We have flat marred all ! Accius and Silena courted one another; their fathers took them napping, both are ashamed, and you both shall be swinged. Ris. Tush ! let us alone ; we will persuade them that all falls out for the best, for if underhand this match had been con- cluded, they both had been cozened, and now, seeing they find both to be fools, they maj' be both better advised. But why is Halfpenny so sad? Enter HacTcneyman and Sergeant. Half. Because I am sure I shall never be a penny. Bis. Rather pray there be no fall of money, for thou wilt then go for a g.^^ Dro. But did not the two fools currently ^- eourt one another? Luc. Very good words, fitly applied, brought in the nick. Serg. {Seizing Dro.) I arrest you. Dro. Me, sir? Why then didst not bring a stool with thee that I might sit down? 30 their bones are 33 a coinage of Half- 35 pun on spur- not yet set. penny's: drunk- ask. 31 the abbreviation enness. 36 as to a gentle- for farthing. 34 bale. man; or cheap 32 readily. 37 whinny. Hack. He arrests you at my suit for a horse. Ris. The more ass he ! If he had arrested a mare instead of an horse it had been but a slight oversight; but to arrest a man that hath no likeness of a horse is flat lunacy or alecy.^^ Hack. Tush ! I hired him a horse. Dro. I swear then he was well ridden. Hack. I think in two days he was never baited. Half. Why, was it a bear thou rid'st on? Hack. I mean he never gave him bait. Luc. Why, he took him for no fish. Hack. I mistake none of you when I take you for fools! I say thou never gavest my horse meat. Dro. Yes, in four and forty hours I am stire he had a bottle ^* of hay as big as his belly. Serg. Nothing else? Thou shouldst have given him provender. Ris. Why, he never asked for any. Hack. Why, dost thou think a horse can speak ? Dro. No, for I spurred ^^ him till my heels ached and he said never a word. Hack. Well, thou shall j)ay sweetly for spoiling him ! It was as lusty a nag as any in Rochester, and one that would stand ujion no ground. Dro. Then is he as good as ever he was. I '11 warrant he '11 do nothing but lie down. Hack. I lent him thee gently.^^ Dro. And I restored him so gently that he neither would cry wyltie,^'' nor wag the talk Hack. But why didst thou bore him through the ears? Luc. It may be he was set on the pillory ^^ because he had not a true pace. Half. No, it was for tiring.^** Hack. He would never tire ; it may be he would be so weary he would go no further or so. Dro. Yes, he was a notable horse for serv- ice; he would tire and retire. Hack. Do you think I '11 be jested out of my horse? Sergeant, wreak thy office on him. Ris. Nay, stay, let him be bailed. Hack. So he shall when I make him a bargain. Dro. It was a very good horse. I must 38 The ears of those condemned to the pillory were fre- quently cropped or bored as an additional ishment. 39 adorning. pun- MOTHER BOMBIE 67 needs confess ; and now hearken to his qualities, and have patience to hear them, since I must pay for him. He would stumble three hours in one mile : I had thought I had rode upon addices •*" be- tween this and Canterbury. If one gave him water, why, he would lie down and bathe himself like a hawk. If one ran him, he would simper and mump *''- as though he had gone a-wooing to a malt- mare ''- at Rochester ; he ti'otted before and ambled behind, and was so obedient that he would do duty every minute on his knees, as though every stone had been his father. Hack. I am sure he had no diseases. Dro. A little rheum or pose ; ^^ he lacked nothing but an handkercher. Serg. Come, what a tale of a horse have we here! I cannot stay; thou must with me to prison. Bis. If thou be a good fellow, hackney- man, take all our four bonds for tlie payment ; thou knowest we are town-born children, and will not shrink ** the city for a pelting *^ jade. Half. I '11 enter into a statute merchant '*" to see it answered. But if thou wilt have bonds thou shalt have a bushel full. Hack. Alas, poor ant ! Thou bound in n statute merchant f A brown thread will bind thee fast enough. But if you will be content all four jointly to enter into a bond, I will withdraw the action. Dro. Yes, I '11 warrant they will. How say you "? Half. I yield. Bis. And I. Luc. And I. Hack. Well, call the scrivener. Serg. Here's one hard by; I'll call him. {Knocks at Scrivener's door.) Bis. A scrivener's shop hangs to a ser- geant's mace like a burr to a frieze coat. Scriv. (Within.) What 's the matter? Hack. You must take a note of a bond. Dro. Nay, a pint of courtesy pulls on a pot of wine. In this tavern we '11 dispatch. Hack. Agreed. Exeunt all hut Biscio. Bis. Now if our wits be not in the wane, our knavery shall be at the full. They will ride them worse than Dromio rid his horse, for if the wine master their wits, you shall see them bleed their follies. Exit. ACT V. Scene 1. Enter Dromio, Biscio, Lucio, and Hcdf penny. Dro. Every fox to his hole, the hounds are at hand. ^Bis. The sergeant's mace lies at pawn for the reckoning, and he under the board to cast it up. Luc. The scrivener cannot keep his pen out of the pot; every goblet is an ink- horn, Hcdf. The hackneyman he whisks with his wand as if the tavern were his stable and all the servants his horses : 'Most there up, bay Richard !" — and white loaves are horsebread in his eyes. Dro. It is well I have my acquittance, and he such a bond as shall do him no more good than the bond of a fagot. Our knaveries are now come to the push, and we must cunningly dispatch all. We two will go see how we may appease our mas- ters, you two how you may conceal the late marriage; if all fall out amiss, the worst is beating, if to the best, the worst is liberty. Bis. Then let 's about it speedily, for so many irons in the fire together requii-e a diligent plumber. Exeunt. Scene 2. Enter Vicinia. Vic. My heart throbs, my ears tingle, my mind misgives me, since I hear such mut- tering of marriages in Rochester. My conscience, which these eighteen years hath been frozen with concealed *^ guilti- ness, begins now to thaw in open grief. But I will not accuse myself till T see more danger ; the good old woman Mother Bombie shall try her cunning upon me, and if I perceive my case is desperate by her, then will I rather prevent, al- though with shame, than report too late and be inexcusable. Knocks. Enter Mother Bombie. God speed, good mother. Bom. Welcome, sister. Vic. I am troubled in the night with 40 adzes. 41 grimace. 4 2 brpwer's mare. 43 cold. 44 quit. 45 paltry. 46 a bond, acknowl- edged before the chief magistrate of a trading town, giving to the obliaror if he obligee power of forfeited. (N. E. seizure of the D.) land of * the 47 Qq. coniealed. 68 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD dreams, and in the day with fears; mine estate bare, which I cannot well bear, but my practices devilish, which I cannot re- call. If therefore in these same years there be any deep skill, tell what my for- tune shall be, and what my fault is. Bom. In studying to be over-natural Thou art like to be unnatural. And all about a natural,*^ Thou shall be eased of a charge, If thou thy conscience discharge. And this I commit to thy charge. Vic. Thou hast touched me to the quick, mother; I understand thy meaning, and thou well knoAvest my practice. I will follow thy comisel. But what will be the end ? ' Bom. Thou shalt know before this day end. Farewell. Exit. Vic. Now I perceive I must either bewray a mischief or suffer a continual incon- venience. I must haste homewards, and resolve to make all whole; better a little shame than an infinite grief. The strangeness will abate the fault, and the bewraying wipe it clean away. Exit. Scene 3. Enter Sijnis, Nasutus, and Bedunenus. Syn. Come, fellows, 't is almost day ; let us have a fit of mirth at Sperantus' door, and give a song to the bride. Nas. I believe they are asleep ; it were pity to awake them. Bed. 'T were a shame they should sleep the first night. Syn. But who can tell at which house they lie? At Prisius', it may be. We'll try both. Nas. Come, let 's draw like men. Syn. Now tune, tune, I say ! That boy, I think, will never profit in his fac- ulty : *^ he loses his rosin that his fiddle goes "cush ! cush !" like as one should go wet-shod ; and his month so dry that he hath not spittle for his pin ^° as I have. Bed. Marry, sir, you see I go wet-shod and dry-mouthed, for yet could I never get new shoes or good drink ; rather than I'll lead this life, I'll throw my fiddle into the leads for a hobbler.^^ Syn. Boy, no more words ! There 's a time for all things. Though I say it that should not, I have been a minstrel these thirty years, and tickled more strings than thou hast hail's, but yet was never so misused. Nas. Let us not brabble,^- but play; to- morrow is a new day. Bed. I am sorry I speak in your cast.^^ What shall we sing I Syn. "The Love-Knot," for that's best for a bridal. {They sing.) Good morrow, fair bride, and send you joy of your bridal. {Sperantus looks out.) Sper. What a mischief make the twan- glers here? We have no trenchers to scrape. It makes my teeth on edge to hear such grating. Get you packing, or I '11 make you wear double stocks,^* and yet you shall be never the warmer. Syn. We come for good will, to bid the bride and bridegroom God give them joy. Sper. Here 's no wedding. Syn. Yes, your son and Prisius' daughter were married ; though you seem strange, yet they rejDent it not, I am sure. Sper. My son, villain ! I had rather he were fairly hanged. Nas. So he is, sir; you have your wish. Enter Candius. Can. Here, fiddlers, take this, and not a word. Here is no wedding, it was at Memphio's house. Yet gramercy ; your music, though it missed the house, hit the mind; we were a-preparing our wed- ding gear. Syn. I cry you mercy, sir; I think it was Memphio's son that was married. Exit Candius. Sper. ho, the case is altered ! Go thither then, and be haltered for me. Nas. What's the alms? Syn. An angel. Bed. I '11 warrant there 's some work to- wards; ten shillings is money in master Mayor's purse.^^ Syn. Let us to Memphio's, and share equally; when we have done all, thou shalt have new shoes. Bed. Aye, such as they cry at the 'sizes : •'a mark in issues ! ^® and mark in is- his 48 idiot. 49 improve i profession. 50 to make the pegs 51 into the gutter for a mark to throw at. 52 wrangle. of his instru- 53 cast was an ac- ment hold fast. tor's, part in hence, to 55 i e even to a rich in one's man. 6 thirteen shil- lings four pence (a mark) in fines; there is play ; spealc cast is to inter- rupt. 54 pun on stocks — stockings. probably, as Bond suggests, a bad pun on issues — his shoes. MOTHER BOMBIE 69 sues !" — and yet I never saw so much leather as would piece one's shoes. Syn. No more ; there 's the money. Bed. A good handsel,^'' and I tlnnk the maidenhead of your liberality. Nas. Come, here's the house; what shall we singf Syn. You know Memphio is very rich and wise, and therefore let us strike the gen- tle stroke, and sing a catch. Song. All. The bride this night can catch no cold; A^o cold; the bridegroom's young, not old; Like ivy he her fast does hold, iS'.(/n.. And clips her, ^as. And lips her, Bed. And flips her too. All. Then let them alone: they know what they do. Syn. At laugh and lie down if they play, ^as. What ass against the sport can bra.v ? Bed. Such tick-tack has held many a day, Syn. And longer, tjas. And stronger; Bed. It still holds, too. All. Tlien let them alone; they know what they do. This night In delight Does thump away sorrow. Of billing Take your filling; So good morrow, good morroAV. Nas. Good morrow, mistress bride, and send you a huddle. ^^ Mem. {Above.) What crowding ^'^ knaves have we there? Case up your fiddles, or the constable shall cage you up ! What bride talk you off Syn. Here 's a wedding in Rochester, and 't was told me first that Sperantus' son had married Prisius' daughter. We were there, and they sent us to your wor- ship, saying your son was matched with Stellio's daughter. Mem. Hath Sperantus that churl nothing to do but mock his neighbors'? I'll be even with him ! And get you gone, or I swear by the rood's body,^° I '11 lay you by the heels! Nas. Sing a catch ! Here 's a fair catch indeed ! Sing till we catch cold on our feet, and be called knave till our ears glow on our heads ! Your worship is wise, sir! Mem. Dromio, shake off a whole kennel of officers to punish these jarring rogues. I '11 teach them to stretch their dried sheeps' guts at my door, and to mock one that stands to be mayor. Bra. {Above.) I had thought they had been sticking of pigs, I heard such a squeaking. I go, sir. Syn. Let us be packing. Nas. Where is my scabbard? Every one sheathe his science. Bed. A bots on the shoemaker that made this boot for my fiddle; 'tis too strait, Syn. No more words; 'twill be thought they wei'e the four waits,*'^ and let them wring.*'- As for the wags that set us on work, we '11 talk with them. Exeunt. Enter Memphio and Dromio. Dro. They be gone, sir. Mem. If they had stayed, the stocks should have stayed them. But, sirrah, what shall we now do"? Dro. As I advised you, make a match, for better one house be cumbered with two fools than two, Mem. 'T is true ; for it being bruited that each of us have a fool, who will tender marriage to any of them, that is wise? Besides, fools are fortunate, fools are fair, fools are honest. Dro. Aye, sir, and more than that, fools are not wise; a wise man is melancholy for moonshine in the water, careful, building castles in the air, and commonly hath a fool to his heir. Mem. But what sayest thou to thy dame's chafing? Dro. Nothing, but all her dishes are chafing dishes. Mem. I would her tongue were in thy belly ! Dro. I had as lief have a raw neat's tongue in my stomach. Mem." Why? Dro. Marry, if the clapper hang within an inch of my heart, that ^^ makes mine ears burn a quarter of a mile off, do you not think it would beat my heart black and blue? Mem. Well, patience is a virtue, but pinching is worse than any vice ! I will break this matter to Stellio, and if he be willing this day shall be their wed- ding. Dro. Then this day shall be my liberty. Mem. Aye, if Stellio's daughter had been 57 earnest money. 58 embrace. 59 fiddlins:. 60 the body of Christ on the cross. 01 singers. 02 take the onus of it. 63 i. e. clapper. 70 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD wise, and by thy means cozened of a fool. Bro. Then, sir, I '11 revolt, and dash out the brains of your devices. Mem. Rather thou shalt be free. Exeunt. Enter Sperantus, Halfpenny, Prisiits, and Lucio. Sper. Boy, this smoke is a token of some fire; I like not the look of it. Where- fore should these minstrels dream of a marriage? Half. Alas, sir, they rustle into eveiy place. Give credit to no such words. Sper. I will to Prisius; I cannot be quiet — and in good time I meet him. Good morrow, neighbor. Pris. I cast the morrow in thy face, and bid good night to all neighborhood. Sper. This is your old trick, to pick one's purse and then to pick quarrels. I tell thee, I had rather thou shouldest rob my chest than embezzle my son. Pris. Thy son ! ]\Iy daughter is seduced ! For I hear say she is mamed, and our boys can tell. (To Luc.) How sayest thou"? Tell the truth, or I '11 grind thee to powder in my mill. Be they married '? Luc. True it is they were both in a church. Fris. That 's no fault ; the place is holy. Half. And there was with them a priest. Sper. Why, what place fitter for a priest than a church? Luc. And they took one another hj the hand. Pris. Tush ! that 's but conunon courtesy. Half. And the priest spake many kind words. Sper. That showed he was no dumb minis- ter. But what said they? Diddest thou hear any words between them? Luc. Faith, there was a bargain during life, and the clock cried, "God give them joy!" . Pris. Villain, they be married ! Half. Nay, I think not so. Sper. Yes, yes! "God give you .]oy '" is a binder. I '11 quickly be resolved. Cau- dius, come forth. Re-enter Candius. Pris. And I '11 be put out of doubt. Livia, come forth. Enter Livia. Sper. The micher hangs down his head ! Pr'is. The baggage begins to blush ! Half. Now begins the game! Luc. I believe it will be no game for us. Sper. Are you married, young master? Can. I cannot deny it, it was done so lately. Sijer. But thou shalt repent it was done so soon. Pris. Then 't is bootless to ask you, Livia. Liv. Aye, and needless to be angry. Pris. It shall pass anger; thou shalt find it rage. Liv. You gave your consent. Pris. Impudent giglot,^'* was it not enough to abuse me, but also to belie me? Can. You, sir, agreed to this match. Sper. Thou brazen-face boy, thinkest thou by learning to persuade me to that which thou speakest? Where did I consent, when, what witness? Can. In this place yesterday before Dro- mio and Riscio. Pris. I remember we heard a contract be- tween Memphio's son and Stellio's daugh- ter; and that our good wills being asked, which needed not. we gave them, which booted not. Can. 'T was but the apparel of Accius and Silena; we were the persons. Pris. villainy not to be borne! {To Luc.) Wast thou privy to this practice? Luc. In a manner. Pris. I'll pay thee after a manner! Sper. And you, oatmeal groat ! you were acquainted with this plot? Half. Accessoiy, as it were. Sper. Thou shalt be punished as princi- pal. Here comes Memphio and Stellio; they belike were privy, and all tlieir heads were laid together to grieve our hearts. Enter Mempliio, Stellio, Dromio, and Riscio. Mem. Come, Stellio, the assurance may be made tomorro.w, and our children assured today. Stel. Let the conveyance run as we agreed. Pris. You convey ^^ cleanly indeed, if cozenage be clean dealing, for in the ap- parel of your children you have con- veyed a match between ours which grieves us not a little. Mem. Nay, in the apparel of your chil- dren you have discovei'ed the folly of ours, which shames us overmuch. Stel. But 't is no matter ; though they be fools they are no beggars. 65 steal. MOTHER BOMBIE 71 /Sjjf/-. And though ours be disobedient, they be no fools. Dro. So now they tune their pipes. Bis. You shall hear sweet music between a hoarse raven and a screech owl. Mem. Neighbors, let us not vary ; our boys have played their cheating- parts. I sus- I^ected no less at the tavern, where our four knaves met together. Bis. If it were knavery for four to meet in a tavern, your worships wot well there were other four. Stel. This villain calls us knaves by craft. Luc. Nay, truly, I dare swear he used no craft, but means plainly. Sper. This is worse! Come, Halfpenny, tell the truth, and scape the rod. Half. As good confess here, being trussed,*^*^ as at home with my hose about my heels. Dro. Nay, I '11 tell thee, for 't will never become thee to utter it. Mem. Well, out with it ! Dro. Memphio had a fool to his son, which Stellio knew not; Stellio a fool to his daughter, unknown to Memphio ; to cozen each other, they dealt with their boys for a match ; Ave met with Lucio and Halfpenny, who told the love be- tAveen their masters' children — the youth deeply in love, the fathers unAvilling to consent. Bis. I'll take the tale by the end. Then Ave four met, which argued we were no mountains; and in a tavern we met, Avhich argued we were mortal ; and every one in his wine told his day's work, Avhich was a sign we forgot not our business; and seeing all our masters troubled with devices, we determined a little to trouble the water before they drank : so that in the attire of your children our masters' wise children bewrayed their good na- tures, and in the garments of our mas- ters' children yours made a marriage. This all stood upon us poor children and your young children, to sIioav that old folks may be overtaken by children. Pris. Here 's a children indeed ! I '11 never forget it. Mem. I will ! Aecius, come forth. Stel. I forgiA'e all. Silena, come forth. Enter Aecius and Silena. Sper. Neighbor, these things cannot be re- called, therefore as good consent; seeing in all our purposes also we missed the mark, for they tAvo Avill match their chil- dren. Pris. Well, of that more anon; not so suddenly, lest our ungracious youths think Ave dare do no other. But in truth, their love stirs up nature in me. Mem. Come, Aecius, thou must be mar- ried to Silena. How art thou minded? Ac. What, for ever and evev°i Mem. Aye, Aecius, Avhat else? Ac. 1 shall never be able to abide it, it Avill be so tedious, Stel. Silena, thou must be betrothed to Aecius, and love him for thy husband. Sil. I had as lief haA'e one of clouts. Slcl. Why, Silena? Sil. Why, look hoAv he looks ! Ac. If you Avill not, another will. Sil. I thank you for mine old cap. Ac. And if you be so lusty, lend me two shillings. Pris. (To Sper.) We are happy Ave missed the foolish match. Mem. Come, you shall presently be con- tracted. Dro. Contract their Avits no moi-e; they be shrunk close already. Ac. Well, father, here's my hand; strike the bargain. Sil. Must he lie with me? Stel. No, Silena, lie by thee. Ac. 1 shall give her the humble-bee's kiss. Enter Ticinia, Mcestius, and Serena. Vic. I forbid the banns. Bis. What, dost thou think them rats, and fearest they shall be poisoned? Mem,. You, Vicinia? Wherefore? Vic. Hearken ! About eighteen years ago I nursed thee a son, Memphio, and thee a daughter, Stellio. Stel. True. Mem. True. Vic. I had at that time two children of mine own, and being poor, thought it better to change them than kill them. I imagined if by device I could thrust my children into your houses, they should be Avell brought up in their youth and Avisely provided for in their age. Nature wrought Avith me, and AA^hen they were weaned T sent home mine instead of yours, which hitherto you have kept ten- derly as yours. GroAving in years, I foimd the children I kept at home to love dearly, at first like brother and sis- ter, which I rejoiced at ; but at length i.e. before my breeches are taken down and I 'm spanked. 72 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD too foi-ward in affection, which, although inwardly I could not mislike, yet openly I seemed to disallow. They increased in their loving humors; I ceased not to chastise them for their loose demeanors. At last it came to my ears that my son that was out with Memphio was a fool, that my daughter with Stellio was also unwise, and yet, being brother and sister, there was a match in hammering betwixt them. Mem. What monstrous tale is this? Stel. And I am sure incredible. Sper. Let her end her discourse. Ac. I '11 never believe it. Mem. Hold thy peace! Vic. My very bowels yearned within me that I should be author of such vile in- cest, an hindrance to lawful love. I went to the good old woman. Mother Bombie, to know the event of this prac- tice; who told me this day I might pre- vent the danger, and upon submission escape the punishment. Hither am I come to claim my children, though both fools, and to deliver yours, both lov- ing. Mem. Is this possible f How shall we be- lieve it? Stel. It cannot sink into my head. Vic. This trial cannot fail. Your son, Memphio, had a mole under his ear; I framed one under my child's ear by art ; you shall see it taken away with the juice of mandrage.*'^ Behold now for your son's! No herb can undo that nature hath done. Your daughter, Stellio, hath on her wrist a mole, which I counter- feited on my daughter's arm, and that shall you see taken away as the other. Thus you see I do not dissemble, hoping you will pardon me, as I have pitied them. Mem. This is my son ! f oi'tunate Mem- phio ! Stel. This is my daughter ! More than thrice happy Stellio ! Mcest. How happy is Mfestius, how blessed Serena, that being neither chil- dren to poor parents, nor brother and sister by nature, may enjoy their love by consent of parents and nature. Ac. Soft ! I '11 not swap my father for all this. Sil. What, do you think I '11 be cozened of my father? Methinks I should not. Mother Bombie told me my father knew me not, my mother bore me not, falsely bred, truly begot. A bots on Mother Bombie ! Dro. Mother Bombie told us we should be found cozeners, and in the end be cozened by cozeners; well fare Mother Bom- bie! Ris. I heard Mother Bombie say that thou shalt die a beggar; beware of Mother Bombie ! Pris. Why, have you all been with Mother Bombie? Luc. All, and as far as I can see, she fore- told all. . Mem. Indeed she is cunning and wise, never doing harm, but still practising good. Seeing these things fall out thus, are you content, Stellio, the match go forward ? Stel. Aye, with double joy, having found for a fool a wise maid, and finding be- tween them both exceeding love. Pris. Then to end all jars, our children's matches shall stand with our good liking. Livia, enjoy Candius. Sper. Candius, enjoy Livia. Can. How shall we recompense fortune, that to our loves hath added our parents' good wills? M(Est. How shall we requite fortune, that to our loves hath added lawfulness, and to our poor estate competent living? Mem. Vicinia, thy fact ^^ is pardoned, though the law would see it punished. We be content to keep Silena in the house with the new married couple. Stel. And I do maintain Accius in our house. Vic. Come, my children, though fortune hath not provided you lands, yet you see you are not destitute of friends. I shall be eased of a charge both in purse and conscience : in conscience, having re- vealed my lewd practice ; in purse, hav- ing you kept of alms. Ac. Come, if you be my sister it 's the better for you. Sil. Come, brother, methinks it 's better than it was; I should have been but a bald bride. I '11 eat as much pie as if I had been married. Mem. Let 's also forgive the knavery of our boys, since all turns to our good haps. Stel. Agreed ; all are pleased now the boys are unpunished. Enter Hackney man, Sergeant, and Scrivener. Hack. Nay, soft, take us with you, and seek redress for our wrongs, or we '11 complain to the mayor. Pris. What's the matter? 67 mandragora. MOTHER BOMBIE 73 Hack. I arrested Memphio's boy for an horse. After much mocking, at the re- quest of his fellow wags I was content to take a bond jointly of them all; they had me into a tavern ; there they made me, the scrivener, and the sergeant drunk, pawned his mace for the wine, and sealed me an obligation nothing to the purpose. I pray you, read it. Mem. What wags be these ! Why, by this bond you can demand nothing, and things done in drink may be repented in soberness, but not remedied. Dro. Sir, I have his acquittance; let him sue his bond. Hack. I '11 cry quittance Avith thee ! Serg. And I, or it shall cost me the laying on freely of my mace. Scriv. And I '11 give thee such a dash with a pen as shall cost thee many a pound, with such a Noverint '^^ as Cheapside ""^ can show none such. Half. Do your worst ; our knaveries will revenge it upon your children's children. Mem. Thou boy!* {To Hack.) We will pay the hire of the horse, be not angry. The boys have been in a men-y cozening vein, for they have served their masters of the same sort ; but all must be forgot- ten. Now all are content but the poor fiddlers ; they shall be sent for to the mar- riage, and have double fees. Dro. You need no more send for a fiddler to a feast than a beggar to a fair. Stel. This day we will feast at my house. Mem. Tomorrow at mine. Pris. The next day at mine. Sper. Then at mine the last day, and even so spend this week in good cheer. Dro. Then we were best be going whilst every one is pleased. And yet these cou- ples are not fully pleased till the priest have done his woi'st. Piis. Come, Sergeant, we '11 toss it ''^ this week, and make thy mace arrest a boiled capon. Serg. No more words at the wedding; if the mayor should know it, I were in dan- ger of mine office. Pi is. Then take heed how, on such as we are, you show a cast ''^ of your office. Half. If you mace us, we '11 pepper you. Ac. Come, sistei', the best is, we shall have good cheer these four days. Lt(e. And be fools for ever. Sil. That 's none of our ui^seekings. Exeunt. C9 the first word of the phrase with which deeds be- gan: "Know all men by these presents." 70 the ecclesiastical of Canterbury court of appeal was held in Bow for the province Church, Cheap- side. 71 toss cups, drink. 72 specimen. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE EDWARD II Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) was the son of a shoemaker of Canterbury, and went to the old King's School of that town. Thence in 1579 he went up to Cambridge on a scholarship which he held all during his residence at the university, where he took a bachelor's degree in 1584, a master's in 1587. Between 1587, when Tamburlaine was acted, and 1593 he produced at least six plays, as well as the unfinished narrative poem, Hero and Leander. All that is cer- tainly known of his death is that he was killed by one Francis Archer; the rumors of dissipation and atheism attaching to his name are undeserving of credence. The feeling of national unity which had been growing in England luider the Tudor sovereigns, especially during the reign of the great Maiden Queen, received a tremendous impulse from the defeat of the Armada in 1588. The mistrust of Spain, shown in the popular discontent with i\lary Tudor's mar- riage to Philip, accentuated by the resent- ment of Spanish oppression of the Nether- lands, and fanned into a white heat of hatred by Philip's ambitious project of regaining- England for the Pope, probably did more to make England a united nation tlian any other one cause. The fears of a Catholic vip- rising were dissipated by the staunch loyalty of- the English Catholics, and the jubilation over a great crisis safely passed found one means of expression in the glorious liood of Elizabethan literature. To this national in- spiration the drama, just finding itself in the decade from 1580 to 1590, responded with extraordinary vigor. Tlie twenty years fol- lowing the Armada saw the rise and full development of a new and quite native form of drama, taking its subject-matter from the history, authentic or legendary, of Britain, the chronicle-history play. It has been es- timated that such plays during the period of their popularity constituted more than a fifth of the contemporary drama. Of the thirty-seven plays in the Shakespeare canon ten (coimting parts of plays individually) are of this type, while Cymbeline, Lear, and Macbeth are drawn from the same sources. It was natural that during a period of strong national feeling Englishmen should take in- terest in the history of their country. What numerous historical works in prose and verse did for readers, the chronicle plays did for spectators, and their actual educative 74 function must not be overlooked* Forerun- ners of the type may be found in such a play as Bale's Kyng Johan (1538) and a few Senecan tragedies like Gorboduc (1562), but it was not till 1580-7 in The Famous Vic- tories of Henry V that we get our first ex- ample. To raise the chronicle-history play to the plane of artistic drama was the work of two men, Marlowe and Shakespeare. Edward II is generally accepted as being the latest of Marlowe's plays, written prob- ably about 1592. Not so rich in poetry as Tamburlaine or Dr. Fanstus, nor so theatri- cally efl'ective as the melodramatic Jew of Malta, in technique it is Marlowe's best work. The material is taken from the source tllS^ supplied Shakespeare with his knowledge of English history, ITolinshed's Clironicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, with occa- sional borrowings from the older chronicles of Fabyan (e.g., the song on Bannockburn, II. ii) and Stow. The play is, however, so much more than a mere transference to the stage of Holinshed's narrative that a com- parison of the play with the historical ac- coimt reveals, as can nothing_,else, Marlowe's methods as a playmaker^/-"'^ The action covers a period of twenty years, »from 1307, when Gaveston was recalled, to the death of Edward in 1327. " Marlowe's treatment of the story shows a selection and transposing of events in order to bring out the one essential fact of the King's utter incompetence and subjection to unworthy favorites, t Gaveston was executed in 1312, and the troubles in Ireland (II. ii) and in Scotland (II. ii) occurred after his death, but Marlowe shifts both forward in point of time in order to connect them vi^ith Gaveston's baleful inlluence. Warwick died in his bed in 1315, seven years before the battle of Boroughbridge, but Alarlowe keejis him alive to have him captured and ordered to execution in retaliation for his killing of ,' Gaveston. At the time the play opens the | Earl of Kent was six years old, but Mar- lowe, needing a counsellor and supporter of the King, used Kent for the purpose. In the play young Spencer immediately succeeds Gaveston as the King's favorite; really the younger Hugli le Despenser, who had been an enemy of (Javcston, remained an opponent of Edward's for some six years after Gaves- ton's death. Historically the ilortimers be- long with the Spencers, i.e., to the later part of the reign, but in order to motivate the CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE affair between the Queen and young Morti- mer Marlowe transfers them to the beginning of the play and makes them leaders in the barons' councils. What does all this rearrangement mean ? It means that Marlowe was working with a definite dramatic end in view, with all his faculties alert to make the i^lay a single, logical portrayal of the King's fatal weak- ness and its consequences to him and to the realnv' In the first place he had to show in action the evil influence of Gaveston over Edward. This he does by showing the King's .unkingly infatuation with an arrogant favor- ite who holds his position only by flattering the royal vanity, an infatuation so complete that it leads to the insulting and final aliena- tion of a faithful and loving Queen. • Tlie practical effects of Gaveston's pandering to the King's love of pleasure are seen in the hostility of the great barons and the affronts to English honor in Scotland and Ireland. With Gaveston out of the way (III. ii), Marlowe is faced by the difficulty of avoiding in the Spencer story a mere repetition of that of Gaveston. He had already, by intro- ducing young Spencer in II. i as a depend- ent of Gaveston's, and thus preparing for Spencer's promotion to Gaveston's shoes, pre- vented his play from breaking in two on Gaveston's disappearance. Now he solves his fresh problem by shifting the interest from the affairs of the kingdom to the more famil- iar situation of the eternal triangle — hus-' band, offended wife, lover. From the first Mortimer has been the main reliance of the Queen in her effort to maintain her posi- tion with the King; when the King himself impugns her honor by flinging Mortimer's name in her face we are fully prepared for her soliloquy at the end of the scene {il. iv), and the understanding between her and Mortimer in IV. iv and v. The development of their love affair, merely hinted at in Holinshed, is rather left for the actors to bring out than explained in the text, but Marlowe makes the situation clear. Morti- mer's relations with the Queen place him definitely at the head of the revolting barons, and he is thus ready to play his part as chief actor in Edward's deposition and murder, and as virtual ruler of the realm until the young King asserts himself at the end of the play. Detailed analysis of this sort is useful not only for showing how Marlowe met the prob- lem of making a play out of unpromising material, but also how, in the process of making the story truly dramatic, his method tends to break away from the chronicle- history form and approaches tra gedy . In early crude examples of the type — plays like The Favwus Victories of Henry V, Jack Straio, Peele's Edward I, Henry VI — the emphasis is frankly on circumstance, wha.t happened during the reign oT a certain king. Events are set down in chronological order, and the writer is more concerned with the effect of the immediate situation than with the coherent development of a logical story. Characters are presented in a purely super- ficial waj^, and the unity of the play is se- cured only by the presence in the chief scenes of the same leading figures. The prog- ress of the play is, therefore, clumsy and^__^ jerky. Is the chief interest in Edward II iii^*"" event or in character ? Clearly what interests Marlowe most is the character of Edward himself; by centering attention on the petu- lant king, powerless to command even his own desires, and by careful analysis of Ed- ward's weakness, Marlowe shifts the em- phasis from event to character, and in so doing almost writes tragedy. The method of securing dramatic unity by focusing at- tention on a central character, Marlowe had employed in his previous plays; but there is this fundamental difierence between Edward II and its predecessors, that where in Tarn- burlaine, Faustus, and The Jew all the other characters are completely subordinated to the one commanding figure, are satellites shining only by light reflected from their ^ sun, in Edward II Marlowe develops four ' characters with distinct personalities of their k own — 'JCdward, Gaveston, Mortimer, and the^ Queen. Of these Isabella is the least satis- factory, probably because, although her aban- donment of the King for Mortimer is well enough motivated, Marlowe does not give us a chance to' see the development of her pas- sion. One genuine love-scene betv/een her and JMortimer would have helped us to a sympathetic understanding of the Queen, and done away with the apparent abruptness of her change of heart. Marlowe's was an es- sentially masculine intellect, and his inabil- ity to portray women with success is as strik- ing as Byron's. Gaveston, in his combina- tion of arrogance and sycophancy, stands out as a clear study of the royal favorite. Morti- " mer's most prominent trait is a headstrong resolve to rule or be ruined, to be all or nothing; his last words have the true Mar- lowe ring ■ of towering ambition and un- daunted defiance in the face of defeat. • Upon Edward, Marlowe lavishes all his power. Edward has the fatal flaw in char- acter which brings tragedy upon its posset '" sor, a flaw which at the same time unites him with Marlowe's other heroes in their Amour de Vlmpossihle, to use Symonds's often-quoted phrase. Tlie lust for power seen in varying manifestations in Tamburlaine, Faustus, and Barabas the Jew, in Edward is replaced by an inordinate desire for affection, to love and to be loved by the one object of his affection. Since this is not a case of one of those deathless passions between man and woman which make the world seem well lost for love, Marlowe has the difficult task of gaining sympathy for an unsympathetic 76 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD figure without palliating its weakness. That he has done so nuist be the verdict of the reader upon tinishing the long and pathetic presentation of Edward's humiliation and death. As Schelling puts it : " Contemptible in his unkingliness up to the moment of the turning of the tide against him, the royal sorrows and the unregal inflictions put upon him arouse our sympathies until, when the pitiful catastrophe which overtakes him is reached, contempt is transmuted into sym- pathetic grief that any king could so fall." More tlian any other of ilarlowe's plays Edicard II exhibits a restraint, a conscious attempt to place dramatic truth before poetic imagination. As a result the verse is in- ferior as poetry to that of the others. We catch echoes of " Marlowe's mighty line " in passages like Gaveston's soliloquies in the first scene, in Edward's speeches in the depo- sition scene where he gives up " the sweet fruition of an earthly crowTi," in the scene where he is murdered, in i\Iortimer's last speech. It may be questioned, indeed, whether the glorious sweep and daring of Tamburlaine and Dr. Faustus might not have been out of place in this study of Eng- lish history. And this may certainly be said, that where in the preceding plays we feel Marlowe's failure to make his finest lyrical passages dramatically appropriate, Edtcard II shows him on his way to accomplishment. He had already settled one thing: that blank verse was to be the medium of Elizabethan drama. It is a truism that on the serious side Shakespeare felt no influence like Marlowe's. Marlowe was Shakespeare's master in chron- icle-history: the two may liave worked to- gether on Henry VI, Richard III is the ap- plication to chronicle-history of Marlowe's centralizing method, and Richard II shows at every turn the influence of Edicard II. Had Marlowe been permitted to live and work his way to true tragedy as did Shakes- peare. Edward II might have proved the transitional stage that Richard II was for Shakespeare. But " cut was the branch that might have grown full straight," and Mar- lowe's Lear and Hamlet were never written THE TROUBLESOME REIGN AND LAMENTABLE DEATH OF EDWARD THE SECOND By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS King Edwakd the Second. Peince Edward, his Son, afterwards King Edward the Third. Earl of Kent, Brother to King Edioard the Second. Gaveston. Archbishop of Canterbury. Bishop of Coventry. Bishop of Winchester. Warwick. Lancaster. Pembroke. Arundel. Leicester. Berkeley. Mortimer, Mortimer, the elder. the younger, his Nephew. Spencer, the elder. ACT L Scene 1. A street in London. Enter Gaveston, reading on a letter that was brought him from the King. Gaveston. "My father is deceas'd ! Come, Gaveston, Poor Men, Messengers, Spencer, the younger, his Son. Baldock. Beaumont. Trussel. GURNEY. Matrevis. LiGHTBORN. Sir .John of Hainault. Levune. Rice ap Howell. Abbot, Monks, Herald, Lords, James, Mower, Champion, Soldiers, and Attendants. Queen Isabella, Wife to King Edward the Second. Niece to King Edward the Second, Daughter to the Duke of Gloucester. Ladies. And share the kmgdom with thy dearest friend." Ah ! words that make me surfeit with de- light ! What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston Than live and be the favorite of a king! Sweet prince, I come; these, these thy amorous lines EDWARD II 77 Might have enfore'd me to have swum from France, And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand, So thou would'st smile, and take me in thine arms. The sight of London to my exil'd eyes Is as Elysium to a new-come soul; Not that I love the city, or the men, But that it harbors him I hold so dear — The king, upon whose bosom let me die, And with the world be still at enmity. "What need the arctic people love star- light. To whom the sun shines both bv day and night 9 Farewell base stooping to the lordly peers My knee shall bow to none but to the king. As for the multitude, that are but sparks Rak'd up in embers of their poverty; — Tanti.^ I '11 fawn first on the wind That glanceth at my lips, and flieth away. Enter three Poor Men. But how now, what are these? Poor Men. Such as desire your worship's service. Gav. What canst thou do? 1 P. Man. I can ride. Gav. But I have no horses. — What ail thou? 2 P. Man. A traveler. Gav. Let me see: thou Avould'st do well To wait at my trencher and tell me lies at dinner time; And as I like your discoursing, I '11 have you.— And what art thou? 3 P. Man. A soldier, that hath serv'd against the Scot. Gav. Why, there are hospitals for such as you. I have no war, and therefore, sir, begone. 3 P. Man. Farewell, and perish by a sol- dier's hand, That would'st reward them with an hos- pital. Gav. {Aside.) Aye, aye, these words of his move me as much As if a goose should play the porpentine, And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce my breast. But yet it is no pain to speak men fair; I '11 flatter these, and make them live in hope. — You know that I came lately out of France, 1 "so much for them." And yet I have not view'd my lord the king; If I speed well, I '11 entertain you all. All. We thank your worship. Gav. I have some business: leave me to myself. All. We will wait here about the court. Exeunt. Gav. Do. — These are not men for me : I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, Musicians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please. Music and poetry is his delight; Therefore I '11 have Italian masks by night. Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows ; And in the day, when he shall walk abroad. Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad; My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns. Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay. 2 Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape, With hair that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearl about his naked arms, And in his sportful hands an olive tree. To hide those parts which men delight to see. Shall bathe him in a spring; and there hard by. One like Actseon peeping through the grove Shall by the angry goddess be trans- form'd. And running in the likeness of an hart By yelping hounds pull'd down, and seem to die ; — Such things as these best please his maj- esty. My lord. — Here comes the king, and the nobles From the parliament. I '11 stand aside. Retires. Enter King Edward, Lancaster, the Elder Mortimer, Young Mortimer, Kent, War- wick, and Attendants. K. Edw. Lancaster! Lan. My lord. Gav. (Aside.) That Earl of Lancaster do I abhor. K. Edw. Will you not grant me this? — [Aside.) In spite of them 2 a rustic dance. 78 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD I '11 have my will ; and these two Morti- mers, That cross me thus, shall know I am dis- pleas'd. E. Mor. If you love us, my lord, hate Gaveston. Gav. {Aside.) That villain Mortimer! I '11 be his death, r. Mor. Mine uncle here, this earl, and I myself Were sworn to your father at his death, That he should ne'er return into the realm ; And know, my lord, ere I will break my oath. This sword of mine, that should offend your foes, Sliall sleep Avithin the scabbard at thy need, And underneath thy banners march who will. For Mortimer will hang his armor up. Gav. (Aside.) Mort Dieu! K. Edw. Well, Mortimer, I'll make thee rue these words. Beseems it thee to contradict thy king? Frown'st thou thereat, aspiring Lancas- ter? The sword shall plane the furrows of thy brows. And hew these knees that now are grown so stiff. I will have Gaveston; and you shall know What danger 'tis to stand against your king. Gav. (Aside.) Well done, Ned ! Lan. My lord, why* do you thus incense your peers. That naturally would love and honor you But for that base and obscure Gaveston f Four earldoms have I, besides Lancas- ter — Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester, — These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay. Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm; Therefore, if lie be come, expel him straight. Kent. Barons and earls, your pride hath made me mute; But now I '11 speak, and to the proof, I hope. I do remember, in my father's days. Lord Percy of the north, being highly mov'd, Braved Moubery ^ in presence of the king; 3 Mowbray ; the spelling shows the old pronunciation. 4 Q. parle. For which, had not his highness lov'd him well. He should have lost his head ; but with his look The undaunted spirit of Percy was ap- peas'd, And Moubery and he were reconcil'd : Yet dare you brave the king unto his face?— Brother, revenge it, and let these their heads Preach upon poles, for trespass of their tongues. War. 0, our heads ! K. Edw. Aye, yours; and therefore I would wish you grant — War. Bridle thy anger, gentle Morti- mer. y. Blor. 1 cannot, nor I will not; I must speak. — Cousin, our hands I hope shall fence our heads, And strike off his that makes you threaten us. Come, uncle, let us leave the brain-sick king, And henceforth parley * with our naked swords. E. Mor. Wiltshire hath men enough to save our heads. War. All Warwickshire will love him for my sake. Lan. And northward Gaveston hath many friends. — Adieu, my lord; and either change your mind, Or look to see the throne, where you should sit, To lioat in blood; and at thy wanton head. The glozing ^ head of thy base minion thrown. Exeunt all except King Edward, Kent, Gaveston, and Attendants. K. Edw. I cannot brook these haughty menaces. Am I a king, and must be overrul'd? — Brother, display my ensigns in the field; I '11 bandy ^ with the barons and the earls, And either die or live with Gaveston. Gav. I can no longer keep me from my lord. (Comes forward.) K. Edw. What, Gaveston ! welcome ! — Kiss not my hand — Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee. 5 flattering. 6 dispute. EDWARD 11 79 Why shoukl'st thou kneel*? Know'st thou not who I am'? Thy friend, thyself, another Gaveston ! Not Hylas was more niourn'd of Hercu- les, Than thou hast been of me since thy exile. Gov. And since I went from hence, no soul in hell Hath felt more torment than poor Gaves- ton. K. Edw. I know it. — Brother, welcome home my friend. Now let the treacherous Mortimers eon- spire. And that high-minded Earl of Lancaster : I have my wish, in that I joy thy sight ; And sooner shall the sea o'erwhelm my land, Than bear the ship that shall transport thee hence. I here create thee Lord High Chamber- lain, Chief Seci'etary to the state and me, Earl of Cornwall, King and Lord of Man. Gav. My lord, these titles far exceed my worth. Kent. Brother, the least of these may well suffice For one of greater birth than Gaveston. K. Edw. Cease, brother, for I cannot brook these words. Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my gifts. Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart. If for these dignities thou be envied, I '11 give thee more ; for, but to honor thee, Is Edward pleas'd with kingly regiment. '^ Fear'st ^ thou thy person"? Thou shalt have a guard. Wantest thou gold'? Go to my treasury. Would'st thou'be lov'd and fear'd? Re- ceive my seal ; Save or condemn, and in our name com- mand Whatso thy mind affects, or fancy likes. Gav. It shall suffice me to enjoy your love. Which whiles I have, I think myself as great As Ceesar riding in the Roman street. With captive kings at his triumphant car. Enter the Bishop of Coventrtj. 7 rule. s fearest for. K. Edw. Whither goes my lord of Coven- try so fasf? B. of Gov. To celebrate your father's exequies. But is that wicked Gaveston returu'd"? K. Edw. Aye, priest, and lives to be re- veng'd on thee. That wert the only cause of his exile. Gav. 'T is true ; and but for reverence of these robes. Thou shoukl'st not plod one foot beyond this place. B. of Gov. I did no more than I was bound to do; And, Gaveston, unless thou be reclaim'd. As then I did incense the parliament, So will I now, and thou shalt back to France. Gav. Saving your reverence, you must pardon me. K. Edw. Throw off his golden mitre, rend his stole, And in the channel ^ christen him anew. Kent. Ah, brother, lay not violent hands on him ! For he '11 comjDlain unto the see of Rome. Gav. Let him complain unto the see of hell! I '11 be reveng'd on him for my exile. K. Edw. No, spare his life, but seize upon his goods. Be thou lord bishop and receive his rents, And make him serve thee as thy chap- lain. I give him thee — here, use him as thou wilt. Gav. He shall to prison, and there die in bolts. K. Edw. Aye, to the Tower, the Fleet,!** or where thou wilt. B. of Gov. For this offense, be thou ac- curst of God ! K. Edw. Who's there"? Convey this priest to the Tower. B. of Gov. True, true. K. Edw. But in the meantime, Gaveston, away. And take possession of his house and goods. Come, folloAV me, and thou shalt have my guard To see it done, and bring thee safe again. Gav. What should a priest do with so fair a house f A prison may best beseem his holiness. Exeunt. 9 gutter. 10 a prison in London. so THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Scene 2. Westminster. Enter on one side both the Mortimers; on the other, Warwick and Lancaster. War. 'T is true ; the bishop is in the Tower, And goods and body given to Gaveston. Lan. What! will they tyrannize upon the church? Ah, wicked king! accursed Gaveston! This ground, which is corrupted with their steps. Shall be their timeless ^^ sepulchre or mine. Y. Mor. Well, let that peevish Frenchman guard him sure ; Unless his breast be sword-proof he shall die. E. Mor. How now ! why droops the Earl of Lancaster 1 T. Mor. Wherefore is Guy of Warwick discontent? Lan. That villain Gaveston is made an earl. E. Mor. An earl! War. Aye, and besides Lord Chamberlain of the realm, And Secretary too, and Lord of Man. E. Mor. We may not, nor we will not suffer this. Y. Mor. Why post we not from hence to levy men? Lan. "My Lord of Cornwall" now at eveiy word ! And happy is the man whom he vouch- safes, For vailing of ^- his bonnet, one good look. Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth march : Nay, more, the guard upon his lordship waits ; And all the court begins to iiatter him. War. Thus leaning on the shoulder of the king, He nods and scorns and smiles at those that pass. E. Mor. Doth no man take exceptions at the slave? Lan. All stomach ^^ him, but none dare speak a word. Y. Mor. Ah, that bewrays their baseness, Lancaster! Were all the earls and barons of my mind, We'd hale him from the bosom of the king. And at the court-gate hang the i^easant up, Who, swoln with venom of ambitious pride, Will be the ruin of the realm and us. Enter the Archbishop of Canterburtj and an Attendant. War. Here comes my lord of Canter- bury's grace. Lan. His countenance bewrays he is dis- pleas'd. A. of Cant. First were his sacred gar- ments rent and torn. Then laid they violent hands upon him ; next Himself imprisoned, and his goods as- seiz'd ; This certify the Pope; — away, take horse. Exit Attend. Lan. My lord, will you take arms against the king? A. of Cant. AYhat need I? God himself is up in arms. When violence is offered to the church. Y. Mor. Then will you join with us that be his peers, To banish or behead that Gaveston? A. of Cant. What else, my lords? for it concerns me near; The bishopric of Coventry is his. Enter Queen Isabella. Y. Mor. Madam, whither walks your maj- esty so fast? Q. Isab. Unto the forest, gentle Morti- mer, To live in grief and baleful discontent ; For now my lord the king regards me not. But dotes upon the love of Gaveston. He claps his cheeks, and hangs about his neck. Smiles in his face, and whispers in his ears; And when I come he frowns, as who should say, "Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have Gaveston." E. Mor. Is it not strange that he is thus bewitch'd? Y. Mor. Madam, return unto the court again. That sly inveigling Frenchman we '11 exile. Or lose our lives; and yet, ere that day come, 11 untimely. 12 doffing. 13 are angered at. EDWARD II 81 The king shall lose his crown ; for we have power, And courage too, to be reveng'd at full. Q. Isab. But yet lift not your swords against the king. Lan. No ; but we '11 lift Gaveston from hence. War. And war must be the means, or he '11 stay still. Q. Isab. . Then let him stay; for rather than my lord Shall be oppress'd by civil mutinies, I will endure a melancholy life, And let him frolic with his minion. A. of Cant. My lords, to ease all this, but hear me speak : — We and the rest, that are his counsel- lors. Will meet, and with a general consent Contirm his banishment with our hands and seals. Lan. What we confirm the king will frus- trate. Y. Mor. Then may we lawfully revolt from him. War. But say, my lord, where shall this meeting be? A. of Cant. At the New Temple. Y. Mor. Content. A. of Cant. And, in the meantime, I '11 entreat you all To cross to Lambeth, and there stay with me. Lan. Come then, let 's away. Y. Mor. Madam, farewell ! Q. Isab. Farewell, sweet Mortimer, and, for my sake. Forbear to levy arms against the king. Y. Mor. Aye, if words will serve ; if not, I must. Exeunt. Scene 3. A street in London. Enter Gaveston and Kent. Gav. Edmund, the mighty Prince of Lan- caster, That hath more earldoms than an ass can bear, And both the Mortimers, two goodly men, With Guy of Warwick, that redoubted knight, Are gone toward Lambeth — there let them remain ! Exeunt. Scene 4. The New Temple. Enter Nobles. Lan. Here is the form of Gaveston's exile : May it please your lordship to subscribe your name. A. of Cant. Give me the paper. {He subscribes, as do the others after him.) Lan. Quick, quick, my lord ; I long to write my name. War. But I long more to see him banish'd hence. Y. Mor. The name of Mortimer shall fright the king, Unless he be declin'd from that base peasant. Enter King Edward, Gaveston, and Kent. K. Edw. Wliat, are you mov'd that Gaves- ton sits here*? It is our pleasure; we will have it so. Lan. Your grace doth well to jDlace him by your side. For nowhere else the new earl is so safe. E. Mor. What man of noble birth can brook this sight? Qiiam male conveniunt ! '^* See what a scornful look the peasant easts ! Pern. Can kingly lions fawn on creeping ants? War. Ignoble vassal, that like Phaeton Aspir'st unto the gaiidanee of the sun ! Y. Mor. Their downfall is at hand, their forces down; We will not thus be fac'd and over- peer'd. K. Edw. Lay hands on that traitor Mor- timer ! E. Mor. Lay hands on that traitor Gaves- ton ! Kent. Is this the duty that you owe your king? War. We know our duties — let him know his peers. K. Ediv. Whither will you bear him? Stay, or ye shall die. E. Mor. We are no traitors; therefore threaten not. Gav. No, threaten not, my lord, but pay them home ! Were I a king Y. Mor. Thou villain, wherefoi'e talk'st thou of a king. That hardly art a gentleman by birth? 14 how ill they agree 1 82 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD K. Edw. Were he a peasant, being my minion, I '11 make the proudest of you stoop to him. Lan. My lord, you may not thus dis- parage us. — Away, I say, with hateful Gaveston ! E. Mor. And with .the Earl of Kent that favors him. {Attendants remove Kent and Gaveston.) K. Edw. Nay, then, lay violent hands upon your king. Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edward's throne ; Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my crown. Was ever king thus over-rul'd as I ? Lan. Learn then to rule us better, and the realm. Y. Mor. W^hat we have done, our heart- blood shall maintain. War. Think you that we can brook this upstart pride 1 K. Edw. Anger and wrathful fury stops my speech. A. of Cant. Why are you mov'd? Be patient, my lord, And see what we your counsellors have done. Y. Mor. My lords, now let us all be reso- lute. And either have our wills, or lose our lives. K. Edw. Meet you for this, proud over- daring peers? Ere my sweet Gaveston shall part from me, This isle shall fleet ^^ upon the ocean. And wander to the unfrequented Inde. A. of Cant. You know that I am legate to the Pope. On your allegiance to the see of Rome, Subscribe, as we have done, to his exile. Y. Mor. Curse him, if he refuse; and then may we Depose him and elect another king. K. Edw. Aye, there it goes ! but yet I will not yield. Curse me, depose me, do the worst you can. Lan. Then linger not, my lord, but do it straight. A. of Cant. Remember how the bishop was abus'd ! Either banish him that was the cause thereof, Or I will presently discharge these lords Of duty and allegiance due to thee. 15 float. K. Edw. (Aside.) It boots me not to threat; I must speak fair. — The legate of the Pope will be obey'd. My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the realm; Thou, Lancaster, High Admiral of our fleet; Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be earls ; And you. Lord Warwick, President of the North; And thou, of Wales. If this content you not, Make several kingdoms of this monarchy, And share it equally amongst you all. So I may have some nook or corner left. To frolic with my dearest Gaveston. ^1. of Cant. Nothing shall alter us, we are resolv'd. Lan. Come, come, subscribe. Y. Mor. Why should you love him whom the world hates so? K. Edw. Because he loves me more than all the world. Ah, none but rude and savage-minded men Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston ; You that be noble-bom should pity him. War. You that are princely-born should shake him off. For shame subscribe, and let the lown '^° depart. E. Mor. Urge him, my lord. A. of Cant. Are you content to banish him the realm? K. Edw. I see I must, and therefore am content. Instead of ink, I '11 write it with my tears. (Subscribes.) Y. Mor. The king is love-sick for his minion. K. Edw. 'T is done; and now, accursed hand, fall off! Lan. Give it me ; I '11 have it publish'd in the streets. Y, Mor. I '11 see him presently despatch'd away. A. of Cant. Now is my heart at ease. War. And so is mine. Pern. This will be good news to the com- mon sort. E. Mor. Be it or no, he shall not linger here. Exeunt all except King Edward. K. Edw. How fast they run to banish him I love ! 10 loon, base fellow. EDWARD II 83 They would not stir, were it to do me good. Why should a king be subject to a priest f Proud Rome ! that hatchest such imperial grooms, For these thy superstitious taper-lights, Wherewith thy antichristian churches blaze, I '11 fire thy crazed buildings, and en- force The papal towers to kiss the lowly ground ! With slaughtered priests make Tiber's channel swell, And banks rais'd higher with their se- pulchres ! As tor the peers, that back the clergy thus, If I be king, not one of them shall live. Be-enter Gaveston. Gav. My lord, I hear it whispered every- where. That I am banish'd, and nu;st fly the land. K. Edw. 'T is true, sweet Gaveston — ! were it false! The legate of the Pope will have it so, And thou must hence, or I shall be de- pos'd. But I will reign to be revenji'd of them ; And therefore, sweet friend, take it pa- tiently. Live where thou wilt, I '11 send thee gold enough ; And long thou shalt not stay, or if thou dost, I '11 come to thee ; my love shall ne'er decline. Gav. Is all ray hope turn'd to this hell of grief? K. Edw. Rend not my heart with thy too piercing words : Thou from this land, I from myself am banish'd. Gav. To go from hence grieves not poor Gaveston ; But to forsake you, in whose gracious looks The blessedness of Gaveston remains. For nowhere else seeks he felicity. K. Edw. And only this torments my wretched soul That, whether I will or no, thou must depart. Be governor of Ireland in my stead, And there abide till fortune call thee home. Here take my picture, and let me wear thine ; [They exchange pictures.) 0, might I keep thee here as I do this, Happy were I ! but now most miserable ! Gav. 'T is something to be pitied of a king. K. Edw. Thou shalt not hence — I '11 hide thee, Gaveston. Gav. I shall be found, and then 't will grieve me more. K. Edw. Kind words and mutual talk makes our grief greater; Therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part. — Stay, Gaveston, I cannot leave thee thus. Gav. For every look, my lord drops down a tear. Seeing I must go, do not renew my sor- row. K. Edw. The time is little that thou hast to stay. And, therefore, give me leave to look my fill. But come, sweet friend, I '11 bear thee on thy way. Gav. The peers will frown. K. Ediv. I pass ^'' not for their anger — Come let 's go ; that we might as well return as go ! Enter Edmund and Queen Isabella. Q. Isab. Whither goes my lord"? K. Edw. Fawn not on me, French strum- pet ! Get thee gone ! Q. Isab. On whom but on my husband should I fawn? Gav. On Mortimer! Avith whom, ungentle queen — 1 say no more. Judge you the rest, my lord. Q. Isab. In saying this, thou wrong'st me, Gaveston. Is 't not enough that thou corrupt'st my lord. And art a bawd to his affections, But thou must call mine honor thus in question ? Gav. I mean not so ; your grace must par- don me. K. Edw. Thou art too familiar with that Mortimer. And by thy means is Gaveston exil'd; But I would wish thee reconcile the lords, Or thou shalt ne'er be reeoncil'd to me. Q. Isab. Your highness knows it lies not in my power. 17 care. 84 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD K. Edw. Away then! touch me not. — Come, Ga vest on. Q. Isab. Villain ! 't is thou that robb'st me of my lord. Gav. Madam, 't is you that rob me of my lord. K. Edw. Speak not unto her; let her droop and pine. Q. Isab. Wherein, my lord, have I de- served these words'? Witness the tears that Isabella sheds, Witness this heart, that, sighnig for thee, breaks, How dear my lord is to poor Isabel. K. Edw. And witness Heaven how dear thou art to me ! There weep; for till my Gaveston be repeal'd. Assure thyself thou com'st not in my sight. Exeunt Edward and Gaveston. Q. Isab. miserable and distressed queen ! Would, when I left sweet France and was embark'd, That charming Ciree, walking on the waves. Had chang'd my shape, or at the mar- riage-day The cup of Hymen had been full of poison, Or with those arms that twin'd about my neck I had been stifled, and not liv'd to see The king my lord thus to abandon me ! Like frantic Juno will I fill the earth With ghastly murmur of my sighs and cries ; For never doted Jove on Ganymede So much as he on cursed Gaveston. Rut that will more exasperate his wrath ; I must entreat him, I must speak him fair. And be a means to call home Gaveston, And vet he '11 ever dote on Gaveston ; And so am I for ever miserable. Re-enter Nobles to the Queen. Lan. Look where the sister of the King of France Sits wringing of her hands, and beats her breast ! War. The king, I fear, hath ill-entreated her. Pern. Hard is the heart that injures such a saint. T. Mor. I know 't is 'long of Gaveston she weeps. E. Mor. Why? He is gone. Y. Mor. Madam, how fares your grace f Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer! now breaks the king's hate forth, And he eonfesseth that he loves me not. Y. Mor. Cry cjuittance, madam, then ; and love not him. Q. Isab. No, rather will I die a thousand deaths'! And yet I love in vain ; — he '11 ne'er love me. Lan. Fear ye not, madam; now his min- ion 's gone, His wanton humor will be quickly left. Q. Isah. never, Lancaster! I am en- join'd To sue upon you all for his repeal; This wills my lord, and this must I per- form. Or else be banish'd from his highness' presence. Lan. For his repeal? Madam, he comes not back. Unless the sea cast up his shipwrack'd body. War. And to behold so sweet a sight as that, There 's none here but would run his horse to death. Y. Mor. But, madam, would you have ns call him home? Q. Isab. Aye, Mortimer, for till he be re- stored, The angi-y king hath banish'd me the court ; And, therefore, as thou lov'st and ten- d'rest me. Be thou my advocate unto these peers. Y. Mor. What ! would you have me plead for Gaveston? E. Mor. Plead for him he that will, I am resolv'd. Lan. And so am I, my lord. Dissuade the queen. Q. Isab. Lancaster! let him dissuade the king, For 't is against my will he should re- turn. War. Then speak not for him, let the peasant go. Q. Isab. 'T is for myself I sjDeak, and not for him. Pem. No speaking will prevail, and there- fore cease. Y. Mor. Fair queen, forbear to angle for the fish Wliich, being caught, strikes him that takes it dead ; I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston, That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas. EDWARD II 85 Q. Isab. Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me a while, And I will tell thee reasons of such weight As thou wilt soon subscribe to his re- peal. Y. Mor. It is impossible; but speak your mind. Q. Isab. Then thus, — but none shall hear it but ourselves. {Talks to Young Mortimer apart.) Lan. My lords, albeit the queen win Mor- timer, Will you be resolute, and hold with me'? E. Mor. Not I, against my nephew. Pern. Fear not, the queen's words cannot alter him. War. No? Do but mark how earnestly she pleads! Lan. And see how coldly his looks make denial ! War. She smiles; now for my life his mind is chang'd. Lan. I '11 rather lose his friendship, I, than grant. Y. Mor. Well, of necessity it must be so. My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston, I hope your honors make no question, And therefore, though I j^lead for his repeal, 'T is not for his sake, but for our avail ; Nay, for the realm's behoof, and for the king's. Lan. Fie, Mortimer, dishonor not thy- self! Can this be true, 't was good to banish him? And is this true, to call him home again 1 Such reasons make white black, and dark night day. Y. Mor. My lord of Lancaster, mark the respect. ^^ Lan. In no respect can contraries be true. Q. Isab. Yet, good my lord, hear what he can allege. War. All that he speaks is nothing; we are resolv'd. Y. Mor. Do you not wish that Gaveston were dead? Pern. I would he were ! r. Mor. Why, then, my lord, give me but leave to speak. E. Mor. But, nephew, do not play the so- phister. Y. Mor. This which I urge is of a burning zeal To mend the king, and do our country good. Know you not Gaveston hath store of gold, Which may in Ireland purchase him such friends As he will front the mightiest of us all? And whereas he shall live and be be- lov'd, 'T is hard for us to work his overthrow. War. Mark you but that, my lord of Lan- caster. Y. Mor. But were he hero, detested as he is, How easily might some base slave be suborn'd To greet his lordship with a poniard, And none so much as blame the mur- derer, But rather praise him for that brave attempt. And in the chronicle enrol his name For purging of the realm of such a plague ! Pern. He saith true. Lan. Aye, but how chance this was not done before? Y. Mor. Because, my lords, it was not thought upon. Nay, more, when he shall know it lies in us To banish him, and then to call him home, 'T will make him vail ^^ the top-flag of his pride, And fear to offend the meanest noble- man. E. Mor. But how if he do not, nephew? Y. Mor. Then may we with some color '° rise in arms ; For howsoever we have borne it out, 'T is treason to be up against the king. So we shall have the people of our side. Which for his father's sake lean to the king. But cannot brook a night-grown mush- room. Such a one as my lord of Cornwall is. Should bear us down of the nobility. And when the commons and the nobles join, 'T is not the king can buckler Gaveston ; We '11 pull him from the strongest hold he hath. My lords, if to perform this I be slack. Think me as base a groom as Gaveston. Lan. On that condition, Lancaster will grant. War. And so will Pembroke and I. E. Mor. And I. 18 consideration. 19 lower. 20 pretext. 86 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Y. Mor. In this I count me highly grati- fied, And Mortimer will rest at your com- mand. Q. Isab. And when this favor Isabel for- gets, Then let her live abandon'd and for- lorn. — But see, in happy time, my lord the king. Having- brought the Earl of Cornwall on his way, Is new return'd. This news will glad him much, Yet not so much as me. I love him more Than he can Gaveston ; Avould he lov'd me But half so much, then were I treble- blest. Re-enter King Edward, mourning. K. Edw. He 's gone, and for his absence thus I mourn. Did never sorrow go so near my heart As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston; And could my crown's revenue bring him back, I would fi'eely give it to his enemies, And think I gain'd, having bought so dear a friend. Q. Isab. Hark! how he harps upon his minion. K. Edw. My heart is as an anvil unto sorrow, Wliich beats upon it like the Cyclops' hammers, And with the noise turns up my giddy bi'ain. And makes me frantic for my Gaveston. Ah ! had some bloodless Fury rose from hell, And with my kingly scepter struck me dead, When I was forc'd to leave my Gaves- ton ! Lan. Diablo! What passions call yoii these? Q. Isab. My gracious lord, I come to bring you news. K. Edw. That you have parley'd with your Mortimer ! Q. Isab. That Gaveston, my lord, shall be repeal'd. K. Edw. Repeal'd ! The news is too sweet to be true"? Q. Isab. But will you love me, if you find it so? K. Edw. If it be so, what will not Edward do"? Q. Isab. For Gaveston, but not for Isa- bel. K. Edw. For thee, fair queen, if thou lov'st Gaveston. I '11 hang a golden tongue about thy neck. Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good success. Q. Isab. No other jewels hang about my neck Than these, my lord; nor let me have more wealth Than I may fetch from this rich treasury. how a kiss revives poor Isabel ! K. Ediv. Once more receive my hand ; and let this be A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me. Q. Isab. And may it prove more happy than the first ! My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair. That wait attendance for a gracious look. And on their knees salute your majesty. K. Edw. Courageous Lancaster, embrace thy king! And, as gross vapors perish by the sun. Even so let hatred with thy sovereign's smile. Live thou with me as my companion. Lan. This salutation overjoys my heart. K. Edw. Warwick shall be my chiefest counsellor : These silver hairs will more adorn my court Than gaudy silks, or rich embroidery. Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray. War. Slay me, my lord, when I offend your grace. K. Edw. In solemn triumphs, and in pub- lic shows, Pembroke shall bear the sword before the king. Pern. And with this sword Pembroke will fight for you. K. Edw. But wherefore walks young Mortimer aside? Be thou commander of our royal fleet; Or, if that lofty office like thee not, 1 make thee here Lord Marshal of the realm. T. Mor. My lord, I '11 marslial so your enemies, As England shall be quiet, and you safe. K. Edw. And as for you, Lord Mortimer of Chirke, Whose great achievements in our foreign war Deserves no common place nor mean re- ward. EDWARD II 87 Be you the general of the levied troops, That now are ready to assail the Scots. E. Mor. In this your grace hath highly honored me, For with my nature war doth best agi'ee. Q. Isah. Now is the King of England rich and strong, Having the love of his renowned peers. K. Edw. Aye, Isabel, ne'er was my heart so light. Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant forth For Gaveston to Ireland : Enter Beaumont with warrant. Beaumont, fly As fast as Iris or Jove's Mercuiy. Bean. It shall be done, my gracious lord. Exit. K. Edw. Lord Mortimer, we leave you to your charge. Now let us in, and feast it royally. Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall comes. We '11 have a general tilt and tourna- ment ; And then his marriage shall be solemn- iz'd. For wot you not that I have made him sure ^^ Unto our cousin, the Earl of Gloucester's heir"? Lan. Such news we hear, my lord. K. Edw. That day, if not for him, yet for my sake. Who in the triumph will be challenger, Spare for no cost ; we will requite your love. War. In this, or aught, yonr highness shall command us. K. Edw. Thanks, gentle Warwick: come, let 's in and revel. Exeunt all except the Mortimers. E. Mor. Nephew, I must to Scotland ; thou stayest here. Leave now to oppose thyself against the king. Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm, And seeing his mind so dotes on Ga- veston, Let him without controlment have his will. The mightiest kings have had their min- ions : Great Alexander loved Hephestion ; The conquering Hercules ^- for Hylas wept; 21 beti-othed him. 22 Qq. Hector. And for Patroclus stem Achilles droop'd : And not kings only, but the wisest men: The Roman Tully lov'd Octavius; Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades. Then let his grace, whose youth is flex- ible, And promiseth as much as we can wish. Freely enjoy that vain, light-headed earl; For riper years will wean him from such toys. r. Mor. Uncle, his wanton humor grieves not me; But this I scorn, that one so basely born Should by his sovereign's favor grow so pert, And riot it with the treasure of the realm. ^Vlaile soldiers mutiny for want of pay. He wears a lord's revenue on his back, And Midas-like, he jets ^^ it in the court, With base outlandish cullions -* at his heels, Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show As if that Proteus, god of shapes, ap- pear'd. I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk; He wears a short Italian hooded cloak Larded with pearl, and, in his Tuscan cap, A jewel of more value than the crown. While others walk below, the king and he From out a window laugh at such as we. And flout our train, and jest at our at- tire. Uncle, 't is this that makes me impatient. E. Mor. But, nephew, now you see the king is chang'd. r. Mor. Then so am I, and live to do him service : But whiles I have a sword, a hand, a heart, I will not yield to any such upstart. You know my mind ; come, uncle, let 's away. Exeunt. ACT IL Scene 1. Gloucester's house. Enter Young Spencer and BaldocJc. Bald. Spencer, seeing that our lord th' Earl of Gloucester 's dead, 23 swaggers. 24 scoundrels. 88 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Which of the nobles dost thou mean to serve ? Y. Spen. Not Mortimer, nor any of his side, Because the king and he are enemies. Baidoek, learn this of me, a factious lord Shall hardly do himself good, much less us; But he that hath the favor of a king, May with one word advance us while we live. The liberal Earl of Cornwall is the man On whose good fortune Spencer's hope depends. Bald. What, mean you then to be his fol- lower •? Y. Spen. No, his companion ; for he loves me well. And would have once preferred -^ me to the king. Bald. But he is banish'd ; there's small hope of him. Y. Spen. Aye, for a while; but, Baldock, mark the end. A friend of mine told me in secrecy That he 's repeal'd, and sent for back again ; And even now a post came from the court With letters to our lady from the king; And as she read she smil'd, which makes me think It is about her lover Gaveston. Bald. 'T is like enough ; for since he was exil'd She neither walks abroad, nor comes in sight. But I had thought the match had been broke off, And that his banishment had chang'd her mind. Y. Spen. Our lady's first love is not wavering ; My life for thine, she will have Gaveston. Bald. Then hope I by her means to be preferr'd, Having read unto her since she was a child. Y. Spen. Then, Baidoek, you must cast the scholar off. And learn to court it like a gentleman. 'T is not a black coat and a little band. A velvet-eap'd eloak, fae'd before with serge, And smelling to a nosegay all the day. Or holding of a napkin in your hand, Or saying a long grace at a table's end, 25 recommended. Or making low legs -" to a nobleman, Or looking downward with your eyelids close. And saying, "Truly, an 't may please your honoiV Can get you any favor with great men; You must be proud, bold, pleasant, reso- lute. And now and then stab, as occasion serves. Bald. Spencer, thou know'st I hate such formal toys, And use them but of mere hypocrisy. Mine old lord whiles he liv'd was so pre- cise. That he would take exceptions at my buttons, And being like pin's heads, blame me for the big-ness; Which made me curate-like in mine at- tire. Though inwardly licentious enough And apt for any kind of villainy. I am none of these common pedants, I, That cannot speak without propterea qtiod. Y. Spen. But one of those that saith quando-quidem, And hath a special gift to form a verb. Bald. Leave off this jesting, here my lady comes. Enter King Edward's Niece. Niece. The grief for his exile w^as not so much As is the joy of his returning home. This letter came from my sweet Ga- veston : — What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse thyself? I know thou couldst not come and visit me. (Reads.) "I will not long be from thee, though I die." This argues the entire love of my lord ;, (Reads.) "When 1 forsake thee, death seize on my heart :" But stay thee here where Gaveston shall sleep. (Puts the letter into her bosom.) Now to the letter of my lord the king. — He wills me to repair unto the court, And meet my Gaveston. Why do I stay, Seeing that he talks thus of my mar- riage-day ? Who 's \here ? Baldock ! See that my coach be ready, I must hence. 26 bows. EDWARD II 89 Bald. It shall be done, madam. Niece. And meet me at the park-pale presently. Exit Baldock. Spencer, stay you and bear me company, For I have joyful news to tell thee of. My lord of Cornwall is a-coming over, And will be at the court as soon as we. Y. Spen. 1 knew the king would have him home again. Niece. If all things sort -'^ out as I hope they will, Thy service, Spencer, shall be thought upon. Y. Spen. I humbly thank your ladyship. Niece. Come, lead the way; I long till I am there. Exeunt. Scene 2. Before Tynemoutli Castle. Enter King Edward, Queen Isabella, Kent, Lancaster, Young Mortimer, Warwick, Pembroke, and Attendants. K. Edw. The wind is good, I wonder why he stays; I fear me he is wrack'd upon the sea. Q. Isab. Look, Lancaster, how passionate he is, And still his mind runs on his minion ! Lan. My lord, — K. Edw. How now ! what news 1 Is Ga- veston arriv'd'? r. Mor. Nothing but Gaveston ! — What means your grace"? You have matters of more weight to think upon ; The King of France sets foot in Nor- mandy. K. Edio. A trifle ! we '11 expel him when we please. But tell me, Mortimer, what 's thy device Against the stately triumph we decreed? Y. Mor. A homely one, my lord, not worth the telling. K. Edw. Pray thee let me know it. r. Mor. But, seeing you are so desirous, thus it is : A lofty cedar-tree, fair flourishing, On whose top-branches kingly eagles perch, And by the bark a canker -^ creeps me up, And gets into the highest bough of all: The motto, Aeque tandem.-^ K. Edw. And what is yours, my lord of Lancaster? Lan. My lord, mine 's more obscure than Mortimer's. Pliny reports there is a flying fish Which all the other fishes deadly hate, And therefore, being pursued, it takes the air : No soonei- is it up, but there 's a fowl That seizeth it; this fish, my lord, I bear: The motto this: Undique mors est.^^ K. Edw. Proud Mortimer! ungentle Lan- caster ! Is this the love you bear your sovereign? Is this the fruit your reconcilement bears ? Can you in words make show of amity, And in your shields display your ran- corous minds ! What call you this but private libelling Against the Earl of Cornwall and my brother? Q. Isab. Sweet husband, be content; they all love you. K. Edw. They love me not that hate my Gaveston. I am that cedar, shake me not too much; And you the eagles; soar ye ne'er so high, I have the jesses ^^ that will pull you down ; And Aeqiie tandem shall that canker cry Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. Though thou compar'st him to a flying fish, And threatenest death whether he rise or fall, 'T is not the hugest monster of the sea. Nor foulest harpy that shall swallow him. Y. Mor. If in his absence thus he favors him, What will he do whenas he shall be pres- ent? Lan. That shall we see; look where his lordship comes. Enter Gaveston. K. Edw. My Gaveston ! Welcome to Tynemouth ! Welcome to thy friend ! Thy absence made me droop and pine away; For, as the lovers of fair Danae, Wlien she was lock'd up in a brazen tower. 27 fall. 2S canker-worm. 23 "Justly at length.' 30 "On every side is death." 31 straps round a hawk's legs, to which the leash was fastened. 90 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Desir'd her more, and wax'd outrageous, So did it fare with me; and now thy sight Is sweeter far than was thy parting hence Bitter and irksome to my sobbing heart. Gav. Sweet lord and king, your speech preventeth ^- mine ; Yet have I words left to express my joy: The shepherd nipt with biting winter's rage Frolics not mere to see the painted spring. Than I do to behold your majesty. K. Edw. Will none of you salute my Ga- veston '? Lan. Salute him? yes. "Welcome, Lord Chamberlain ! Y. Mor. Welcome is the good Earl of Cornwall ! War. Welcome, Lord Governor of the Isle of Man ! Pern. Welcome, Master Secretai-y ! Kent. Brother, do you hear them*? K. Edw. Still will these earls and barons use me thus"? Gav. My lord, I cannot brook these in- juries. Q. Isab. (Aside.) Ay me, poor soul, when these begin to jar. K. Ediv. Return it to their throats, I '11 be thy warrant. Gav. Base, leaden earls, that glory in your birth, Go sit at home and eat your tenants' beef; And come not here to scotf at Gaveston, Whose mounting thoughts did never creep so low As to bestow a look on such as you. Lan. Yet I disdain not to do this for you. {Draws his sword and offers to stab Gaveston.) K. Edw. Treason ! treason ! where 's the traitor? Pern. Here ! here ! K. Edw. Convey hence Gaveston ; they '11 murder him. Gav. The life of thee shall salve this foul disgrace. Y. Mor. Villain! thy life, unless I miss mine aim. (Wounds Gaveston.) Q. Isab. Ah ! furious Mortimer, what hast thou done? Y. Mor. No more than I would answer, were he slain. Exit Gaveston with Attendants. K. Edw. Yes, more than thou canst an- swer, though he live. Dear shall you both abye ^^ this riotous deed. Out of my presence ! Come not near the court ! Y. Mor. I '11 not be barr'd the court for Gaveston. Lan. We '11 hale him by the ears unto the block. K. Edw. Look to your own heads; his is sure enough. War. Look to your own crown, if you back him thus. Kent. Warwick, these words do ill be- seem thy years. K. Edw. Nay, all of them conspire to cross me thus; But if I live, I '11 tread upon their heads That think with high looks thus to tread me down. Come, Edmund, let 's away and levy men, 'T is war that must abate these barons' pride. Exeunt King Edward, Queen Isabella and Kent. War. Let 's to our castles, for the king is mov'd. Y. Mor. Mov'd may he be, and perish in his wrath ! Lan. Cousin, it is no dealing with him now. He means to make us stoop by force of arms ; And therefore let us jointly here pro- test 31 To persecute that Gaveston to the death. Y. Mor. By heaven, the abject villain shall not live ! War. I '11 have his blood, or die in seeking it. Pern. The like oath Pembroke takes. Lan. And so doth Lancaster. Now send our heralds to defy the king; And make the people swear to put him down. Enter a Post. Y. Mor. Letters! From whence? 3Iess. From Scotland, my lord. (Giving letters to Mortimer.) Lan. Why. how now, cousin, how fares all our friends? Y. Mor. My uncle 's taken prisoner by the Scots. 32 anticipates. 33 pay for. EDWARD II 91 Lan. We '11 have him ransom'd, man ; be of good cheer. Y. Mor. They rate his ransom at five thonsand ponnd. Who should defray the money but the king, Seeing he is taken prisoner in his wars'? I '11 to the king. Lan. Do, cousin, and I '11 bear thee com- pany. War. Meantime, my lord of Pembroke and myself Will to Newcastle here, and gather head.^^ T. Mor. About it then, and we will follow you. Lan. Be resolute and full of secrecy. War. I warrant you. Exit with Pembroke. Y. Mor. Cousin, and if he will not ran- som him, I '11 thunder such a peal into his ears, As never subject did unto his king. Lan. Content, I '11 bear my part — Holla ! who 's there f Enter Guard. Y. Mor. Aye, marry, such a guard as this doth well. Lan. Lead on the way. Guard. Whither will your lordships'? Y. 31 or. Whither else but to the king. Guard. His highness is dispos'd to be alone. Lan. Wliy, so he may, but we will speak to him. Guard. You may not in, my lord. Y. Mor. May we nof? Enter King Edward and Kent. K. Edw. How now! Wliat noise is this? Who have we there? Is 't you"? (Going.) Y. Mor. Nay, stay, my lord, I come to bring you news; Mine uncle 's taken prisoner by the Scots. K. Edw. Then ransom him. Lan. 'T was in your wars ; you should ransom him. Y. Mor. And you shall ransom him, or else Kent. What, Mortimer, yqu will not threaten him ! K. Edw. Quiet yourself, you shall have the broad seal,^*' 35 forces. 30 the state seal, as 37. Qq. hath. warrant for the levying of taxes. To gather for him thoroughout the realm. Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this. r. Mor. My lord, the family of the Morti- mers Are not so poor, but, would they sell their land, 'T would levy men enough to anger you. We never beg, but use such prayers as these. K. Edw. Shall I still be haunted thus? Y. Mor. Nay, now you are here alone, I '11 speak my mind. Lan. And so will I, and then, my lord, farewell. Y. Mor. The idle triumphs, masques, las- civious shows. And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaves- ton, Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made thee weak ; The murmuring commons, overstretched, [break.] ^'' Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be de- pos'd. Thy garrisong are beaten out of France, And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the gates ; The wild O'Neill, with swarms of Irish kerns,^^ Lives uncontroll'd within the English pale; Unto the walls of York the Scots made road, And unresisted drave away rich spoils. Y. Mor. The haughty Dane commands the narrow seas,^^ While in the harbor ride thy ships un- rigg'd. Lan. What foreign prince sends thee am- bassadors? Y. Mor. Who loves thee, but a sort *" of flatterers? Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Va- lois, Complains that thou hast left her all for- lorn. Y. Mor. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those That make a king seem glorious to the world ; I mean the peers, whom thou should'st dearly love. Libels are cast against thee in the street ; Ballads and rhymes made of thy over- throw. 3S light armed, ir- 39 the English regular foot sol- Channel, diers. 40 crowd. 92 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Lan. The northern borderers seeing their houses burnt, Their wives and children slain, run up and down, Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. r. Mor. When wert thou in the field with banner spread, But once'? and then thy soldiers march'd like players. With garish robes, not armor; and thyself, Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, Where women's favors hung like labels down. Lan. And therefore came it, that the fleer- ing ■^^ Scots, To England's high disgrace, have made this jig; Maids of England, sore may you mourn, — For your lenians 42 you have lost at Bannocksbourn, — *3 With a heave and a ho! What weeneth ** the King of Eng- land, So soon to have won Scotland? — With a rombelow! Y. Mor. Wigmore ^^ shall fly, to set my uncle free. Lan. And when 't is gone, our swords shall purchase more. If ye be mov'd, revenge it as you can ; Look next to see us with our ensigns spread. Exit with Young Mortimer. K. Edw. My swelling heart for very an- ger breaks ! How oft have I been baited by these peers. And dare not be reveng'd, for their power is great ! Yet, shall the crowing of these cocker- els Affright a lion"? Edward, unfold thy paws. And let their lives' blood slake thy fury's hunger. If I be cruel and grow tyrannous. Now let them thank themselves, and rue too late. Kent. My lord, I see your love to Gaves- ton Will be the ruin of the realm and you, For now the wrathful nobles threaten wars, And therefore, brother, banish him for ever. K. Edw. Art thou an enemy to my Gaves- ton? Kent. Aye, and it grieves me that I fa- vored him. K. Edw. Traitor, begone ! whine thou with Mortimer. Kent. So will I, rather than with Gaves- ton. K. Edw. Out of my sight, and trouble me no more ! Kent. No marvel though thou scorn thy noble peers, When I thy brother am rejected thus. Ejcit. K. Edw. Away! Poor Gaveston, thou '^'^ hast no friend but me ! Do what they can, we '11 live in Tyne- mouth here, And, so I walk with him about the walls, W^hat care I though the earls begirt us round ? — Here comes she that 's cause of all these jars. Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's Niece, two Ladies, Gaveston, Baldock and Young Spencer. Q. Isah. My lord, 'tis thought the earls are up in arms. K. Edw. Aye, and 't is likewise thought you favor 'em. Q. Isab. Thus do you still suspect me without cause? Niece. Sweet uncle, speak more kindly to the queen. Gav. My lord, dissemble with her, speak her fair. K. Edw. Pardon me, sweet, I forgot my- self. Q. Isab. Your pardon is quickly got of Isabel. K. Edw. The younger Mortimer is grown so brave. That to my face he threatens civil wars. Gav. Why do you not commit him to the Tower? K. Edw. I dare not, for the people love him well. Gav. Why, then we '11 have him privily made away. K. Edw. Woidd Lancaster and he had both carous'd A bowl of poison to each other's health! 41 jeering. 42 lovers. 43 Bannockhnrn was not fought until 1314, some years after the events of this scene; Marlowe took the song from Fab- 45 Young Morti- van's Chronicle. mer's estate. 44thinketh. 46 Qq. <7iat. EDWARD II 93 But let them go, and tell me what are these. Niece. Two of ray father's servants whilst he liv'd, — May 't please your grace to entertain them now. K. Edit). Tell me, where wast thou born? What is thine arms'? Bald. My name is Baldock, and my gentry I fetcht from Oxford, not from heraldry. K. Edw. The fitter art thou, Baldock, for my turn. Wait on me, and I '11 see thou shalt not want. B(dd. I humbly thank your majesty. K. Edw. Knowest thou him, Gaveston ? Gav. Aye, my lord; His name is Spencer, he is well allied; For my sake, let him wait upon your grace; Scarce shall you find a man of more desert. K. Edw. Then, Spencer, wait upon me ; for his sake I '11 grace thee with a higher style ere long. Y. Spen. No greater titles happen unto me, Than to be favored of your majesty ! K. Edw. Cousin, this day shall be your marriage-feast. And, Gaveston, think that I love thee well To Aved thee to our niece, the only heir Unto the Earl of Gloucester late de- ceas'd. Gav. I know, my lord, many will stom- ach '^'^ me, But I respect neither their love nor hate. K. Edic. The headstrong barons shall not limit me ; He that I list to favor shall be great. Come, let 's away ; and when the mar- riage ends, Have at the rebels, and their 'complices ! Exeunt. Scene 3. Near Tynemouth Castle. Enter Kent, Lancaster, Young Mortimer, Warwick, and Pembroke. Kent. My lords, of love to this our native land I come to join with you and leave the king; 47 regard with resentment. 48 suspect. And in your quarrel and the realm's be- hoof Will be the first that shall adventure life. Lan. I fear me, you are sent of policy. To undermine us with a show of love. War. He is your brother; therefore have we cause To cast *^ the worst, and doubt of your revolt. Kent. Mine honor shall be hostage of my truth ; If that will not suffice, farewell, my lords. Y. Mar. Stay, Edmund; never was Plan- tagenet False to his word, and therefore trust we thee. Pern. But what 's the reason you should leave him now? Kent. I have inform'd the Earl of Lan- caster. Lan. And it sufficeth. Now, my lords, know this. That Gaveston is secretly arriv'd. And here in Tynemouth frolics with the king. Let us with these our followers scale the walls. And suddenly surprise them unawares. Y. Mor. I '11 give the onset. War. And I '11 follow thee. Y. Mor. This tattered ensign of my an- cestors. Which swept the desert shore of that dead sea Wliereof we got the name of Mortimer,'*^ Will I advance upon these castle-walls. Drums, strike alarum! raise them from their sport. And ring aloud the knell of Gaveston ! Lan. None be so hardy as to' touch the king ; But neither spare you Gaveston nor his friends. Exeunt. Scene 4. Tynemouth Castle. Enter King Edward and Young Spencer. K. Edw. tell me, Spencer, where is Gaveston? Spen. I fear me he is slain, my gracious lord. K. Edw. No, here he comes ; now let them spoil and kill. Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's Niece, Gaveston, and Nobles. 49 a false etymology, tracing the name Mortimer to Mortuum Mare. 94 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Fly, fly, my lords, the earls have got the hold; Take shipping and away to Scarborough ; Spencer and I will post away by land. Gav. O stay, my lord, they will not injure you. K. Edw. I will not trust them; Gaveston, away Gav. Farewell, my lord. K. Edw. Lady, farewell. Niece. Farewell, sweet uncle, till we meet again. K. Edw. Farewell, sweet Gaveston ; and farewell, niece. Q. Isah. No farewell to poor Isabel thy queen ? K. Edw. Yes, yes, for Mortimer, your lover's sake. Exeunt all hut Queen Isabella. Q. Isah. Heavens can witness I love none but you ! From my embracements thus he breaks away. that mine arms could close this isle about. That I might pull him to me where I would ! Or that these tears that drizzle from mine eyes Had power to mollify his stony heart. That when I had him we might never part. Enter Lancaster, Warwick, Young Morti- mer, and others. Alarums. Lan. I Avonder how he scap'd ! Y. Mor. Who's this? The queen ! Q. Isah. Aye, Mortimer, the miserable queen. Whose pining heart her inward sighs have blasted, And body with continual mourning wasted. These hands are tir'd with haling of my lord From Gaveston, from wicked Gaveston, And all in vain ; for, when I speak him fair, He turns away, and smiles upon his minion. Y. Mor. Cease to lament, and tell us where 's the king"? Q. Isah. What would you with the king? Is 't him you seek ? Lan. No, madam, but that cursed Gaves- ton. Far be it from the thought of Lancaster To offer violence to his sovereign. We would but rid the realm of Gaveston : Tell us where he remains, and he shall die. Q. Isah. He's gone by water unto Scar- borough ; Pursue him quickly, and he cannot scape; The king hath left him, and his train is small. War. Forslow ^° no time, sweet Lancas- ter; let 's march. Y. Mor. How comes it that the king and he is parted? Q. Isah. That thus your army, going sev- eral ways, Might be of lesser force; and with the power That he intendeth presently to raise, Be easily suppress'd ; therefore be gone. Y. Mor. Here in the river rides a Flemish hoy ; =^1 Let 's all aboard, and folloAv him amain. Lan. The wind that bears him hence will fill our sails. Come, come aboard, 't is but an hour's sailing. r. Mor. Madam, stay you within this cas- tle here. Q. Isah. No, Moi'timei', I'll to my lord the king. Y. Mor. Nay, rather sail with us to Scar- borough. Q. Isah. You know the king is so sus- picious, As if he hear I have but talk'd with you. Mine honor will be call'd in question ; And therefore, gentle Mortimer, be gone. Y. Mor. Madam, I cannot stay to answer you, But think of Mortimer as he deserves. Exeunt all except Queen Isabella. Q. Isah. So well hast thou deserv'd, sweet Mortimer, As Isabel could live with thee for ever! In vain I look for love at Edward's hand, Whose eyes are fix'd on none but Gaves- ton; Yet once more I '11 importune him with prayers. If he be strange and not regard my words. My son and I will over into France, And to the king my brother there com- plain. How Gaveston hath robb'd me of his love : But yet I hope my sorrows will have end. And" Gaveston this blessed day be slain. Exit. 50 delay. 51 a small sloop. EDWARD II 95 Scene 5. The open countrij. Enter Gaveston, pursued. Gav. Yet, lusty lords, I have escap'd your hands, Your threats, your 'larums, and your hot pui'suits ; And though divorced from King Ed- wai'd's eyes, Yet liveth Pierce of Gaveston unsui'- pris'd,^- Breathing", in hope {malgrado ^^ all your beards, That muster rebels thus against your king), To see his royal sovereig:n once again. Enter Warwick, Lancaster, Pembroke, Young Mortimer, Soldiers, James, and other Attendants of Pembroke. War. Upon him, soldiers, take away his weapons. Y. Mor. Thou proud disturber of thy country's peace, Corrupter of thy king, cause of these broils, Base flatterer, yield ! and were it not for shame, Shame and dishonor to a soldier's name, Upon my weapon's point here shouldst thou fall. And welter in thy gore. Lan. Monster of men ! That, like the Greekish strumpet,^* train'd ^^ to arms And bloody wars so many valiant knights ; Look for no other fortune, wretch, than death ! King Edward is not here to buckler thee. War. Lancaster, why talk'st thou to the slave? Go, soldiers, take him hence, for, by my sword. His head shall off. Gaveston, short warning Shall serve thy turn; it is our country's cause That here severely we will execute Upon thy person. Hang him at a bough. Gav. My lord ! — War. Soldiers, have him away; — But for thou Avert the favorite of a king, Thou shalt have so much honor at our hands — Gav. I thank you all, my lords: then I perceive 62 uncaptured. 53 "in spite of." 54 Helen That heading is one, and hanging is the other, And death is all. Enter Earl of Arundel. Lan. How now, my lord of Arundel'? Arun. My lords. King Edward greets you all by me. War. Arundel, say your message. Arun. His majesty, Hearing that you had taken Gaveston, Entreateth you by me, yet but- he may See him before he dies; for why, \\S says, And sends you word, he knows that die he shall; And if you gratify his grace so far, He will be mindful of the courtesy. War. How now ! Gav. Renowned Edward, how thy name Revives poor Gaveston ! War. No; it needeth not ; Arundel, we will gratify the king In other matters; he must pardon us in this. Soldiers, away with him ! Gav. Why, my lord of Wanviek, Will not these delays beget my hopes'? I know it, lords, it is this life you aim at. Yet grant King Edward this. Y. Mor. Shalt thou appoint What we shall grant*? Soldiers, away with him ! Thus we '11 gratify the king : We '11 send his head by thee ; let him bestow His tears on that, for that is all he gets Of Gaveston, or else his senseless trunk. Lan. Not so, my lords, lest he bestow more cost In burying him than he hath ever earn'd. Arun. My "lords, it is his majesty's re- quest. And in the honor of a king he swears He will but talk with him, and send him back. War. When, can you telll Arundel, no; we wot He that the care of realm remits. And drives his nobles to these exigents ^^ For Gaveston, will, if he sees him once, Violate any promise to possess him. Arun. Then" if you will not trust his grace in keep, My lords, I will be pledge for his return. Y. Mor. 'T is honorable in thee to offer this; But for we know thou art a noble gentle- man. of Troy. 55 lured. 56 extremities. 96 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD We will not wrong thee so, to make away A true man for a thief. Gav. How mean'st thou, Mortimer? That is over-base. T. Mor. Away, base gi'oom, robber of king's renown ! Question with thy companions and thy mates. Pern. My Lord Mortimer, and you, my lords, each one. To gratify the king's request therein, Touching the sending of this Gaveston, Because his majesty so earnestly Desires to see the man before his death, I will upon mine honor undertake To carry him, and bring him back again ; Provided this, that you, my lord of Anm- del, Will join with me. War. Pembroke, what wilt thou do"? Cause yet more bloodshed? Is it not enough That we have taken him, but must we now Leave him on ''had I wist," and let him go? Pern. My lords, I will not over-woo your honors, But if you dare trust Pembroke with the prisoner, Upon mine oath, I will return him back. Arun. My lord of Lancaster, what say you in this? Lan. Why, I say, let him go on Pem- broke's word. Pern. And you. Lord Mortimer? Y. Mor. How say you, my lord of War- wick? War. Nay, do your pleasures, I know how 't will prove. Pern. Then give him me. Gav. Sweet sovereign, yet I come To see thee ere I die. War. {Aside.) Yet not pei'haps, If Warwick's wit and policy prevail. Y. Mor. My lord of Pembroke, we deliver him you ; Return him on your honor. Sound, away! Exeunt all except Pembroke, Arundel, Gaveston, James, and other Attendants of Pembroke. Pern. My lord [Arundel,] you shall go with me. My house is not far hence; out of the way A little, but our men shall go along. 57 end. 58 if. We that have pretty wenches to our wives. Sir, must not come so near and baulk their lips. Arun. 'T is very kindly spoke, my lord of Pembroke ; Your honor hath an adamant of power To draw a prince. Pern. So, my lord. Come hither, James: I do commit this Gaveston to thee. Be thou this night his keeper; in the morning We will discharge thee of thy charge. Be gone. Gav. Unhappy Gaveston, whither goest thou now? Exit ivith James and the other Attend- ants. Horse-boi/. My lord, we '11 quickly be at Cobham. Exeunt. ACT IIL Scene 1. The open country near Warwick. Enter Gaveston mourning, James, and other Attendants of Pembroke. Gav. treacherous Warwick, thus to wrong thy fi'iend ! James. I see it is your life these arms pursue. Gav. Weaponless must I fall, and die in bands? must this day be period ^'' of my life ? Center of all my bliss ! An ^^ ye be men. Speed to the king. Enter Warwick and his company. War. My lord of Pembroke's men, Strive you no longer — I will have that Gaveston. James. Your lordship doth dishonor to yourself. And wrong our lord, your honorable friend. War. No, James, it is my country's cause I follow. Go, take the villain; soldiei-s, come away. We '11 make quick work. Commend me to your master, My friend, and tell him that I watch'd it well. Come, let thy shadow ^^ parley with King Edward. 59 ghost. EDWARD II 97 Gav. Treacherous earl, shall I not see the king-"? War. The king of Heaven, perhaps no other king. Away ! Exeunt Warwick and his men tvith Gaveston. James. Come, fellows, it booted not for us to strive, We will in haste go certify our lord. Exeunt. Scene 2. Near Boroughbridge, in York- shire. Enter King Edward and Young Spencer, Baldock, and Nobles of the King's side, and Soldiers with drums and fifes. K. Edw. I long to hear an answer from the barons Touching my friend, my dearest Gaves- ton. Ah ! Spencer, not the riches of my realm Can ransom him ! Ah, he is mark'd to die ! I know the malice of the younger Morti- mer, Warwick I know is rough, and Lancaster Inexorable, and I shall never see My lovely Pierce, my Gaveston again ! The barons overbear me with their pride. Y. Spen. Were I King Edward, Eng- land's sovereign, Son to the lovely Eleanor of Spain, Great Edward Longshanks' issue, would I bear These braves, this rage, and suffer un- controll'd These barons thus to beard me in my land, In mine own realm"? My lord, pardon my speech : Did you retain your father's magnanim- ity, Did you regard the honor of your name. You would not suffer thus your majesty Be counterbuff'd of®" your nobility. Strike off their heads, and let them preach on poles ! No doubt, such lessons they will teach the rest, As by their preachments they will profit much, And learn obedience to their lawful king. K. Edw. Yea, gentle Spencer, we have been too mild, Too kind to them; but now have drawn our sword. And if they send me not my Gaveston, We '11 steel it ^^ on their crest, and poll ^- their tops. Bald. This haught ^^ resolve becomes your majesty. Not to be tied to their affection, As though your highness were a school- boy still, And must be aw'd and govern'd like a child. Enter tlie Elder Spencer, with his truncheon and Soldiers. E. Spen. Long live my sovereign, the noble Edward, In peace triumphant, fortunate in wars! K. Edw. Welcome, old man, com'st thou in Edward's aidf Then tell thy prince of whence, and what thou art. E. Spen. Lo, with a band of bowmen and of pikes. Brown bills and targeteers, four hundred strong. Sworn to defend King Edward's royal right, I come in person to your majesty, Spencer, the father of Hugh Spencer there. Bound to your highness everlastingly, For favor done, in him, unto us all. K. Edw. Thy father, Spencer? Y. Spen. True, an it like your grace. That pours, in lieu of all your goodness shown, His life, my lord, before your princely feet. K. Edw. Welcome ten thousand times, old man, again. Spencer, this love, this kindness to . thy king, Argues thy noble mind and disposition. Spencer, I here create thee Earl of Wilt- shire, And daily will enrich thee with our favor. That, as the sunshine, shall reflect o'er thee. Beside, the more to manifest our love, Because we hear Lord Bruce doth sell his land. And that the Mortimers are in hand ^* withal, Thou shalt have crowns of us t' outbid the barons: 60 affronted by. 61 use our steel. 62 lop off. 63 lofty. 64 negotiating. 98 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD And, Spencer, spare them not, but lay it on. Soldiers, a lar^'ess, and thrice welcome all! Y. Spen. My lord, here comes the queen. Enter Queen Isabella, her son Prince Ed- ward, and Levune, a Frenchman. K. Edw. Madam, what news? Q. Isah. News of dishonor, lord, and dis- content. Our friend Levune, faithful and full of trust, Informeth us, by letters and by words. That Lord Valois our brother, King- of France, Because your highness hath been slack in homage. Hath seized Normandy into his hands. These be the letters, this the messenger. K. Edw. Welcome, Levune. Tush, Sib, if this be all Valois and I will soon be friends again. — But to my Gaveston ; shall I never see, Never behold thee now? — Madam, in this matter, We will employ you and your little son ; You shall go parley with the king of France. — Boy, see you bear you bravely to the king. And do your message with a majesty. P. Ediv. Commit not to my youth things of more weight Than fits a prince so young as I to bear, And fear not, lord and father, Heaven's great beams On Atlas' shoulder shall not lie more safe. Than shall your charge committed to my trust. Q. Isah. Ah, boy, this towardness makes thy mother fear Thou art not mark'd to many days on earth. K. Edw. Madam, we will that you with speed be shipp'd, And this our son; Levune shall follow you With all the haste we can despatch him hence. Choose of our lords to bear you company. And go in peace ; leave us in wars at home. Q. Isah. Unnatural wars, where subjects brave their king; God end them once ! My lord, I take my leave, To make my preparation for France. Exit with Prince Edward, Enter Arundel. K. Edw. What, Lord Arundel, dost thou come alone? Arun. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is dead. K. Edw. Ah, traitors ! have they put my friend to death? Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou cam'st, Or didst thou see my friend to take his death ? Arun. Neither, my lord ; for as he was surpris'd, Begirt with weapons and with enemies round, I did your highness' message to them all ; Demanding him of them, entreating rather. And said, upon the honor of my name. That I would undertake to carry him LTnto your highness, and to bring him back. K. Edw. And tell me, would the rebels deny me that? Y. Spen. Proud recreants! K. Edw. Yea, Spencer, traitors all. Arun. I found them at the first inexoi'- able; The Earl of Warwick would not bide the heai'ing, Mortimer hardly ; Pembroke and Lancas- ter Spake least : and when they flatly had denied. Refusing to receive me pledge for him, The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus be- spake ; "My lords, because our sovereign sends for him. And promiseth he shall be safe return'd, I will this undertake, to have him hence. And see him re-delivered to your hands." K. Edw. Well, and how fortunes [it] that he came not? Y. Spen. Some treason or some villainy was cause. Arun. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on his way; For being delivered unto Pembroke's men. Their lord rode home, thinking his pris- oner safe; But ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay. And bare him to his death ; and in a trench Strake off his head, and march'd unto the camp. EDWARD II 99 1'. Spen. A bloody part, flatly against law of arms ! K. Edw. O shall I speak, or shall I sigh and die ! r. Spen. My lord, refer your vengeance to the sword Upon these barons; hearten up your men; Let them not unreveng'd murder your friends ! Advance your standard, Edward, in the field, And march to tire them from their start- ing holes. K. Edw. {Kneeling.) By earth, the com- mon mother of us all, By Heaven, and all the moving orbs thereof, By this right hand, and by my father's sword, And all the honors 'longing to my crown, I will have heads and lives for him, as many As I have manors, castles, towns, and towers ! — {Eises.) Treacherous Warwick ! traitorous Morti- mer ! If I be England's king, in lakes of gore Your headless trunks, your bodies will I trail, That you may drink your fill, and quaff in blood. And stain my royal standard with the same. That so my bloody colors may suggest Remembrance of revenge immortally On your accursed traitorous progeny, You villains, that have slain my Gaves- ton! And in this place of honor and of trust, Spencer, sweet Spencer, I adopt thee here : And merely of our love we do create thee Earl of Gloucester, and Lord Chamber- lain, Despite of times, despite of enemies. Y. Spen. My lord, here 's a messenger from the barons. Desires access unto your majesty. K. Edw. Admit him near. Enter the Herald from the Barons with his coat of arms. Her. Long: live King Edward, England's lawful lord ! K. Edw. So wish not they, I wis, that sent thee hither. Thou eom'st from Mortimer and his 'com- plices, A ranker rout of rebels never was. Well, say thy message. Her. The barons up in arms, by me sa- lute Your highness with long life and haj^pi- ness; And bid me say, as plainer to your grace, That if without effusion of blood You will this grief have ease and rem- edy. That from your j^rincely person you re- move This Spencer, as a putiifying branch, That deads the royal vine, whose golden leaves Empale your princely head, your dia- dem, Whose brightness such j^ernieious up- starts dim, Say the\ ; and lovingly advise your grace. To cherish virtue and nobility, And have old servitors in high esteem. And shake off smooth dissembling flat- terers. This granted, they, their honors, and their lives, Are to your highness vow'd and conse- crate. r. Spen. Ah, traitors! will they still dis- play their pride? K. Edw. Away, tarry no answer, but be gone ! Rebels, will they appoint their sover- eign His sports, his pleasures, and his com- pany? Yet, ere thou go, see how I do divorce (Embraces Spencer.) Spencer from me. — Now get thee to thy lords, And tell them I will come to chastise them For murdering Gaveston ; hie thee, get thee gone ! Edward with fire and sword follows at thy heels. Exit Herald, My lords, perceive you how these rebels swell? Soldiers, good hearts, defend your sov- ereign's right. For now, even now, we march to make them stoop. Away ! Exeunt. Alarums, excursions, a great fight, and a retreat {sounded within.) 100 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Scene 3. Battle-field at BorougJibridge, in Yorkshire. Enter King Edward, the Elder Spencer, Young Spencer, and Noblemen of tlie King's side. K. Edw. Why do we sound retreat? Upon them, lords! This day I shall pour vengeance with my sword On those proud rebels that are up in arms And do confront and countermand their king. Y. Spen. I doubt it not, my lord, right will prevail. E. Spen. 'T is not amiss, my liege, for either part To breathe awhile; our men, with sweat and dust All chok'd well near, begin to faint for heat ; And this retire refresheth horse and man. T. Spen. Here come the rebels. Enter the Barons, Young Mortimer, Lan- caster, Warwick, Pembroke, and others. Y. Mor. Look, Lancaster, yonder is Ed- ward Among his flatterers. Lan. And there let him be Till he pay dearly for their company. War. And shall, or Warwick's sword shall smite in vain. K. Edw. What, rebels, do you shrink and sound retreat? Y. Mor. No, Edward, no; thy flatterers faint and fly. Lan. Thou'd best betimes foi'sake them and their trains,^^ For they '11 betray thee, traitors as they are. y. Spen. Traitor on thy face, rebellious Lancaster ! Pem. Away, base upstart, brav'st thou nobles thus? E. Spen. A noble attempt and honorable deed, Is it not, trow ye, to assemble aid, And levy arms against your lawful king! K. Edw. For which ere long their heads shall satisfy, T' appease the wrath of their offended king. Y. Mor. Then, Edward, thou wilt fight it to the last, And rather bathe thy sword in subjects' blood. Than banish that pernicious company? K. Edw. Aye, traitors all, rather than thus be brav'd. Make England's civil towns huge heaps of stones. And i^loughs to go about our palace- gates. War. A desperate and unnatural resolu- tion ! Alarum ! to the fight ! St. George for England, and the barons' right ! K. Edw. Saint George for England, and King Edward's right ! Alarums. Exeunt the two parties severally. Scene 4. The same. Enter King Edward and his followers, with the Barons and Kent, captives. K. Ediv. Now, lusty lords, now, not by chance of war. But justice of the quarrel and the cause, Vail'd ^^ is your pride ; methinks you hang the heads, But we '11 advance ^'' them, traitors. Now 't is time To be aveng'd on you for all your braves, And for the murder of my dearest friend. To whom right well you knew our soul was knit. Good Pierce of Gaveston, my sweet fa- vorite. Ah, rebels, recreants, you made him away ! Kent. Brother, in regard of thee, and of thy land, Did they remove that flatterer from thy throne. K. Edw. So, sir, you have spoke; away, avoid our presence ! Exit Kent. Accursed wretches, was 't in regard of us. When we had sent our messenger to re- quest He might be spar'd to come to speak with us. And Pembroke undertook for his retuni. That thou, proud Warwick, watch'd the prisoner. Poor Pierce, and headed him 'gainst law of arms? For which thy head shall overlook the rest, 65 plots. 66 humbled. EDWARD II 101 As much as thou in rage outwent'st the rest. War. Tyrant, I scorn thy threats and menaces ; It is but temporal that thou canst in- flict. Lan. The worst is death, and better die to live Than live in infamy under such a king. K. Edw. Away with them, my lord of Winchester ! These lusty leaders, Warwick and Lan- caster, I charge you roundly — ot¥ with both their heads ! Away! War. Farewell, vain world ! Lan. Sweet Mortimer, farewell, r. Mor. England, unkind to thy nobility. Groan for this grief, behold how thou art maim'd ! K. Edw. Go take that haughty Mortimer to the Tower, There see him safe bestow'd; and for the rest, Do speedy execution on them all. Begone ! Y. Mor. What, Mortimer! can ragged stony walls Immure thy virtue that aspires to Heaven ? No, Edward, England's scourge, it may not be; Mortimer's hope surmounts his fortune far. {The captive Barons are led off.) K. Edw. Sound drums and trumpets! March with me, my friends, Edward this day hath erown'd him king anew. Exeunt all except Young Spencer, Levune, and' Baldock. Y. Spen. Levune, the trust that we repose in thee, Begets the quiet of King Edward's land. Therefore begone in haste, and with ad- vice Bestow that treasure on the lords of Fiance, That, therewith all enchanted, like the guard That suffered Jove to pass in showers of gold To Dianae, all aid may be denied To Isabel, the queen, that now in France Makes friends, to cross the seas with her young son, And step into his father's regiment."'* Levune. That 's it these barons and the subtle queen Long levell'd at. Bal. Yea, but, Levune, thou seest These barons lay their heads on blocks together ; What they intend, the hangman frus- trates clean. Levune. Have you no doubt, my lords, I '11 clap so close Among the lords of Prance with Eng- land's gold. That Isabel shall make her plaints in vain, And France shall be obdurate with her tears. Y. Spen. Then make for France amain ; Levune, away! Proclaim King Edward's wars and vic- tories. Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene 1. Near the Tower of London. Enter Kent. Kent. Fair blows the wind for France; blow gentle gale, Till Edmund be arriv'd for England's good! Nature, yield to my country's cause in this. A brother? No, a butcher of thy friends ! Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy presence? But I '11 to France, and cheer the wronged queen, And certify what Edward's looseness is. Unnatural king! to slaughter noblemen And clierisli flatterers! Mortimer, I stay Thy sweet escape : stand gracious, gloomy night. To his device. Enter Young Mortimer, disguised. Y. Mor. Holla! who walketh there? Is 't you, my lord ? Kent. Mortimer, 't is I ; But hath thy potion wrought so hap- pily? Y. Mor. It liath, my lord; the warders all asleep. 68 rule. 102 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD I thank them, gave me leave to pass in peace. But hath youi' grace got shipping unto France ? Kent. Fear it not. Exeunt. Scene 2. Paris. Enter Queen Isabella and her son, Prince Edward. Q. Isab. Ah, boy! our friends do fail us all in France. The lords are cruel, and the king un- kind ; What shall we do? P. Edw. Madam, return to England, And please my father well, and then a hg For all my uncle's friendshij) here in France. I warrant you, I '11 win his highness quickly ; 'A loves me better than a thousand Spen- cers. Q. Isab. Ah, boy, thou art deceiv'd, at least in this, To think that we can yet be tun'd to- gether ; No, no, we jar too far. Unkind Valois! Unhappy Isabel! when France rejects, Whither, oh ! whither dost thou bend thy steps ? Enter Sir John of Hainault. Sir J. Madam, what cheer f Q. Isab. Ah ! good Sir John of Hainault, Never so cheerless, nor so far distrest. Sir J. I hear, sweet lady, of the king's unkindness ; But droop not, madam ; noble minds con- temn Despair. Will your grace with me to Hainault, And there stay time's advantage with your sonl How say you, my lord, will you go with your friends. And share of"-' all our fortunes equally"? P. Edw. So pleaseth the queen, my mother, me it likes. The King of England, nor the court of France, Shall liave me from my gracious mother's side. Till I be strong enoueh to break a staff; And then have at the proudest Spencer's head. Sir J. Well said, my lord. Q. Isab. 0, my sweet heart, how do I moan thy wrongs. Yet triumph in the hope of thee, my joy! Ah, sweet Sir John ! even to the utmost verge Of Europe, or the shore of Tanais, Will we with thee to Hainault — so we will :— The marquis is a noble gentleman; His grace, I dai'e presume, will welcome me. But who are these? Enter Kent and Young Mortimer. Kent. Madam, long may you live, Much happier than your friends in Eng- land do ! Q. Isab. Lord Edmund and Lord Morti- mer alive! Welcome to France ! The news was here, my lord. That you were dead, or very near your death. Y. Mor. Lady, the last was truest of the twain ; But Mortimer, reserv'd for better hap. Hath shaken off the thraldom of the Tower, And lives t' advance your standard, good my lord. P. Edw. How mean you"? An''" the king, my father, lives? No, my Lord Mortimer, not I, I trow. Q. Isab. Not, son! why not? I would it were no worse. But, gentle lords, friendless we are in France. Y. Mor. Monsieur le Grand, a noble friend of yours. Told us, at our arrival, all the news : How hard the nobles, how unkind the king Hath show'd himself; but, madam, right makes room Where weapons want; and, though a many friends Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster, And others of our party and faction ; Yet have we friends, assure your grace, in England Would cast up caps, and clap their hands for joy, To see us there, appointed for ^^ our foes. GO Qq. shake off. 70 if. 71 equipped to meet. EDWARD II 103 Kent. Would all were well, and Edward well reclaim'd, For Engand's honor, peace, and quiet- ness. Y. Mor. But by the sword, my lord 't must be deserv'd ; The king will ne'er forsake his flatterers. Sir J. My lord of England, sith the un- gentle king Of France refuseth to give aid of arms To this distressed queen his sister here, Go you with her to Hainault. Doubt ye not. We will find comfort, money, men, and friends Ere long, to bid the English king a base.^- How say, young prince? What think you of the match'? P. Edw. I think King Edward will out- run us all. Q. Isab. Nay, son, not so; and you must not discourage Your friends, that are so forward in your aid. Kent. Sir John of Hainault, pardon us, I pray; These comforts that you give our woful queen Bind us in kindness all at your com- mand. Q. Isab. Yea, gentle brother; and the God of heaven Prosper your happy motion, good Sir John. Y. Mor. This noble gentleman, forward in arms. Was born, I see, to be our anchor-hold. Sir John of Hainault, be it thy renown, That England's queen and nobles in dis- tress. Have been by thee restor'd and com- forted. Sir J. Madam, along, and you my lords, with me. That England's peers may Hainault's welcome see. Exeunt. Scene 3. The King's Palace, London. Enter King Edward, Arundel, the Elder and Younger Spencer, with others. K. Edw. Thus after many threats of wrathful war, Trinmpheth England's Edward with his friends ; And triumph, Edward, with his friends unconti'oll'd ! My lord of Gloucester, do you hear the news'? Y. Spen. What news, my lord'? K. Edw. Why, man, they say there is great execution Done through the realm; my lord of Arundel, You have the note, have you not"? Arun. From the Lieutenant of the Tower, my lord. K. Edw. I pray let us see it. (Takes the note.) What have we there*? Read it, Spencer. (Young Spencer reads the names.) Why, so; they bark'd apace a month ago: Now, on my life, they '11 neither bark nor bite. Now, sirs, the news from France *? Gloucester, I trow The lords of France love England's gold so well As Isabella gets no aid from thence. What now remains'? Have you pro- claim'd, my lord. Reward for them can bring in Mortimer'? Y. Spen. My lord, we have; and if he be in England, 'A will be had ere long, I doubt it not. K. Edw. If, dost thou say"? Spencer, as ti'ue as death, He is in England's ground; our port- masters Are not so careless of their king-'s com- mand. Enter a Post. How now, what news with thee"? From whence come these*? Post. Letters, my lord, and tidings forth of France ; — To you, my lord of Gloucester, from Le- vune. (Gives letters to Young Spencer.) K. Edw. Read. Y. Spen. (Reads.) "My duty to your honor premised, &e., I have, according to instructions in that be- half, dealt with the King of France his lords, and effected that the queen, all dis- contented and discomforted, is gone : whither, if you ask, with Sir John of Hainault, brother to the marquis, into Flanders. With them are gone Lord Ed- mund, and the Lord Mortimer, having in their company divers of your nation, and 7- challenge; a reference to the game of prisoner's base. 104 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD others; and, as constant report goeth, they intend to give King Edward battle in England, sooner than he can look for them. This is all the news of import. Your honor's in all service, Levune." K. Edw. Ah, villains! hath that Morti- mer escap'd? With him is Edmund gone associate'? And will Sir John of Hainault lead the round ? Welcome, a' God's name, madam, and your son; England shall welcome you and all your rout. Gallop apace, bright Phoebus, through the sky, ' And dusky night, in rusty iron car. Between you both shorten the time, I pray, That I may see that most desired day When we may meet these traitors in the field. Ah, nothing grieves me but my little boy Is thus misled to countenance their ills. Come, friends, to Bristow,^^ there to make us strong ; And, winds, as equal be to bring them in, As you injurious were to bear them forth ! Exeunt. Scene 4. Near Harwich. Enter Queen Isabella, her son, Prince Ed- ward, Kent, Young Mortimer, and Sir John of Hainault. Q. Isah. Now, lords, our loving friends and countrymen, Welcome to England all, with prosperous winds ! Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left, To cope with friends at home; a heavy case When force to force is knit, and sword and glaive '^* In civil broils make kin and country- men Slaughter themselves in others, and their sides With their own weapons gor'd ! But what 's the help ? Misgovern'd kings are cause of all this wrack ; And, Edward, thou art one among them all, Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land to spoil, 73 Bristol. Who made the channels overflow with blood. Of thine own people patron shouldst thou be, But thou Y. Mor. Nay, madam, if you be a war- rior. You must not grow so passionate in speeches. Lords, Sith that we are by sufferance of Heaven Arriv'd and armed in this prince's right, Here for our country's cause swear we to him All homage, fealty, and forward- ness ; And for the open wrongs and in- juries Edward hath done to us, his queen and land, AVe come in arms to wreak it with the sword ; That England's queen in peace may re- possess Her dignities and honors; and withal We may remove these liatterers from the king, That havocs England's wealth and treas- ury. Sir J. Sound trumpets, my lord, and for- ward let us march. Edward will think we come to- flatter him. Kent. I would he never had been flattered more. Exeunt. Scene 5. Near Bristol. Enter King Edward, Baldoch, and Young Spencer, flying about the stage. Y. Spen. Fly, fly, my lord! the queen is over-strong ; Her friends do multiply, and yours do fail. Shape we our course to Ireland, there to bi'eathe. K. Edw. What ! was I born to fly and run away, And leave the Mortimei-s conquerors be- hind? Give me my horse, and let's reinforce our troops: And in this bed of honor die with fame. 74 spear. EDWARD II 105 Bald. O no, my lord, this princely resolu- tion Fits not the time ; away ! we are pursu'd. Exeunt. Enter Kent, ivitli sword and target. Kent. This way he fled, but I am come too late. Edward, alas ! my heart relents for thee. Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou chase Thy lawful kinsi', thy sovereiiiii, with thy sword ? Vile wretch ! and why hast thou, of all unkind,'^^ Borne arms against thy brother and thy king? Rain showers of vengeance on my cursed head, Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs To punish this unnatural revolt! Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life ! fly him, then ! But, Edmund, calm this rage, Dissemble, or thou diest ; for Mortimer And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire ; And yet she bears a face of love for- sooth. Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate ! Edmund, away ! Bristow to Long- shanks' blood Is false. Be not found single for sus- pect : '^® Proud Mortimer pries near into thy walks. Enter Queen Isabella, Prince Edward, Young Mortimer, and Sir John of Hai- nault. Q. Isab. Successful battle gives the God of kings To them that fight in right and fear his wrath. Since then successfully we have pre- vailed. Thanked be Heaven's great architect, and you. Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords, We here create our well-beloved son, Of love and care unto his royal person, Lord Warden of the realm, and sith the fates Have made his father so unfortunate, Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving lords. As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all. 75 most unnatural of all. Kent. Madam, without offense, if I may ask. How will you deal with Edward in his fall? P. Edw. Tell me, good uncle, what Ed- ward do you mean? Kent. Nephew, your father; I dare not call him king. r. Mor. My lord of Kent, what needs these questions? 'T is not in her controlment, nor in ours. But as the realm and parliament shall please ; So shall your brother be disposed of. — [Aside to the Queen.) I like not this re- lenting mood in Edmund. Madam, 't is good to look to him betimes. Q. Isab. My lord, the Mayor of Bristow knows our mind. T. Mor. Yea, madam, and they scape not easily That fled the field. Q. Isab. Baldock is with the king, A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord? Sir J. So are the Spencers, the father and the son. Kent. This Edward is the ruin of the realm. Enter Rice ap Howell and the Mai/or of Bristol, with the Elder Silencer prisoner, and Attendants. Bice. God save Queen Isabel, and her princely son ! Madam, the mayor and citizens of Bris- tow, In sign of love and duty to this presence, Present by me this traitor to the state, Spencer, the father to that wanton Spen- " cer. That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome, Reveled in England's wealth and treas- ury. Q. Isab. We thank you all. Y. Mor. Your loving care in this Deserveth princely favors and rewards. But where 's the king and the other Spencer fled? Rice. Spencer the son, created Earl of Gloucester, Is with that smooth-tongu'd scholar Baldock gone And shipt but late for Ireland with the king. Y. Mor. (Aside.) Some whirlwind fetch them back or sink them all ! — They shall be started thence, I doubt it not. 76 be not found walking alone lest you be suspected. 106 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD P. Edw. Shall I not see the king my father yet? Kent. (Aside.) Unhap^Dy 's Edward, ehas'd from England's bounds. Sir J. Madam, what resteth, why stand you in a muse? Q. Isab. 1 rue my lord's ill-fortune; but alas! Care of my country call'd me to this war. T. Mor. Madam, have done with care and sad comi^laint ; Your king' hath wrong''d your country and himself, And we must seek to right it as we may. Meanwhile, have hence this rebel to the block. Your lordship cannot privilege your head. E. Spen. Rebel is he that fights against his prince; So fought not they that fought in Ed- ward's right. T. Mor. Take him away, he prates. Exeunt Attendants with the Elder Spencer. You, Rice ap Howell, Shall do good service to her majesty, Being of countenance in your country here, To follow these rebellious runagates. We in meanwhile, madam, must take ad- vice How Baldock, Spencer, and their 'com- plices May in their fall be followed to their end. Exeunt. Scene 6. The Ahhejf of Neath. Enter the Abbot, Monks, King Edward, Young Spencer, and Baldock, the three latter disguised. Abbot. Have you no doubt, my lord ; have you no fear; As silent and as careful we Avill be, To keep your royal person safe with us, Free from suspect and fell invasion Of such as have your majesty in chase, Yourself, and those your chosen com- pany. As danger of this stormy time requires. K. Ediv. Father, thy face should harbor no deceit. 0! hadst thou ever been a king, thy heart. Pierced deeply with sense of my distress, Could not but take compassion of my state. Stately and proud, in riches and in train, ^^^lilom I was, powerful, and full of pomi^ : But what is he whom rule and empei-y Have not in life or death made miser- able? Come, Spencer; come, Baldock, come, sit down by me; Make trial now of that philosophy. That in our famous nurseries of arts Thou suck'dst from Plato and from Aris- totle. Father, this life contemplative is Heaven. O that I might this life in quiet lead ! But we, alas! are ehas'd; and you, my friends. Your lives and my dishonor they pur- sue. Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, nor fee. Do you betray us and our company. Monks. Your grace may sit secure, if none but we Do wot of your abode. Y. Spen. Not one alive; but shrewdly I suspect A gloomy fellow in a mead below. 'A gave a long look after us, my lord; And all the land I know is up in arms. Arms that pursue our lives with deadly hate. Bcdd. We were embark'd for Ireland, wretched we! With awkward winds and [with] sore tempests driven To fall on shore, and here to pine in fear Of Mortimer and his confederates. K. Edw. Mortimer ! who talks of Morti- mer? Who wounds me with the name of Mor- timer, That bloody man? Good father, on thy lap Lay I this head, laden with mickle care. might I never open these eyes again ! Never again lift up this drooping head ! never more lift up this dying heart! Y. Spen. Look up, my lord. — Baldock, this drowsiness Betides no good; here even we are be- tray'd. Enter, with Welsh hooks. Bice ap Iloicell, a Mower, and Leicester. EDWARD II 107 Mow. Upon my life, these be the men ye seek. Rice. Fellow, enough. — My lord, I pray be short, A fair commission warrants Avhat we do. Leices. The queen's commission, urg'd by Mortimer ; What cannot gallant Mortimer with the queen "? Alas ! see where he sits, and hopes un- seen T' escape their hands that seek to reave his life. Too true it is, Qiiem dies vidit veniens superhum, Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem."'' But, Leicester, leave to grow so passion- ate. Spencer and Baldock, by no other names, I do arrest you of high treason here. Stand not on titles, but obey th' arrest; 'T is in the name of Tsabel the queen. My lord, why droop you thus"? K. Edw. O day, the last of all my bliss on earth ! Center of all misfortune ! O my stars, Why do you lour unkindly on a king"? Comes Leicester, then, in Isabella's name To take my life, my company from me? Here, man, rip up this panting breast of mine, And take my heart in rescue of my friends ! Rice. Away with them ! r. Spen. It may become thee yet To let us take our farewell of his grace. Abbot. (Aside.) My heart with pity earns '^^ to see this sight, A king to bear these words and pi'oud commands. K. Edw. Spencer, ah, sweet Sjoencer, thus then must we parf? r. Spen. We must, my lord, so will the angiy Heavens. K. Edw. Nay, so will hell and cruel Mor- timer; The u'entle Heavens have not to do in this. Bald. My lord, it is in vain to grieve or storm. Here humbly' of your grace we take our leaves ; Our lots are east ; I fear me, so is thine. K. Edw. In Heaven we may, in earth ne'er sliall we meet : And, Leicester, say, what shall become of US'? Leices. Your majesty must go to Killing- worth.'^^ K. Ediv. Must ! it is somewhat hard, when kings must go. Leices. Here is a litter ready for your grace, That waits your pleasure, and the day grows old. Rice. As good be gone, as stay and be be- nighted. K. Edw. A litter hast thou? Lay me in a hearse. And to the gates of hell convey me hence; Let Pluto's bells ring out my fatal knell. And hags howl for my death at Charon's shore. For friends hath Edward none but these and these, And these must die under a tyrant's sword. Rice. My lord, be going; care not for these, For we shall see them shorter by the heads. K. Edw. Well, that shall be, shall be: part we must ! Sweet Spencer, gentle Baldock, part we must ! Hence feigned weeds ! unfeigned are my woes; {Throws of his disguise.) Father, farewell! Leicester, thou stay'st for me, And go I must. Life, farewell, with my friends. Exeunt Edward and Leicester. T. Spen. ! is he gone ? Is noble Ed- ward gone? Parted from hence, never to see us more? Rend, sphere of Heaven ! and, fire, for- sake thy orb ! Earth, melt to air ! gone is my sovereign, Gone, gone, alas! never to make return. Bald. Spencer, I see our souls are fleeted hence ; We are depriv'd the sunshine of our life : Make for a new life, man ; throw up thy eyes. And heart, and hand to Heaven's im- mortal throne ; Pay nature's debt with cheerful coun- tenance; Reduce we all our lessons unto this: To die, sweet Spencer, therefore live we all; Spencer, all live to die, and rise to fall. T7 "Whom the dawn sees proud, evening sees prostrate." (Seneca. Thyestes, 613.) 78 yearns. 79 Kenilworth. .08 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD lice. Come, come, keep these preachments till you come to the place appointed. You, and such as you are, have made wise work in England. Will your lord- ships away? ^dow. Your lordship, I trust, will remem- ber mef nice. Remember thee, fellow! what else? Follow me to the town. Exeunt. ACT V. JcENB 1. A room in Kenilworth Castle. Inter King Edtvard, Leicester, the Bishop of Winchester for the crown, and Trussel. jeices. Be patient, good ray lord, cease to lament, Imagine Killingworth Castle were your court, And that you lay for pleasure here a space, Not of compulsion or necessity. r. Edw. Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me, Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sor- rows; For kind and loving hast thou always been. The griefs of private men are soon al- iay'd, But not of kings. The forest deer, be- ing struck, Runs to an herb that eloseth up the wounds ; But, when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, [And] highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up into the air. And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind The ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb. And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison ; For such outrageous passions cloy my soul, As with the M'ings of rancor and disdain Full often am I soaring up to Heaven, To plain ^° me to the gods against them both. 80 complain. But when I call to mind I am a king, Methinks I should revenge me of my wrongs, That Mortimer and Isabel have done. But what are kings, when regiment ^^ is gone. But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? My nobles rule, I bear the name of king; I wear the crown, but am controll'd by them. By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care. Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, To company my heart with sad laments. That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. But tell me, must I now resign my crown. To make usurping Mortimer a king? B. of Win. Your grace mistakes; it is for England's good, And princely Edward's right we crave the crown. K. Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Ed- ward's head; For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, Which in a moment will abridge his life. But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown. Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire! Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, Engirt the temples of his hateful head; So shall not England's vine be perished. But Edward's name survives, though Ed- ward dies. Leices. My lord, why waste you thus the time away? They stay your answer; will you yield your crown? K. Edw. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly I can brook To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; To give ambitious Mortimer my right, That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, In which extreme my mind here mur- dered is. But what the heavens appoint, I must obey! Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too; {Taking of the crown.) 81 sovereignty. EDWARD II 109 Two kings in England cannot reign at once. But stay awhile, let me be king till night. That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; So shall my eyes receive their last eon- tent, My head, the latest honor due to it, And jointly both yield up their wished right. Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; Let never silent night possess this clime : Stand still, you watches of the element ; All times and seasons, rest you at a stay. That Edward may be still fair Eng- land's king! But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, And needs I must resign my wished crown. Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's milk ! Why gape you for your sovereign's over- throw ! My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. See, monsters, see, I '11 wear my crown again ! (He puts on the crown.) What, fear you not the fuiy of your king? But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly ^- led; They pass ^^ not for thy frowns as late they did. But seek to make a new-elected king; Which fills my mind with strange de- spairing thoughts. Which thoughts are martyred with end- less torments. And in this torment comfort find I none. But that I feel the crown upon my head ; And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. Trus. My lord, the parliament must have present news, And therefore say, will you resign or no? {The King ragetJi.) K. Edw. I '11 not resign, but whilst I live [be king.]^* Traitors, be gone and join with Morti- mer ! Elect, conspire, install, do what you will : — Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries ! B. of Win. This answer we'll return, and so farewell. {Going with Trussel.) 82 foolishly. S3 c Leices. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair; For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. K. Edw. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. Leices. My lord, the king is willing to re- sign. B. of Win. If he be not, let him choose. K. Edw. would I might, but heavens and earth consj^ire To make me miserable ! Here receive my crown ; Receive it? No, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. He of you all that most desires my blood, And wdll be call'd the murderer of a king, Take it. What, are you mov'd? Pity you me? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to steel. Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay, for rather than I '11 look on them. Here, here ! {Gives the croivn.) Now, sweet God of Heaven, Make me despise this transitory pomp. And sit for ay enthronized in Heaven! Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or if I live, let me forget myself. B.* of Win. My lord- s'. Edw. Call me not lord ; away — out of my sight! Ah, pardon me : grief makes me lunatic ! Let not that Mortimer protect my son; More safety is there in a tiger's jaws, Than his embraeements. Bear this to the queen. Wet with my tears, and dried again with sighs ; {Gives a handkerchief.) If with the sight thereof she be not mov'd, Return it back and dip it in my blood. Commend me to my son, and bid him rule Better than I. Yet how have I trans- gress' d, Unless it be with too much clemency? Trus. And thus most humbly do we take our leave. K. Edw. Farewell; e. 84 Qq. omit. 110 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Exeunt the BisJtop of Winchester and Trussel. I know the next news that they bring Will be my death; and welcome shall it be; To wretched men, death is felicity. Enter Berkeley/^ who gives a paper to Leicester. Leices. Another post ! what news brings he? K. Edw. Sneh news as I expect — come, Berkeley, come. And tell thy message to my naked breast. Berk. My lord, think not a thought so vil- lainous Can harbor in a man of noble birth. To do your highness service and devoir, And save you from your foes, Berkeley would die. Leices. My lord, the council of the queen commands That I resign my charge. K. Edw. And who must keep me now? Must you, my lord? Berk. Aye, my most gracious lord ; so 't is decreed. K. Edw. {Taking the paper.) By Morti- mer, whose name is written here ! Well may I rend his name that rends my heart ! {Tears it.) This poor revenge has something eas'd my mind. So may his limbs be torn, as is this paper Hear me, immortal Jove, and grant it too! Berk. Your grace must hence with me to Berl>eley straight. K. Edw. Whither you will ; all places are alike. And every earth is fit for burial. Leices. Favor him, my lord, as much as lieth in you. Berk. Even so betide my soul as I use him. K. Edw. Mine enemy hath pitied my es- tate, And that 's the cause that I am now remov'd. Berk. And thinks your grace that Berk- eley will be cruel? K. Edw. I know not ; but of this am I as- sured. That death ends all, and I can die but once. Leicester, farewell ! 85 Qq. Bartley, showing pronunciation. Leices. Not yet, my lord ; I '11 bear you on your way. Exeunt. Scene 2. The Palace, London. Enter Queen Isabella and Young Blortimer. Y. Mor. Fair Isabel, now have we our desire ; The proud corrupters of the light-brain'd king Have done their homage to the lofty gal- lows. And he himself lies in captivity. Be rul'd by me, and we will rule the realm. In any case take heed of childish fear. For now we hold an old wolf by the ears. That, if he slip, will seize upon us both, And grille the sorer, being gript himself. Think therefore, madam, that imports us much To erect *" your son with all the speed we may, And that I be protector over him; For our behoof will bear the greater sway AMienas a king's name shall be under writ. Q. Isah. Sweet Mortimer, the life of Is- abel, Be thou persuaded that I love thee well, And therefore, so the prince my son be safe, Whom I esteem as dear as these mine eyes. Conclude against his father what thou wilt. And I myself will willingly subscribe. Y. Mor. First would I hear news that he were depos'd. And then let me alone to handle him. Enter Messenger. Letters! from whence? Mess. From Killingworth, my lord. Q. Isah. How fares my lord the king? Mess. In health, madam, but full of pen- siveness. Q. Isah. Alas, poor soul, would I could ease his grief! Enter the Bishop of Winchester with the cro wn. Thanks, gentle Winchester. {To the Messenger.) Sirrah, be gone. Exit Messenger. 80 make king. EDWARD II 111 B. of Win. The king hath willingly re- sign'd his crown. Q. Isab. O happy news! send for the prince, my son. B. of Win. Fi;rther, or ^^ this letter was seal'd, Lord Berkeley came, So that he now is gone from Killing- worth ; And we have heard that Edmund laid a plot To set his brother free ; no moi'e but so. The lord of Berkeley is so pitiful As Leicester that had charge of him be- fore. Q. Isab. Then let some other be his guardian. T. Mar. Let me alone, here is the privy seal. Exit the Bishop of Winchester. Who's there? — Call hither Guniey and Matrevis. To dash the heavy-headed Edmund's drift, Berkeley shall be discharged, the king remov'd. And none but we shall know where he lieth. Q. Isab. But, Mortimer, as long as he survives, TNHiat safety rests for us, or for my son ? T. Mar. Speak, shall he presently be de- spateh'd and die? Q. Isab. I would he were, so 'twere not by my means. Enter Matrevis and Gurney. Y. Mor. Enough. — Matrevis, write a letter presently Unto the lord of Berkeley from ourself That he resign the king to thee and Gur- ney ; And when 't is done, we will subscribe our name. Mat. It shall be done, my lord. Y. Mor. Gurney. Gur. My lord. Y. Mor. As thou intend'st to rise by Mor- timer, Who now makes Fortune's wheel turn as he please. Seek all the means thou canst to make him droop. And neither give him kind word nor good look. Gur. I warrant you, my lord. T. Mor. And this above the rest : because we hear 87 ere. That Edmund casts ^^ to work his lib- erty, Remove him still from place to place by night. Till at the last he come to Killingworth, And then from thence to Berkeley back again ; And by the way, to make him fret the more, Speak curstly to him, and in any case Let no man comfort him ; if he chance to weep, But amplify his grief with bitter words. Mat. Fear not, my lord, we '11 do as you command. Y. Mor. So now away; post thitherwards amain. Q. Isab. Whither goes this letter? To my lord the king? Commend me humbly to his majesty. And tell him that I labor all in vain To ease his grief, and work his lib- erty; And bear him this as witness of my love. {Gives a ring.) Mat. I will, madam. Exit with Gurney. Enter Prince Edward, and Kent talking, with him. Y. Mor. Finely dissembled. Do so still, sweet queen. Here comes the young prince with the Earl of Kent. Q. Isab. Something he whispers in his childish ears. Y. Mor. If he have such access unto the prince, Our plots and stratagems will soon be dash'd. Q. Isab. Use Edmund friendly, as if all were well. Y. Mor. How fares my honorable lord of Kent? Kent. In health, sweet Mortimer. How fares your grace? Q. Isab. Well, if my lord your brother were enlarg'd. Kent. I hear of late he hath depos'd him- self. Q. Isab. The more my griet. Y. Mor. And mine. Kent. (Aside.) Ah, they do dissemble! Q. Isab. Sweet son, come hither, I must talk with thee. Y. Mor. Thou being his uncle, and the next of blood, Do look to be protector o'er the prince. 88 plots. 112 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Kent. Not I, my lord; who should protect the son, But she that gave him life? I mean the queen. P. Edw. Mother, persuade me not to wear the crown : Let him be king — I am too young to reign, Q. Isab. But be content, seeing 't is his highness' pleasure. P. Edw. Let me but see him first, and then I will. Kent. Aye, do, sweet nephew. Q. Isab. Brother, you know it is impos- sible. P. Edw. Why, is he dead? Q. Isab. No, God forbid! Kent. I would those words proceeded from your heart. y. Mor. Inconstant Edmund, dost thou favor him, That wast the cause of his imprison- ment ? Kent. The more cause have I now to make amends. r. Mor. {Aside to Q. Isab.) I tell thee, 'tis not meet that one so false Should come about the person of a prince. — My lord, he hath betray'd the king his brother, And therefore trust him not. P. Edw. But he repents, and sorrows for it now. Q. Isab. Come, son, and go with this gen- tle lord and me. P. Edw. With you I will, but not with Mortimer. T. Mor. Wliy, youngling, 'sdain'st thou so of Mortimer"? Then I will carry thee by force away. P. Ediv. Help, uncle Kent! Mortimer will wrong me. Q. Isab. Brother Edmund, strive not; we are his friends; Isabel is nearer than the Earl of Kent. Kent. Sister, Edward is my charge, re- deem him. Q. Isab. Edward is my son, and I will keep him. Kent. Mortimer shall know that he hath wrong'd me ! — {Aside.) Hence will I haste to Killing- worth Castle, And rescue aged Edward from his foes. To be reveng'd on Mortimer and thee. Exeunt on one side Queen Isabella, Prince Edward, and Young Mortimer; on the other Kent. Scene 3. Kenilworth Castle. Enter Matrevis and Gurney, and Soldiers, with King Edward. Mat. My lord, be not pensive, we are your friends ; Men are ordain'd to live in misery. Therefore come, — dalliance dangereth our lives. K. Edw. Friends, whither must unhappy Edward go? Will hateful Mortimer appoint no rest? Must I be vexed like the nightly bird. Whose sight is loathsome to all winged fowls? ^Hien will the fury of his mind assuage? When will his heart be satisfied with blood ? If mine will serve, unbowel straight this breast, And give my heart to Isabel and him; It is the chiefest mark they level at. Gur. Not so, my liege, the queen hath given this charge To keep your grace in safety; Your passions make your dolors to in- crease. K. Edw. This usage makes my misery to increase. But can my air of life continue long- When all my senses are annoy'd with stench ? Within a dungeon England's king is kept, Wliere I am starv'd for want of sus- tenance. My daily diet is heart-breaking sobs. That almost rends the closet of my heart. Thus lives old Edward not reliev'd by any. And so must die, though pitied by many. 0, water, gentle friends, to cool my thirst. And clear my body from foul excre- ments ! Mat. Here 's channel ^^ water, as our chai'ge is given. Sit down, for we '11 be barbers to your grace. K. Edw. Traitors, away! What, will you murder me. Or choke your sovereign with puddle water? Gur. No; but wash your face, and shave away your beard, Lest you be known and so be rescued. Mat. Why strive you thus? Your labor is in vain. 89 gutter. EDWARD II 113 K. Ed'W. The wren may strive against the lion's strength, But all in vain : so vainly do I strive To seek for mercy at a tyrant's hand. (Thej/ wash him with puddle water, and shave his heard awaij.) Innnortal powers that knows the painful cares That wait upon my poor distressed soul, level all your looks upon these daring men, That wrongs their liege and sovereign, England's king ! Gaveston, 't is for thee that I am wrong'd, For me, both thou and' both the Spen- cers died ! And for your sakes a thousand wrongs I'll take. The Spencers' ghosts, wherever they re- main, Wish well to mine; then tush, for them I'll die! Mat. 'Twixt theirs and yours shall be no enmity. Come, come away; now put the torches out; We '11 enter in by darkness to Killing- worth. Enter Kent. Gur. How now, who comes there? Mat. Guard the king sure : it is the Earl of Kent. K. Edw. gentle brother, help to rescue me ! Mat. Keep them asunder; thrust in the king. Kent. Soldiers, let me but talk to him one word. Gur. Lay hands ujoon the earl for this as- sault. Kent. Lay down your weapons, traitors ! Yield the king! Mat. Edmund, yield thou thyself, or thou shalt die. Kent. Base villains, wherefore do you gripe me thus*? Gur. Bind him and so convey him to the court. Kent. Wliere is the court but here? Here is the king. And I will visit him; why stay you me? Mat. The court is where Lord Mortimer remains ; Thither shall your honor go ; and so fare- well. Exeunt Matrevis and Gurney, with King Edward. Kent. miserable is that commonweal, Where lords keep courts, and kings are lock'd in prison ! Sol. Wherefore stay we? On, sirs, to the court ! Kent. Aye, lead me whither you will, even to my death. Seeing that my brother cannot be re- leas'd. Exeunt. Scene 4. The Palace, London. Enter Young Mortimer, alone. Y. Mor. The king must die, or Mortimer goes do vvn ; The commons now begin to pity him. Yet he that is the cause of Edward's death. Is sure to pay for it when his son 's of age; And therefore will I do it cunningly. This letter, written by a friend of ours. Contains his death, yet bids them save his life. (Beads.) »> "Edwardum occidere nolite timere — ho- num est: Fear not to kill the king, 't is good he die." But, read it thus, and that 's another sense : "Edwardum occidere nolite — timere bo- num est : Kill not the king, 't is good to fear the worst." LTnpointed ^° as it is, thus shall it go. That, being dead, if it chance to be found, Matrevis and the rest may bear the blame, And we be quit that caus'd it to be done. Within this room is lock'd the messenger That shall convey it, and perform the rest; And by a secret token that he bears. Shall he be murdered when the deed is done. — Lightborn, come forth ! Enter Lighthorn. Art thou as resolute as thou wast? Light. What else, my lord? And far more resolute. Y. Mor. And hast thou east how to ac- complish it? 90 unpunctuated. 114 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Light. Aye, aye, and none shall know which way he died. Y. Mor. But at his looks, Lighlborn, thou wilt relent. Light. Relent ! ha, ha ! I use much to re- lent. y. Mor. Well, do it bravely, and be se- cret. Light. You shall not need to give insti'uc- tions ; 'T is not the first time I have kill'd a man. I learn'd in Naples how to poison flow- ers; To strangle with a lawn ^^ thrust througli the throat; To pierce the windpipe with a needle's point ; Or whilst one is asleep, to take a quill And blow a little powder in his ears; Or open his mouth and pour c]uicksilver down. And yet I have a braver way than these. r. 31or. What's that? Light. Nay, you shall pardon me ; none shall know my tricks. Y. Mor. I care not how it is, so it be not spied. Deliver this to Gurney and Matrevis. {Gives letter.) At every ten mile's end thou hast a horse. Take this {Gives money); away! and never see me more. Light. No? r. Mor. No; Unless thou bring me news of Edward's death. Light. That will I quickly do. Farewell, my lord. Exit. Y. Mor. The prince I rule, the queen do I command, And with a lowly congee ^- to the ground, The proudest lords salute me as I pass ; I seal, I cancel, I do what I will. Fear'd am I more than lov'd ; — let me be fear'd, And Avhen I frown, make all the court look pale. I view the prince with Aristarchus' eyes, Whose looks were as a breeching ^^ to a boy. They thrust upon me the protectorship. And sue to me for that that I desire. While at the council-table, grave enough, And not unlike a bashful puritan, First I complain of imbecility, Saying it is onus quam gravissimum,^'^ Till being interrupted by my friends, Suscejji that provinciam ^^ as thev term it; And to conclude, I am Protector now. Now is all sure : the queen and Mortimer Shall rule the realm, the king, and none rule us. Mine enemies will I plague, my friends advance ; And what I list command who dare con- trol? Major sum quam cui possit fortuna nocere.^^ And that this be the coronation-day, It pleaseth me, and Isabel the queen. ( Trumpets within. ) The trumpets sound, I must go take my place. Enter the young King, Queen Isabella, the Archhishop of Canterbury, Cham- pion and Nobles. A. of Cant. Long live King Edward, by the grace of God King of England and Lord of Ireland ! Cham. If any Christian, Heathen, Turk, or Jew, Dares but affinn that Edward 's not true king, And will avouch his saying with the sword, I am the champion that will combat him. T. Mor. None comes; sound trumpets! {Trumpets sound.) K. Edio. Third. Champion, here 's to thee. {Gives a purse.) Q. I sab. Lord Mortimer, now take him to your charge. Enter Soldiers, ivith Kent prisoner. Y. Mor. What traitor have we there with blades and bills'? .Sol. Edmund, the Earl of Kent. K. Edw. Third. What hath he done? Bol. 'A would have taken the king away perforce. As we were bringing him to Killing- worth. Y. Mor. Did you attempt this rescue, Ed- mund ? Speak. Kent. Mortimer, I did ; he is our king, And thou compell'st this prince to wear the crown. 91 a small roll of fine linen. 92 bow. 9^ "the heaviest bur- 93 whipping. den possible." > "I have under- taken that office." ! "I am too great for fortune to in- jure." (Ovid, Met- amorphoses, vi. 195.) EDWARD II 115 r. Mor. Strike off his head ! he shall have martial law, Kent. Strike oft' my head ! Base traitor, I defy thee ! K. Edw. Third. My lord, he is my uncle, and shall live. Y. Mor. My lord, he is your enemy, and shall die. Kent. Stay, villains ! K. Edw. Third. Sweet mother, if I can- not pardon him, Entreat my Lord Protector for his life. Q. Isab. Son, be content ; I dare not speak a word. K. Edw. Third. Nor I, and yet methinks I should command ; But, seeing' I cannot, I '11 entreat for him — My lord, if you will let my uncle live, I will requite it when I come to age. r. Mor. 'T is for your highness' good, and for the realm's. — How often shall I bid you bear him hence ? Kent. Art thou king? Must I die at thy command? /Y. Mor. At our command — Once more, away with him ! Kent. Let me but stay and speak; I will not go. Either my brother or his son is king, And none of both them thirst for Ed- mund's blood : And therefore, soldiers, whither will you hale me? Soldiers hale Kent away, and carry him to he beheaded. K. Edw. Third. What safety may I look for at his hands. If that my uncle shall be murdered thus? Q. Isab. Fear not, sweet boy, I '11 guard thee from thy foes ; Had Edmund liv'd, he would have sought thy death. Come, son, we '11 ride a-hunting in the park. K. Edw. Third. And shall my uncle Ed- mund ride with us? Q. Isab. He is a traitor; think not on him. Come. Exeunt. Scene 5. Berkeley Castle. Enter Matrevis and Gurney. Mat. Gurney, I wonder the king dies not, Being in a vault up to the knees in water, 97 purposely. os "let this To which the channels of the castle run, From whence a damp continually ariseth, That were enough to poison any man, Much more a king brought up so ten- derly. Gur. And so do I, Matrevis: yesternight I opened but the door to throw him meat, And I w^as almost stifled with the savor. Mat. He hath a body able to endure More than we can inflict : and therefore now Let us assail his mind another while. Gur. Send for him out thence, and I will anger him. Mat. But stay, who's this? Enter Lightborn. Light. My Lord Protector greets you. {Gives letter.) Gur. What's here? I know not how to construe it. Mat. Gurney, it was left unpointed for the nonce; '•''' "Edwardiim occidere nolite timer e:" That 's his meaning. Light. Know ye this token? I must have the king. {Gives token.) Aye, stay awhile, thou shalt have an- swer straight. — {Aside.) This villain 's sent to make away the king. {Aside.) I thought as much. {Aside.) And when the murder's done. See how he must be handled for his labor. Pereat iste!^^ Let him have the king. — WTiat else? Here is the keys, this is the lock;9» Do as you are commanded by my lord. Light. I know what I must do; get you away; Yet be not far off, I shall need your help. See that in the next room I have a Are; And get me a spit, and let it be red-hot. Blat. Very well. Gtir. Need you anything besides? Light. What else? A table and a feather- bed. ' Gur. That 'sail? Light. Aye, aye ; so, when I call you bring it in. Mat. Fear not thou that. Gur. Here 's a light, to go into the dun- geon. {Gives a light, and exit ivith Matrevis.) Light. So now Mat. Gur. Mat man die." &9 Qq. lake. 116 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Must I about this gear ; ^ ne'er was there any So finely handled as this king- shall be. For here 's a place indeed, with all my heart ! K. Edw. Who's there? ^^^lat light is that? Wherefore eom'st thou? Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Ed- ward in thy looks. Villain, I know thou eom'st to murder me. Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! Far is it from my heart to do you harm. The queen sent me to see how you were used, For she relents at this your misery: And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears. To see a king in this most piteous state? K. Edw. Weep'st thou already? List awhile to me And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is. Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Cau- casus, Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. This dungeon where they keep me is the sink Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. Light. villains ! K. Edw. And there in mii'e and puddle have I stood This ten days' space; and, lest that I should sleep. One plays continually upon a drum. They give me bread and water, being a king; So that, for want of sleep and suste- nance, My mind 's distempered, and my body 's numb'd, And whether I have limbs or no I know not. 0, would my blood dropp'd out from every vein. As doth this water from my tattered robes ! Tell Isabel, the queen, I look'd not thus, When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, And there unhors'd the Duke of Clere- mont. Light. speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart. 1 business. Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. K. Edw. These looks of thine can harbor nought but death : I see my tragedy written in thy brows. Yet stay awhile; forbear thy bloody hand, And let me see the stroke before it comes. That even then when I shall lose my life. My mind may be more steadfast on my God. Light. What means your highness to mis- trust me thus? K. Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus? Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent blood. Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. K. Edw. Forgive my thought for having such a thought. One jewel have I left ; receive thou this. {Giving jewel.) Still fear I, and I know that what 's the cause. But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 0, if thou harbor'st murder in thy heart. Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul! Know that I am a king: at that name I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown ? Gone, gone! and do I remain alive? Light. You 're ovei-watched,- my lord ; lie down and rest. K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; For not these ten days have these eye- lids clos'd. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Open again, wherefore sitt'st thou here? Light. If you mistrust me, I '11 begone, my lord. K. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me. Thou wilt return again, and therefore stay. Light. He sleeps. K. Edw. (Waking.) let me not die yet ! Stay, stay a while ! Light. How now, my lord? K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, And tells me if I sleep I never wake; This fear is that which makes me trem- ble thus. 8 worn out with waking. EDWARD II 117 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come"? Light. To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, come ! Enter Matrevis and Gurney. K. Echo. I am too weak and feeble to re- sist : — Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul ! Light. Run for the table. K. Edw. spare me, or despatch mo in a trice. {Matrevis brings in a table.) Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp on it, But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body. (King Edward is murdered.) Mat. 1 fear me that this cry will raise the town. And therefore, let us take horse and away. Light. Tell me, sii's, was it not bravely done? Gur. Excellent well; take this for thy re- ward. (Gurney stabs Lightborn.) Come, let us cast the body in the moat. And bear the king's to Mortimer our lord : Away ! Exeunt with the bodies. Scene 6. The Palace, London. Enter Young Mortimer and Matrevis. Y. Mor. Is 't done, Matrevis, and the murderer dead? Mat. Aye, my good lord; I would it were undone ! Y. Mor. Matrevis, if thou now growest penitent I'll be thy ghostly father; therefore choose, Whether thou wilt be secret in this. Or else die by the hand of Mortimer. Mat. Gurney, my lord, is fled, and will, I fear. Betray us both ; therefore let me fly. Y. Mor. Fly to the savages ! 3£at. I humbly thank your honor. Exit. Y. Mor. As for myself, I stand as Jove's huge tree. And others are but shrubs compar'd to me. All tremble at my name, and I fear none; Let 's see who dare impeach me for his death ! Enter Queen Isabella. Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer, the king my son hath news Ilis father 's dead, and we have mur- dered him ! r. Mor. What if he have? The king is yet a child. Q. Isab. Aye, but he tears his hair, and wrings his hands. And vows to be reveng'd upon us both." Into the council-chamber he is gone. To crave the aid and succor of his peers. Ay me ! see here he comes, and they with him. Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy. Entar King Edward the Third, Lords and Attendants. 1 Lord. Fear not, my lord, know that you are a king. K. Edw. Third. Villain!— r. Mor. How now, my lord ! K. Edw. Third. Think not that I am frighted with thy words ! My father 's murdered through thy treachery; And thou shall die, and on his mournful hearse Thy hateful and accursed head shall lie, To witness to the world, that by thy means His kingly body was too soon interr'd. Q. Isab. Weep not, sweet son! K. Edw. Third. Forbid me not to weep, he was my father; And, had you lov'd him half so well as I, \ ou could not bear his death thus pa- tiently. But you, I fear, conspir'd with Morti- mer. 1 Lord. Why speak you not unto my lord the king? Y. Mor. Because I think scorn to be ac- cus'd. Who is the man dares say I murdered him? K. Ediv. Third. Traitor! in me my loving father speaks, And plainly saith, 't was thou that mur- d'redst him. Y. Mor. But has your grace no other rtroof than this? lis THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD K. Edw Third. Yes, if this be the hand of Mortimer. {Showing letter.) Y. Mor. (Aside.) False Gurney hath betray'd me and himself. Q. Isab. {Aside.) I fear'd as much; murder cannot be hid. r. Mor. It is my hand; what gather you by thisl K. Edw. Third. That thither thou didst send a murderer. r. Blur. ^A^iat murderer*? Bring forth the man I sent. it. Edw. Third. Ah, Mortimer, thou knowest that he is slain ; And so shalt thou be too. — AVhy stays he here"? Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth; Hang him, I say, and set his quarters up. But bring his head back presently ^ to me. Q. Isab. For my sake, sweet son, pity Mortimer ! r. Mor. Madam, entreat not; I will rather die, Than sue for life unto a paltry boy. K. Edw. Third. Hence with the traitor! with the murderer ! r. Mor. Base Fortune, now I see that in thy wheel There is a point, to which when men aspire. They tumble headlong down: that point I touch'd. And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall?— Farewell, fair queen ; weep not for Mor- timer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown. K. Edw. Third. What! suffer you the traitor to delay? {Young Mortimer is taken awaij.) Q. Isab. As thou receivedst thy life from me, Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer! K. Edw. Third. This argues that you spilt my father's blood, Else would you not entreat for Mortimer. Q. L^ab. I spill his blood? No! a:. Edw. Third. Aye, madam, you; for so the rumor runs. Q. Isab. That rumor is untrue; for lov- ing thee, 3 immediately Is this report rais'd on poor Isabel. K. Edw. Third. I do not think her so un- natui'al. 2 Lord. My lord, I fear me it will prove too true. K. Edw. Third. Mother, you are sus- pected for his death, And therefore we connnit you to the Tower Till further trial may be made thereof; If you be guilty, though I be your son. Think not to find me slack or pitiful. Q. Isab. Nay, to my death, for too long have I liv'd Whenas my son thinks to abridge my days. K. Edw. Third. Away with her! her words enforce these tears. And I shall pity her if she speak again. Q. Isab. Shall I not mourn for my be- loved lord. And with the rest accompany him to his grave 2 Lord. Thus, madam, 't is the king-'s will you shall hence. Q. Isab. He hath forgotten me; stay, I am his mother. 2 Lord. That boots not ; therefore, gentle madam, go. Q. Isab. Then come, sweet death, and rid me of this grief. Exit. Re-enter 1 Lord, icith the head of Young Mortimer. 1 Lord. My lord, here is the head of Mor- timer. K. Edw. Third. Go fetch my father's hearse, where it shall lie ; And bring my funeral robes. Exeunt Attendants. Accursed head, Could I have rul'd thee then, as I do now, Thou had'st not hatched this monstrous treachery ! — Here comes the hearse; help me to mourn, my lords. He-enter Attendants with the hearse and funeral tjobes. Sweet father, here/ unto thy murdered ghost I offer up this wicked traitor's head; And let these tears, distilling from mine eyes. Be witness of my grief and innocency. Exeunt. THOMAS DEKKER THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY Thomas Dekker (c. 1570-1637 or later) was a Londoner, possibly of Dutch descent. His name first appears early in 1598 in the diary of Philip Henslowe, proprietor of the Rose and Fortune tlieaters. Dekker was one of the most prolific of Henslowe's play-car- penters, for he is mentioned as sole autlior or collaborator in connection witli forty-one plays in the five years 1598-1G02. The diary also throws a sad light on Dekker's hand-to- mouth existence, by its records of loans made by Henslowe, sometimes to rescue him from the debtors' prison; there is reason to be- lieve that he was once confined for debt for three years together. From 1603 to 1013 he turned out a series of prose pamphlets, chiefly on London life, vividly informing and force- ful in style. He drops out of sight early in the thirties. The Shoemakers' Holiday is the merriest example of a sort of play very popular with London playgoers of Elizabethan days, the bourgeois comedy of London life, — citizens' comedy, it has been called, to distinguish it from the romantic comedy of Shakespeare, the satirical humor-comedy of Ben Jonson. and the tragicomedy of Beaumont and Fletcher. Such plays were written for the most part by dramatists not so fortunate as these men, who had established positions as writers for the high-class theaters such as the Globe and the Blackfriars, and for a better class of audi- tors than those which filled the more popular houses like the Rose and the Fortune. Dek- ker, Heywood, and, less representatively, Middleton, are the best known members of a large group of playwrights who thus catered to the theatrical wants of the common peo- ple, giving them in large measure pictures of the life which they lived. The Shoemakers' Holiday was finished by July 15, 1599, when Henslowe enters a pay- ment for it of three pounds — so munificently were his fortimate authors rewarded ! It was no doubt written in the six weeks immediately preceding, for on May 30, Dekker had received payment for Agamemnon ; the world-wide dif- ference in subject-matter between two con- secutive plays is suggestive of the versatility of the popular playwright, as the short in- terim is of the forced draught under which he worked. The play was performed by the Admiral's Men at the Rose; its sviccess we may infer from the fact that on New Year's Day of 1600 it was acted at court, a distinc- tion which had been granted on December 27, | 119 1599, to another of Dekker's plays, the masque-like Old Fortunatus. Tlius even the playwrights of the people had their occasional social triumphs. Dekker took his story from a collection of three prose tales on shoe- makers. The Gentle Craft (1598), by Thomas Deloney, whose position in the narrative-fic- tion of the day as a purvej'or of romantically rose-colored, pseudo-realistic tales for the con- sumption of middle-class readers somewhat corresponds to that of Dekker in the drama. From the second of these stories, that of the two royal shoemakers Crispine and Crispi- anus, Dekker obtained the background of war, the motive of the Lacy-Rose story, the shoe- fitting episode, Rose's flight to the Lord Mayor's, and the final royal sanction of their marriage. From Deloney's account of Simon Eyre, the madcap shoemaker of Tower Street, come practically all the figures and details of the Eyre story, as well as the suggestion for the Ralph-Jane story, although Dekker re- verses Deloney's situation of the lost wife re- turning from France to prevent her husband from marrying again. Tliere are in the play three threads of narrative — a romantic love- story, a bourgeois love-story, and a picture of London life and manners supplying the back- ground. *Ihe binding of the three Dekker ac- complishes skilfully enough according to Elizabethan standards. The relations of Lacy and Ralph, first as soldiers enlisted for the French war, second as employees of Eyre, unite the first two. Hammon, appearing first as the suitor of Rose, later as the lover of Jane, furnishes another bond. It is Lacj% as Hans, who is responsible for Eyre's first com- mercial success, which leads to Eyre's elec- tion as sheriff. Tlie Lord Mayor's entertain- ment of the new sheriff and his apprentices at Old Ford brings Lacy and Rose together again, and prepares for Rose's escape to Eyre's protection at the end of act four. The two love-threads are firmly knotted by Firk's tricks for the weddings, and the complica- tions of the last act are thorough and yet nat- ural. In other words, the play holds together well — it is Dekker's most coherent piece of plotting. The weakest link in the chain, the point where credulity is subjected to the severest strain, is the opportune removal by death of so many aldermen as stood between Eyre and the Lord Mayoralty (IV. iv), but it would be captious to inquire too closely into the ways of Providence when it comes to the aid of a hard-pressed dramatist. The romantic plot has been criticised as 120 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD thin. True, of incident it contains not much. Right here, however, is shown Dek- ker's dramatic instinct. The really notable {jart of the play, what every reader remem- bers, is not the story of Lacy and Rose, pretty though it be, but the scenes of London life. Now by itself the story of Simon Eyre's rise to fanie and fortune is not dramatic at all, consisting simply of a fortunate investment, a consequent election as sheriff, a rapid pro- motion to the Lord jNIayoralty. Tlie people of this group are thoroughly well done. Eyre, Margery, Firk, Hodge, have vitality enough to carry three or four plots, but by themselves they furnish only characterization. The wittiest comedy of manners grows tedious if its people do nothing but talk — as may be learned from no less a person than Ben Jonaon. Dekker accordingly gets all the fun he can out of tlie personalities and manner- isms of his trades-people, and uses tlie peo- ple of the love-stories for incident. As far as character-drawing goes, on the other hand, • Lacy and Rose are not much more than sketched in comparison with the robust model- ing of the comic group. They are sulficiently developed to make their actions seem natural and that is all that we require. Then, for the purpose of strengthening plot, of adding complication, Dekker introduces the bour- geois love-story, with its sentimental rather than romantic tinge. Is not this propor- tioned use of incident and character much the same sort of work that Shakespeare does in his best chronicle-histories, Henry IV, let us say ? Taken by itself the story of the Percys' rebellion in 1 Henry IV, although it contains the essential contrast between Prince Hal and Hotspur, is neither rich in incident nor par- ticularly interesting. Shakespeare therefore adds the comic group of Falstaff and his as- sociates, with little story of their own, but firmly characterized, helping to characterize the prince, and svipplying with their bustling corned}' an illusion of action to fill the gaps in the main plot. The whole thing is a mat- ter of proportion, and Dekker 's play stands the test of analysis pretty well. It is for its rollicking presentation of Lon- * don life that we chiefly value The klhocmakers' Holiday. The picture it gives of the com- fortable position of middle-class trades-peo- ple, the pride in honest labor and the possi- bilities of reward, the pleasant relations be- tween master and men, the friendly inter- course between court and city, between blue blood and red — making due allowances for the dramatist's privilege of selection — ■ some- how impresses us as being essentially true. The hearty feeling of national well-lieing is that of the years after the Armada, for, though the action is ostensibly set in the time of Henry V, it is the life of his own day that Dekker reflects. For his intimate acquaintance with city customs and manners Dekker needed no information from Deloney. He was a Londoner born and bred, a citizen of no mean citj', and proud of his heritage. The author of books like The Gull's Hornbook, that inimitable series of directions to the country youth how to conduct himself in tavern, play house, the aisles of Paul's Cathe- dral, The Bellinun of London and Lanthorn and Candlelight, with their exposures of ras- calitj' of every sort, and The ^\'onderful Year, with its memorable pictures of the plague of 1C03, knew only too well the seamy side of city life. But in our play he writes only for the glory of the city and its craftsmen. He is in his happiest mood and the warm human sympathy evident in nearly all his work finds expression in the gusto with which he portrays the shoemaker and his group. Tlie genial humor of the play, its warm friendliness, distinguishes it from the realistic work of Jonson and Middlcton. Eyre, in his mannerisms, reminds us somewhat of Jonson's humor comedy, but assuredly he is no humor type. His manner of speech represents merely the ebullient vitality of the man ; it is not a temperamental crotchet, a genuine warp of character setting him apart from his fellows, like Morose's aversion to noise in The Silent Woman, or Kitely's jealousy in Every 31 an in His Humor. He is, therefore, not one-sided, as Jonson's people so frequently are, but is well-rounded and true to human nature. Nor has Dekker's work the satirical undertone of Jonson's. Jonson, like the classic authors, writes with the moral end of teaching virtue by making folly ridiculous. Sometimes, in deed, as in Volpone, the depiction of folly is so searching that it becomes downright casti- gation of vice, and the plaj' almost loses the feeling of comedy. Dekker, except in his alle- gorical Old Fortiinatus, is nothing of the re- former or conscious moralist. Jonson, on the whole, does not apprpve of his fellow-men; Dekker loves them, and smiles at their foibles with the large tolerance of the true humorist. So sure is Jonson of his moral rectitude, so confident of his superior taste, that his atti- tude toward his audience is usually con- temptuous ; Dekker sets out with no other ^purpose than to entertain, and is frankly pleased in giving pleasure. With Middleton, Dekker has more in common. Though Mid- dleton deals witli the same sort of material as does Jonson, he comes to his work with no moral preoccupation, but purely as the artist. He sets life before us as he sees it, without telling us what to think of it, and is for that reason the greater realist of the two. More of a realist, indeed, than Dekker, who is a good deal of a romanticist in his confidence in the fundamental goodness of human nature. 1» Almost always there is in Dekker a touch of romance and of honest sentiment which the comedies of Middleton, brilliant but hard, lack. Less skilful than Middleton in plot- construction, as a creator of character he is, in comedy at least, Middleton's superior. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 121 What we remember from Middleton is the story, the ingenious intrigue, and the social background; lie created no characters so sym- pathetic or of such endvu-ing vitality as Eyre, Friscobaldo in The Honest Whore, and the heroine in Patient Grissil. Middleton and Dekker part company most widely iu this matter of sympathy with the life about them, and the sympathetic display of the author's personality in his work; where Middleton completely ellaces himself, always in Dekker's plays we feel the man himself, cheery, friendly, lovable. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY, or THE GENTLE CRAFT By THOMAS DEKKER NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS The King. The Eael of Cornwall. Sir Hugh Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. HowLAND Lacy, Askew, J alias Hans CY, ] , \h is Nephews. Sir Roger Oately, Loi-d Mayor of London. Master Hammon, ^ Master Warner. I Citi::ens of London. Master Scott, J Simon Ey re, the Shoemaker. Roger, ^ called Hodge, L^ ^'„ r Tjij YF.XV.Y.S Journeymen. Ralph, J THE PROLOGUE As it was pronounced before the Queen's Majesty As wretches in a storm, expecting day, With trembling hands and eyes cast up to heaven, Make prayers the anchor of their conquered hopes, So we, dear goddess, wonder of all eyes, Your meanest vassals, through mistrust and fear To sink into the bottom of disgrace By our imperfect pastimes, prostrate thus On bended knees, our sails of hope do strike, Dreading the bitter storms of your dislike. Since then, unhappy men, our hap is such That to ourselves ourselves no help can bring. But needs must perish, if your saint-like ears. Locking the temple where all mercy sits, Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues; Oh, grant, bright min'or of true chastity, From those life-breathing stars, your sun- like eyes, LovELL, a Courtier. Dodger, a Servant to the Eael of Lincoln. A Dutch Skipper. A Boy. Rose, Daughter of Sir Roger. Sybil, her Maid. Margery, Wife of Simon Eyre. Jane, Wife of Ralph. Courtiers Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, Himters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Serv- ants. Scene. — London and Old Ford. One gracious smile; for your celestial breath Must send us life, or sentence us to death. ACT I. Scene 1. A street in London. Enter the Lord Ma;/or and the Earl of Lincoln. Line. My lord mayor, you have sundiy times Feasted myself and many courtiers more ; Seldom or never can we be so kind To make requital of your courtesy. But leaving this, I hear my cousin Lacy Is much affected to ^ your daughter Rose. L. Mayor. True, my good lord, and she loves him so well That I mislike her boldness in the chase. Line. Why, my lord mayor, think you it then a shame, To join a Lacy with an Oateley's name? L. Mayor. Too mean is my poor girl for his high birth ; Poor citizens must not with courtiers wed, 1 inclined to. 122 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Who will in silks and gay apparel spend More in one year tlian I am worth, by far: Thei-ef ore your honor need not doubt - my girl. Line. Take heed, ' my lord, advise you what you do ! A verier unthrift lives not in the world. Than is my cousin ; " for I 'II tell you what : 'T is now almost a year since he re- quested To travel countries for experience. I furnisht him with coin, bills of ex- change, Letters of credit, men to wait on him. Solicited my friends in Italy Well to respect him. But, to see the end. Scant had he joumey'd through half Germany, But all his coin was spent, his men cast off. His bills embezzl'd,* and my jolly coz,^ Asham'd to show his bankrupt presence here. Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg, A goodly science for a gentleman Of such descent ! Now judge the rest by this: Suppose your daughter have a thousand pound. He did consume me more in one half year : And make him heir to all the wealth you have One twelvemonth's rioting will waste it all. Then seek, my lord, some honest citizen To wed your daughter to. L. Mayor. I thank your lordship. (Aside.) Well, fox, I understand your subtilty. — As for your nephew, let your lordship's eye But watch his actions, and you need not fear, For I have seen my daughter far enough. And yet your cousin Rowland might do well, Now he hath learn'd an occupation : And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law. Line. Aye, but I have a better trade for him. I thank his grace, he hath appointed him Chief colonel of all those companies Must'red in London and the shires about, To serve his highness in those wars of France. See where he comes ! — Enter Lovell, Lacy, and Askew. Lovell, what news with you? Lovell. My Lord of Lincoln, 't is his high- ness' will, That presently *^ your cousin ship for France With all his powers; he would not for a million. But they should land at Dieppe within four days. Line. Go certify his grace, it shall be done. Exit Lovell. Now, cousin Lacy, in what forwardness Are all your companies'? Lacy. All well prepar'd. The men of Hertfordshire lie at Mile- end, Suffolk and Essex train in Tothill-fields, The Londoners and those of Middle- sex, All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury, With frolic spirits long for their i^arting hour. L. Mayor. They have their imprest,''^ coats, and furniture ; ^ And, if it jdease your cousin Lacy come To the Guildhall, he shall receive his pay; And twenty pounds besides my brethren Will freely give him, to approve our loves We bear unto my lord, your uncle here. Lacy. I thank your honor. Line. Thanks, my good lord mayor. L. Mayor. At the Guildhall we will ex- pect your coming. Exit. Line. To approve your loves to me"? No, subtilty. Nephew, that twenty pound he doth be- stow For joy to rid you from his daughter Rose. But, cousins both, now here are none but friends, I would not have you cast an amorous eye Upon so mean a project as the love Of a gay, wanton, painted citizen. I know, this churl even in the height of scorn 2 suspect. 3 Cousin was used of any relative outside the imme- diate family. 4 wasted. ^' cousin. at once. 7 advance-pay. 8 equipment. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 123 Doth hate the mixture of his blood with thine. I pray thee, do thou so! Remember, coz, AVhat honorable fortunes wait on thee. Increase the king-'s love, which so briu'htly shines. And gilds thy hopes. I have no heir but thee, — And yet not thee, if with a wayward spirit Thou start from the true bias " of my love. Lacy. My lord, I will for honor, not de- sire Of land or livings, or to be your heir, So guide my actions in pursuit of France, As shall add glory to the Lacies' name. Line. Coz, for those words here 's thirty portagues,^° And, nephew Askew, there 's a few for you. Fair Honor, in her loftiest eminence. Stays in France for you, till you fetch her thence. Then, nephews, clap swift wings on your designs. Begone, begone, make haste to the Guild- hall; There presently I '11 meet you. Do not stay : Where honor beckons ^^ shame attends delay. Exit. Askew. How gladly would your uncle have you gone ! Lacy. True, coz, but policies. I have some serious days. Which nothing- but my presence can dis- patch. You, therefore, cousin, with the com- panies, Shall haste to Dover; there I'll meet with you : Or, if I stay past my prefixed time. Away for France ; we '11 meet in Nor- mandy. The twenty pounds my lord mayor gives to me You shall receive, and these ten porta- gues, Part of mine uncle's thirty. Gentle coz. Have care to our great charge; I know, your wisdom Hath tried itself in higher consequence. I 'II o'erreach his business for three Askew. Coz, all myself am yours : yet have this care, To lodge in London with all secrecy; Our uncle Lincoln hath, besides his own, Many a jealous eye, that in your face Stares only to watch means for your dis- grace. Lacy. Stay, cousin, who be these*? Enter Simon Eyre, Margery, his wife, Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a piece [o/ leather]. Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimp'ring, this puling, these blubb'ring- tears, and these wet eyes ! I '11 get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee, sweet Jane ; go to ! LLodge. Master, here be the captains. Eyre. Peace, Hodge; husht, ye knave, husht ! Firk. Here be the cavaliers and the col- onels, master. Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pishery-pashery, away ! I am a man of the best presence ; I '11 speak to them, an ^- they were Popes. — Gentlemen, captains, colonels, com- manders ! Brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience. I am Simon Eyi'e, the mad shoemaker of Tower Street ; this wrench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I can tell you ; here 's Hodge, my man and my foreman ; here 's Fii'k, my fine firk- ing- ^^ journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane. All we come to be suitors for this honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and as I am a true shoemaker and a gentle- man of the gentle craft, buy spurs your- self, and I '11 find ye boots these seven years. Marg. Seven years, husband? Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know what I do. Peace ! Firk. Truly, master cormorant,^* you shall do God good service to let Ralph and his wife stay together. She 's a young- new-marriecl woman; if you take her husband away from her a-night, you undo her ; she may beg in the daytime ; for he 's as good a workman at a pnck and an awl as any is in our trade. Jane. let him stay, else I shall be un- done ! Firk. Aye, truly, she shall be laid at one side like a pair of old shoes else, and be occupied for no use. 9 inclination. 10 a gold coin of Portugal, worth about four pounds. 11 Qq. become. 12 if. 13 frisky. 14 quibble on col- onel. 124 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Lacy. Truly, my friends, it lies not in my power : The Londoners are press'd,^^ paid, and set forth By the lord maj'or; I cannot change a man. Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a corporal as a colonel, if you cannot dis- charge one good fellow; and I tell you true, I think you do more than you can answer, to press a man within a year and a day of his marriage. Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gra- mercy, my tine foreman. Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done for such as you, to stand so stiffly against a poor young wife, considering her ease : she is new-married, but let that pass. I pray, deal not roughly with her : her hus- band is a young man, and but newly ent'red ; but let that pass. Eyre. Away with your pisheiy-pashery, your pols and your edipols ! ^'^ Peace, midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket ! Let your head ^'^ speak. Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master. Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon ! Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? Captains, you will not release him? Well, let him go ; he 's a proper shot ; let him vanish ! Peace, Jane, dry up thy tears, they '11 make his powder dankish.^^ Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant ^^ scoundrels. Prince Ar- thur's Round-table — by the lord of Lud- gate ! — ne'er fed such a tall,-° such a dap- per swordsman ; by the life of Pharaoh, a brave, resolute swordman ! Peace, Jane ! I say no more, mad knaves. Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master raves in commendation of Ralph! Hodge. Ralph, th' art a gull -^ by this hand, an thou goest not. Askew. I am glad, good Master Eyre, it is my hap To meet so resolute a soldier. Trust me, for your report and love to him, A common slight regard shall not respect him. Lacy. Is thy name Ralph? Ralph. Lacy. Yes, sir. Give me thine hand ; 15 impressed into service. 16 Classical oaths by Pollux; applied by Eyre to Mar- gery's repetitions. 17 i.e. master. 18 damp. 19 supposed to be a god of the Sara- cens. 20 brave. Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentle- man. Woman, be patient; God, no doubt, will send Thy husband safe again ; but he must go, His countiy's quarrel says it sliall be so. Hodge. Th' art a gull, by my stirrup, if thou dost not go. I will not have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels ; prick thine enemies, Ralph. Enter Dodger. Dodger. My lord, your uncle on the Tower-hill Stays with the lord-mayor and the alder- men. And doth request you, with all speed yon may, To hasten thither. Askew. Cousin, let 's go. Lacy. Dodger, run you before, tell them we come. — Exit Dodger. This Dodger is mine uncle's parasite, The arrant'st varlet that e'er breath'd on earth ; He sets more discord in a noble house By one day's broaching of his pickthank tales,-- Than can be salv'd again in twenty years, And he, I fear, shall go with us to France, To pry into our actions. Askew. Therefore, coz, It shall behove you to be circumspect. Lacy. Fear not, good cousin. — Ralph, hie to your colors. Exeunt Lacy and Askew. Ralph. I must, because there 's no rem- edy ; But, gentle master and my loving dame, As you have always been a friend to me, So in mine absence think upon my wife. Jane. Alas, my Ralph. Marg. She cannot speak for weeping. Eyre. Peace, you crack'd -^ groats, you nmstard tokens,-* disquiet not the brave soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph ! Jatie. Aye, aye, you bid him go; what shall I do When he is gone? Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fel- low Hodge; be not idle. Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This lated ; trans- ferred, a term of contempt. (N. E. D.) 21 fool. 22 tales told to curry favor. 23 spoiled. 24 Tokens given to purchasers of miistard, entitling them to a small repayment when a certain number had been accumu- THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 125 fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work ; work, you bombast cotton-candle-quean ; -•'' work for your living', with a pox to you. — Hold thee, Ralph, here 's five six- pences for thee; fight for the honor of the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoe- makers, the courageous cordwainers, the flower of St. Martin's, the mad knaves of Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street and Whitechapel ; crack me the crowns of the French knaves ; a pox on them, crack them; fight, by the lord of Lud- gate ; fight, my fine boy ! Firk. Here, Ralph, here 's three two- pences; two carry into France, the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sor- row is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa mon cues.-^ Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; but here 's a shilling for thee. God send -'' thee to cram thy slops -^ Avith French crowns, and thy enemies' bellies with bullets. Ralph. I thaiik you, master, and I thank you all. Now, gentle wife, my loving, lovely Jane, Rich men, at parting, give their wives rich gifts, Jewels and rings to grace their lily hands. Thou know'st our trade makes rings for women's heels : Here take this pair of shoes, cut out by Hodge, Stitch'd by my fellow Firk, seam'd by myself. Made up and joink'd -^ with letters for thy name. Wear them, my dear Jane, for thy hus- band's sake. And every morning when thou pull'st them on, Remember me, and pray for my re- turn. Make much of them ; for I have made them so That I can know them from a thousand mo. Brum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, and Soldiers. They pass over the stage; Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and the rest cry ^'Farewell," etc., and so ex- eunt. Rose ACT n. Scene 1. A garden at Old Ford.^° Enter Rose, alone, making a garland. down upon this Here sit thou flow'ry bank And make a garland for thy Lacy's head. These pinks, these roses, and these vio- lets, These blushing gilliflowers, these mari- golds. The fair embroidery of his coronet, Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks, As the sweet count'nance of my Lacy doth. my most unkind father ! O my stars. Why lower'd you so at my nativity, To make me love, yet live robb'd of my love? Here as a thief am I imprisoned For my dear Lacy's sake within those walls, Which by my father's cost were builded up For better purposes. Here must I languish For him that doth as much lament, I know, Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe. Enter Sybil. Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me, against ^^ I shall be Lady of the Harvest. Rose. Sybil, what news at London? Sybil. None but good ; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors' Com- mons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations. Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love? Sybil. yes, out of cry,^- by my troth. I scant knew him; here 'a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters, — 0, mon- strous ! like one of our yellow silk cur- tains at home here in Old Ford House here, in Master Bellymount's chamber. 1 stood at our door in Cornhill, look'd 25 delicate, pamper- ed creature. 26 uncomplimentary term for the French. 27 grant. 28 loose breeches. 29 pricked. 30 The lord-mayor's then a suburb, country house now a part of was in Old Ford, London, 31 in anticipation of the time when. 32 beyond measure. 126 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word ; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion ! "^ He pass'd by me as proud — Marry t'oh ! are you grown humorous,^* thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came. Rose. Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy wrong ! My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb. No dove was ever half so mild as he. Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stampt crabs. ^^ He lookt upon me as sour as verjuice.^*' Go thy ways, thought I, thou may'st be much in my gaskins,^^ but nothing in my nether-stocks.^* This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you ; he thinks scorn to do as he 's done to ; but if I were as you, I 'd cry, "Go by, Jeronimo, go by !" ^° I 'd set mine old debts against my new driblets. And the hare's foot against the goose giblets,*" For if e\'er I sigh, when sleep I should take. Pray God I iiiay lose my maidenhead when I wake. Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go to France f Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a jDroper *^ man; but lie is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up,*- young mistress. Rose. Get thee to London, and learn per- fectly Whether my Lacy go to France, or no. Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains My cambric apron and my Romish gloves. My purple stockings and a stomacher. Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake? Sybil. Will I, quoth'a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes, I '11 go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I'll sweat in purple, mistress, for you ; I '11 take anything that comes, a' God's name. rich ! a cam- bric apron! Faith, then have at "up tails all." *^ I '11 go jiggy-joggy to Lon- don, and be here in a trice, young mis- tress. Exit. 1 forsook my charge in king's displeasure, and in mine uncle Lincoln's Rose. Do so, good Sybil. Meantime wretched I Will sit and sigh for his lost company. Exit. Scene 2. A street in London. Enter Lacy, like a Dutch Shoemaker. Lacy. How many shapes have gods and kings devis'd, Thereby to compass their desired loves! It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then, To clothe his cunning with the gentle craft, That, thus disguis'd, I may unknown pos- sess The only happy presence of my Rose. For her have France, Ineurr'd the stirr'd up Rough hatred breast. love, hoAv powerful art thou, that canst change High birth to baseness, and a noble mind To the mean semblance of a shoemaker ! But thus it must be ; for her cruel father. Hating the single union of our souls. Has secretly convey'd my Rose from London, To bar me of her presence; but I trust. Fortune and this disguise will further me Once more to view her beauty, gain her sight. Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoe- maker Mean I a while to work ; I know the trade, 1 learnt it when I was in Wittenberg. Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not dismay'd, Thou canst not want : do Fortune what she can, The gentle craft is living for a man. Exit. Scene 3. Before Eyre's house. Enter Eyre, making himself ready.^* Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, 33 with a vengeance. 34 capricious. 35 crushed crab ap- ples. 36 juice of green fruits. whole phrase cf. 3 7 loose breeches. 38 stockings ; for the Uother Bombie, p. 65, n. 19. 39 A line from Kyd's Spanish Tragedy which passed into common use. 40 i.e. I 'd get a new lover. 41 handsome. 42 go and be hanged ! 43 The name of a popular rollicking tune. 44 dressing. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 127 these drabs, these scoundrels'? They wallow in the fat brewis *^ of my bounty, and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef *" queans ! What, Nan ! what, Madge Mumble-crust ! Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly- whores, and sweep me these kennels ^'^ that the noisome stench offend not the noses of my neighbors. What, Firk, I say ! What, Hodge ! Open my shop windows! What, Firk, I say! Enter Firk. Firk. master, is 't you that speak ban- dog ^^ and Bedlam^® this morning"? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early. Have you drunk this morning that your throat is so clear? Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk ; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work ! Wash thy face, and thou 't be more blest. Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse- wife,^" if you '11 have my face cleaner. Enter Hodge. Eyre. Away, sloven ! avaunt, scoundrel ! — Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman. Hodge. master, good-morrow ; y' are an early stirrer. Here 's a fair morning. — Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here 's a brave day to- wards. ^^ Eyre. Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, haste to work. Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair weather ; let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and ploughboys and those that work in the fields pray for brave days. We work in a dry shop ; what care I if it rain ? Enter Margery. Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise"? Trip and go, call up the drabs, your maids. Marg. See to rise? I hope 'tis time enough, 't is early enough for any woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower Street are up so soon. Gods me, 't is not noon, — here 's a yawl- ing ! ^^ Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace ! Where 's Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up ; if my men want shoe- thread, I '11 swinge her in a stirrup. Firk. Yet that 's but a dry beating ; here 's still a sign of drought. Enter Lacy, disguised, singing. Lacy. Der was een bore van Gelderland, Frolick sie byen; He was als dronck he cold nyet stand, Upsolce sie byen. Tap eens de canneken, Drincke, scJione mannekin.^^ Firk. Master, for my life, yonder 's a brother of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh's bones,'^* I '11 forfeit my bones ; he 's some uplandish °^ work- man : hire him, good master, that I may learn some gibble-gabble ; 't will make us work the faster. Eyre. Peace, Firk ! A hard world ! Let him pass, let him vanish; we have jour- neymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk! Marg. Nay, nay, y' are best follow your man's counsel ; you shall see what will come on 't. We have not men enow, but we must entertain every butter-box ; ^^ but let that pass. Hodge. Dame, 'fore God, if my master follow your counsel, he '11 consume little beef. He shall be glad of men an he can catch them. Firk. Aye, that he shall. Hodge. 'Fore God, a proper man, and I warrant, a fine workman. Master, fare- well ; dame, adieu ; if such a man as he cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. {Offers to go.) Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge. Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman ; if Roger remove, Firk fol- lows. If Saint Hugh's bones shall not be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, master; good-bye, dame. Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk 4r) beef broth. 46 salted beef. 47 gutters. 48 watch dog. 49 madman ; is it you that is growl- ing like a mad- man here? 50 a woman Miio sold pickled pigs' feet and ears. 51 in prospect. 52 bawling. 53 Hans speaks a pseudo- Dutch. There was a boor from Gelder- land. JoUy the II he; He irat; go drunk he eould not stand, Drunken ( ?) they he: Clink then the can- nikin, Drink, pretty wan- nikin ! (Neilson.) 54 St. Hugh was the patron saint of shoemakers ; his bones were said to have been made into shoemaker's tools. 55 from the country, 56 Dutchman. 128 THE ELIZABETHAN PEEIOD foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pud- ding-broth! By the lord of Ludgate, I love my men as my life. Peace, you gallimaufry ! ^^ Hodge, if he want work, I '11 hire him. One of you to him ; stay, — he comes to us. Lacy. Goeden dach, mcester, ende, u, vro, Firk. Nails,^^ if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, friend Oake, are you of the g'entle craft? Lacy. Yaw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.^^ Firk. Den skomaker, quoth'a! And hark you, skomaker, have you all your tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stop- per, a good dresser, your four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring' knife, your hand-and-thumb- Icathers, and good St. Hugh's bones to smooth up your work? Lacy. Yaw, yaw; he niet vorveard. Ik liab all de dingen voour mack skooes groot and cleanc.^'^ Firk. Ha, ha ! Good master, hire him ; he '11 make me laugh so that I shall work more in mirth than I can in earnest. Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill in the mystery *'- of cordwainers f Lacy. Ik tveet niet wat yow seg; ich ver- staw you niet.'^^ Firk. Why, thus, man: {Imitating hy ges- ture a shoeynaker at work.) Ich verste u niet, quoth 'a. Lacy. Yaw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel doen.*^'^ Firk. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with cheese-curds. Oh, he '11 give a villanous pull at a can of double-beer; but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drink first, because we are the eldest journey- men. Eyre. What is thy name? Lacy. Hans — Hans Meulter. Eyre. Give me thy hand; th' art welcome. — Hodge, entertain him ; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your maids, your trullibubs,®^ make ready my fine men's breakfasts. To him, Hodge ! Hodge. Hans, th' art welcome ; use thy- self friendly, for we are good fellows; if not, thou shall be fought with, wert thou bigger than a giant. Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou Gargantua.'^*' My master keeps no cow- ards, I tell thee. — Ho, boy, bring him an heel-block, here's a new journeyman. Enter Boy. Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een halve dossen cans hetaelen; here, hoy, nempt dis skilling, tap sens freelicke.'^'' Exit Boy. Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away ! Firk, scour thy throat; thou shalt wash it with Castilian liquor. Enter Boy. Come, my last of the fives,^^ give me a can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and work like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre, the shoemaker. — Here, Hans, and th' art, welcome. Firk. Lo, dame, you woi;ld have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This beer came hopping in well. Marg. Simon, it is 'almost seven. Eyre. Is 't so. Dame Clapper-dudgeon ? *^^ Is 't seven a clock, and my men 's break- fast not ready? Trip and go, you sous'd conger, ''° away ! Come, you mad hyper- boreans ; follow me, Hodge ; follow me, Hans, come after, my fine Firk; to work a while, and then to breakfast. Exit. Firk. Soft ! Yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master have no more wit but to call you afore me, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder jour- neyman. Exeunt. Scene 4. A field near Old Ford. Halloaing within. Enter Warner and Hammon, like Hunters. Ham. Cousin, beat every brake, the game's not far; This way with winged feet he fled from death. 57 a dish of hashed meats. 58 Good-day, master, and you, good- wife, too. 59 God's nails ; an oath. shoemaker. 61 Tes, yes ; be not afraid. I have everything to make boots big and little. 62 trade. 60 Tes, yes, I am a 63 / don't knoio what you say ; I don't understand you. 64 Yes, yes; I can do that well. 6."> slatterns. 66 A gluttonous giant in Rabelais' satire of that name. 67 O, / understand you; I must pay for half-a-dozen cans; here, hoy, take this shilling, tap once freely. 68 my number five last, a small size. 69 Margery's tongue makes as much noise as a beg- gar's clap-dish. 70 conger-eel. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 129 Whilst the pursuing- hounds, scenting his steps, Find out his highway to destruction. Besides, the miller's boy told me even now. He saw him take soilj^ and he halloaed him. Affirming him to have been so embost '''- That long he could not hold. Warn. If it be so, 'T is best we trace these meadows by Old Ford. A noise of Hunters witliin. Enter a Boy. Ham. How now, boy? Where's the deer? Speak, saw'st thou him? Boy. yea ; I saw him leap through a hedge, and then over a ditch, then at my lord mayor's pale, over he skipt me, and in he went me, and "holla" the hunters cried, and "there, boy ; there, boy !" But there he is, a' mine honesty. Ham. Boy, Godamercy. Cousin, let 's away; I hope we shall find better sport to-day. Exeunt. Scene 5. The garden at Old Ford. Sounds of hunting witliin. Enter Rose and Sybil. Rose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a for- ester ? Sybil. Upon some, no. Forester? Go by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came running- into the barn through the or- chard and over tlie pale; I wot well, I lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him. But whip, says Goodman Pinclose, up with his flail, and our Nick with a prong, and down he fell, and they upon him, and I upon them. By my troth, we had such sport; and in the end we ended him ; his throat we cut, flay'd him, unhorn'd him, and my lord mayor shall eat of him anon, when he comes, {Horns sound within.) Rose. Hark, hark, the hunters come; y' are best take heed. They '11 have a saying to you for this deed. Enter Hammon, Warner, Huntsmen, and Boy. Ham. God save you, fair ladies. 71 cover. 72 exhausted. 73 Sybil. Ladies ! O gross ! "'^ Warn. Came not a buck this way? Rose. No, but two does. Ham. And which way went they? Faith, we '11 hunt at those. Sybil. At those? Upon some, no. WTien, can you tell? Warn. Upon some, aye. Sybil. Good Lord! Warn. Wounds ! ^* Then farewell ! Ham. Boy, which way went he? Boy. This way, sir, he ran. Ham. This way he ran indeed, fair Mis- tress Rose; Our game was lately in your orchard seen. Warn. Can you advise, which way he took his flight? Sybil. Follow your nose; his horns will guide you right. Warn. T' art a mad wench. Sybil. 0, rich ! Rose. Trust me, not I. It is not like that the wild forest-deer Would come so near to places of resort; You are deceiv'd, he fled some other way. Warn. Which way, my sugar-candy, can you show? Sybil. Come up, good honeysops, upon some, no. Rose. Why do you stay, and not pursue your game? Sybil. I '11 hold my life, their hunting- nags be lame. Ham. A deer more dear is found within this place. Rose. But not the deer, sir, which you had in chase. Ham. I chas'd the deer, but this dear chaseth me. Rose. The strangest hunting- that ever I see. But where 's your park ? {She offers to go away.) Ham. 'T is here : stay ! Rose. Impale me, and then I will not stray. Warn. They wrangle, wench ; we are more kind than they. Sybil. What kind of hart is that dear heart you seek? Warn. A hart, dear heart. Sybil. Who ever saw the like? Rose. To lose your heart, is 't possible you can Ham. My heart is lost. Rose. Alack, good gentleman! stupid. 74 God's wounds ; an oath. 130 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Ham. This poor lost heart would I wish you might find. Hose. You, by such luck, might prove your hart a hind. Ham. Why, Luck had horns, so have I heard some say. Bose. Now, God, an 't be his will, send , Luck into your way. Enter the Lord Mayor and Servants. L. Mayor. What, Master Hammon'? Welcome to Old Ford! Sybil. Gods pittikins," ^ hands off, sir ! Here 's my lord. L. Mayor. I hear you had ill-luck, and lost your game. Ham. 'T is true, my lord. L. Mayor. I am sorry for the same. What gentleman is this"? Ham. My brother-in-law. L. Mayor. Y' are welcome both ; sith Fortune offers you Into my hands, you shall not part from hence, Until you have refresht your wearied limbs. Go, Sybil, cover the board ! You shall be guest To no good cheer, but even a hunter's feast. Ham. I thank your lordship. — Cousin, on my life. For our lost venison I shall find a wife. Exeunt all hut Mayor. L. Mayor. In, gentlemen ; I '11 not be ah- sent long. — This Hanunon is a proper gentleman, A citizen by birth, fairly allied; How fit an husband were he for my girl ! Well, I will in, and do the best I can. To match my f!re. my dear lo a hood trimmed 17 i.e. for the twen- brofhers. here with fur or ty portagues comes my master. sheep's wool. lent by Hans. 138 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pound, I had an heart but half so light as yours. Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let 's be merry, whiles we are young; old age, sack and sugar will steal upon us, ere we be aware. The First Three Men's Song^^ O the month of May, the merry month of May, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green ! 0, and then did I unto my true love say: "Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's queen ! "Now the nightingale, tlie pretty nightin- gale, The sweetest singer in all the forest's choir. Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale; Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a briar. "But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo ; See where she sitteth : come away, my joy ; Come away, I prithee : I do not like the cuckoo Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy." O the month of Maj', the merry month of May, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green! And then did I unto my true love say: "Sweet Peg, thou shalt bo my summer's queen ! " L, Mayor. It 's well done. Mistress Eyre, pray, give good counsel To my daughter. Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothing that 's bad. L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i' faith, Mistress Eyre, I would bestow upon that peevish girl A thousand marks more than I mean to give her Upon condition she'd be ml'd by me. The ape still crosseth me. There came of late A proper gentleman of fair revenues. Whom gladly I would call son-in-law^ : But my fine cockney would have none of him. 18 A catch for three voices. The quartos do not indicate the places for the songs. You '11 prove a coxcomb for it, ere you die: A courtier, or no man, must please your eye. Eyre. Be rul'd, sweet Rose : th' art ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery : those silken fellows are but painted im- ages, outsides, outsides, Rose ; their in- ner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade : plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should man-y out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack. What, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world. {A noise withiii of a tahor and a pipe.) L. Blayor. What noise is this? Eyre. my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honor are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily ! Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing, the Lord Mayor speaks. L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these shoemakers 1 Eyre. All cordwainei'S, my good lord mayor. Rose. {Aside.) How like ni}^ Lacy looks yond shoemaker ! Hans. (Aside.) that I durst but speak unto my love ! L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to make these drink. You are all wel- come. All. We thank your lordship. {Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to Hans.) Rose. For his sake whose fair shape thou represent'st, Good friend, I drink to thee. Hans. Ic hcdancke, good frister.^^ Marg. I see, Mistress Rose, you do not want judgment ; you have drunk to the properest man I keep. Firk. Here be some have done their parts to be as proper as he. L. Mayor. Well, urgent business calls me back to London. Good fellows, first go in and taste our cheer ; 19 / thank you, good maid! THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 139 And to make merry as you homeward go, Spend these two angels in beer at Strat- ford-Bow. Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim Eyre adds another; then cheerily, Firk; tickle it, Hans, and all for the honor of shoemakers. All go dancing out. L. Mayor. Come, Master Eyre, let 's have your comj^any. Exeunt. Rose. Sybil, what shall I do'? Sybil. Why, what's the matter? Rose. That Hans the shoemaker is my love Lacy, Disguis'd in that attire to find me out. How should I find the means to speak with him? Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare venture my maidenhead to nothing-, and that 's great odds, that Hans the Dutch- man, when we come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but in spite of all your father's policies steal you away and marry you. Will not this please you? Rose. Do this, and ever be assured of my love. Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father to London, lest your absence cause him to suspect something: To-morrow, if my counsel be obey'd, I '11 bind you prentice to the gentle trade. Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene 1. A street in London. Jane in a Seamster's shop, working; en- ter Master Hammon, muffled: he stands aloof. Ham. Yonder 's the shop, and there my fair love sits. She 's fair and lovely, but she is not mine. 0, would she were ! Thrice have I courted her, Thrice hath my hand been moist'ned with her hand, Whilst my poor famisht eyes do feed on that Which made them famish. I am unfor- tunate : I still love one, yet nobody loves me. I muse in other men what women see That I so want! Fine Mistress Rose was coy. And this too curious ! '° Oh, no, she is chaste, And for she thinks me wanton, she de- nies To cheer my cold heart with her sunny eyes. How prettily she works ! Oh pretty hand ! Oh happy work ! It doth me good to stand LTnseen to see her. Thus I oft have stood In frosty evenings, a light burning by her. Enduring biting cold, only to eye her. One only look hath seem'd as rich to me As a king's crown ; such is love's lunacy. Muffled I '11 pass along, and by that tiy A\^iether she know me. Jane. Sir, what is 't you buy? What is 't you lack, sir, calico, or lawn. Fine cambric shirts, or bands, what will you buy? Ham. (Aside.) That which thou wilt not sell. Faith, yet I'll try:— How do you sell this handkerchief? Jane. Good cheap. Ham. And how these ruffs? Jane. Cheap too. Ham. And how this band? Jane. Cheap too. Ham. All cheap; how sell you then this hand? Jane. My hands are not to be sold. Ham. To be given then ! Nay, faith, I come to buy. Jane. But none knows when. Ham. Good sweet, leave work a little while ; let 's play. Jane. I cannot live by keeping holiday. Ham. I '11 pay you for the time which shall be lost. Jane. With me you shall not be at so much cost. Ham. Look, how you wound this cloth, so you wound me. Jane. It may be so. Ham. 'T is so. Jane. What remedy? Ham. Nay, faith, you are too coy. Jane. Let go my hand. Ham. I will do any task at your com- mand, I would let go this beauty, were I not In mind to disobey you by a power 20 capricious. 140 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD That controls kings : I love you ! Jane. So, now part. Ham. "With hands I may, but never with my heart. In faith, I love you. Jane. I believe you do. Ham. Shall a tnie love in me bi'eed hate in you? Jane. I hate you not. Ham. Then you must love. Jane. I do- What are you better now? I love not you. Ham. All this, I hope, is but a woman's fray, That means, "Come to me," when she cries, "Away !" In earnest, mistress, I do not jest, A true chaste love hath ent'red in my breast. I love you dearly, as I love my life, I love you as a husband loves a wife ; That, and no other love, my love requires. Thy wealth, I know, is little; my desires Thirst not for gold. Sweet, beauteous Jane, what 's mine Shall, if thou make myself thine, all be thine. Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life or deatii? Mercy or cruelty lies in thy breath. Jane. Good sir, I do believe you love me well; For 't is a silly conquest, silly pride For one like you — I mean a gentleman — To boast that by his love-tricks he hath brought Such and such women to his amorous lure ; I think you do not so, yet many do, And make it even a very trade to woo, I could be coy, as many women be, Feed you with sunshine smiles and wan- ton looks, But I detest witchcraft ; say that I Do constantly believe you constant have Ham. Why dost thou not believe me? Jane. I believe you ; But yet, good sir, because I will not grieve you With hopes to taste fruit which will never fall, In simple truth this is the sum of all : My husband lives, at least, I hope he lives. Prest was he to these bitter wars in France ; Bitter they are to me by wanting him. I have but one heart, and that heart 's his due. How can I then bestow the same on you? Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne'er so poor. And rather be his wife than a king's whore. Ham. Chaste and dear woman, I will not abuse thee. Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me. Thy husband, prest for France, what was his name? Jane. Ralph Damport. Ham. Damjoort? — Here's a letter sent From France to me, from a dear friend of mine, A gentleman of place ; here he doth write Their names that have been slain in every fight. Jane. I hope death's scroll contains not my love's name. Ham. Cannot you read? Jane. I can. Ham. Peruse the same. To my remembrance such a name I read Amongst the rest. See here. Jane. Ay me, he 's dead ! He 's dead ! If this be true, my dear heart 's slain ! Ham. Have patience, dear love. Jane. Hence, hence! Ham. Nay, sweet Jane, Make not poor sorrow proud with these rich tears. I mourn thy husband's death, because thou mourn'st. Jane. That bill is f org'd ; 't is sign'd by forgery. Ham. I '11 bring thee letters sent besides to many. Carrying the like report : Jane, 't is too true. Come, weep not : mourning, though it rise from love. Helps not the mourned, yet hurts them that mourn. Jane. For God's sake, leave me. Ham. Whither dost thou turn? Forget the dead, love them that are alive ; His love is faded, try how mine will thrive. Jane. 'T is now no time for me to think on love. Ham. 'T is now best time for you to think on love. Because your love lives not. Jane. Though he be dead. My love to him shall not be buried ; THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 141 For God's sake, leave me to myself alone. Ham. 'T would kill my soul, to leave thee drown'd in moan. Answer me to ray suit, and I am gone ; Say to me yea or no. Jane. No. Ham. Then farewell ! One farewell will not serve, I come again ; Come, diy these wet cheeks; tell me, faith, sweet Jane, Yea or no, once more. Jane. Once more I say no ; Once more be gone, I pray ; else will I go. Ham. Nay, then I will grow rude, by this w4iite hand. Until you change that cold "no"; here I'll stand Till by your hard heart Jane. Nay, for God's love, peace! My sorrows by your presence more in- crease. Not that you thus are present, but all grief Desires to be alone ; therefore in brief Thus much I say, and saying bid adieu : If ever I wed man. it shall be you. Ham. blessed voice ! Dear Jane, I '11 urge no more, Thy breath hath made me rich. Jane. Death makes me poor. Exeunt. Scene 2. London: a street before Hodge's shop. Hodge, at his shop-hoard, Ralph, Firk, Hans, and a Boy at work. All. Hey, down a down, down deny. Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your work to-day, we loit'red yesterday; to it pell-mell, that we may live to be lord mayors, or aldermen at least. Firk, Hey, down a down, derry. Hodge. Well said, i' faith ! How say'st thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it? Hans. Yaw, mester. Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe squeaks this morning for want of liquor- ing. Hey, down a down, derry ! Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un jolly youngster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jef- freys boots. ~'^ 21 Forward. Firk, ay. master, I pray Master thou art a jolly you cut me a pair boots. youngster. Hark, of vamps for Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans. Firk. Master ! Hodge. How now, boy? Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,-- or else my work will not pass current; hey, down a down ! Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mis- tress Priscilla's shoes done? Firk. Your cousin? No, master; one of your aunts, hang her; let them alone. Ralph. 1 am in hand with them; she gave charge that none but I should do them for her. Firk. Thou do for her? Then 'twill be' a lame doing, and that she loves not. Ralph, thou might'st have sent her to me, in faith, I would have yarked and firkecl your Priscilla. Hey, down a down,, deny. This gear will not hold. Hodge. How say'st thou, Firk, were we not meriy at Old Ford? Firk. How, merry! Why, our buttocks- went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well,, Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought all meal of that nature, I would eat nothing but bagpuddings. Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow Hans had the best. Firk. 'T is true, because Mistress Rose drank to him. Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or very sick. Firk. I care not, I '11 be none. Ralph. No, nor I; but then my Master Eyre will come quickly to be lord mayor. Enter Sybil. Firk. Wlioop, yonder comes Sybil. Hodge. Sybil, welcome, i' faith ; and how dost thou, mad wench? Firk. Sib-whore, welcome to London. Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord;. Hodge, what a delicious shop you have' got ! You tickle it, i' faith. Ralph. Godamercy, Sybil, for our good! cheer at Old Ford. Sybil. That you shall have, Ralph. Firk. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling cheer, Sybil ; and how the plague dost thou and Mistress Rose and my lord mayor? I put the women in first. Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God's me, I forget myself, where 's Hans the Flem- ing? Jeffrey's 2: vamps : used here for the sake of the pun in pass current. 142 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Firk. Hark, butter-box, now you must yelp out some spreken. Hans. Vat begaie youf Vat vod you, Frister? -^ Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young- mistress, to pull on her shoes you made last. Hans. Vare hen your edle fro, vare hen your mistrisf -'* Sybil. Marry, here at our London house in Cornhill. Firk. Will nobody serve her turn but Hans? Sybil. No, sir. Come, Hans, I stand upon needles. Hodge. Why then, Sybil, take heed of pricking. Sybil. For that let me alone. I have a trick in my budget. Come, Hans. Hans. Yaw, yaw, ic sail meete yo gane.--' Exeunt Hans and Sybil. Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. Come, who lacks woi'k? Firk. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; 't is munehing-time, and past. Hodge. Is 't so ? AVhy, then leave work, Ralph. To breakfast ! Boy. look to the tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. Exeunt. Scene 3. The same. Enter a Serving-man. Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last in Tower Street. Mass, yonder 's the house. What, haw! Who's w'ithin? Enter Ralph. Ralph. Who calls there? What want you, sir? Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes made for a gentlewoman against to-mor- row morning'. What, can you do them? Ralph. Yes, sir, you shall have them. But what length 's her foot ? Serv. Why, you must make them in all parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morn- ing. Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be made? By this? Are you sure, sir, by this? Serv. How, by this? Am I sure, by this? Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must have a pair of shoes, dost thou mark me? A pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this very shoe, this same shoe, against to- morrow morning by four o'clock. Dost understand me? Canst thou do't? Ralph. Yes, sir, yes — I — I — I can do 't. By this shoe, you say? I should know this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do 't. Four o'clock, well. Whither shall I bring them? Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in Watling- Street; inquire for one Master Hammon, a gentleman, my master. Ralph. Yea, sir; by this shoe, you say? Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the Golden Ball ; he 's the bridegroom, and those shoes are for his bride. Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe. Well, well, Master Hammon at the Golden Shoe — I would say, the Golden Ball ; very well, veiy well. But I pray you, sir, where must Master Hammon be married? Serv. At Saint Faith's Church, under Paul's. But what's that to thee? Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so farewell. Exit. Ralph. By this shoe, said he. How am I amaz'd At this strange accident ! Upon my life, This was the very shoe I gave my wife, When I was prest for France; since when, alas ! I never could hear of her. It is the same. And Hammon's bride no other but my Jane. Enter Firk. Firk. 'Snails,-'^ Ralph, thou hast lost thy part of three pots, a countryman of mine gave me to breakfast. Ralph. I care not; I have found a better thing. Firk. A thing? Away! Is it a man's thing, or a woman's thing? Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe? Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that know me ! I have no acquaintance with it, 't is a mere stranger to me. Ralph. Why, then I do ; this shoe, I durst be sworn, Once covered the instep of my Jane. This is her size, her breadth, thus trod my love; 23 What do you want, what would you, girl? 24 Where is your noble lady, where is your mistress ? 25 Tes, yes, I shall go with you. 26 God's nails. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 143 These true-love knots I ijriekt. I hold my life, By this old shoe I shall find out my wife. Firk. Ha, ha ! Old shoe, that wert new ! How a murrain came this ague-fit of foolishness upon thee? Balph. Thus, Firk : even now here came a serving--man ; By this shoe would he have a new pair made Against to-morrow morning for his mis- tress, That 's to be married to a gentleman. And why may not this be my sweet Jane? Firk. And why may'st not thou be my sweet ass? Ha, ha! Ealph. Well, laugh and sjDare not ! But the truth is this : Against to-morrow morning I '11 provide A lusty crew of honest shoemakers, To watch the going of the bride to church. If she prove Jane, I '11 take her in de- sj^ite From Hammon and the devil, were he by. If it be not my Jane, what remedy? Hereof I am sure, I shall live till I die. Although I never with a woman lie. Exit. Firk. Thou lie Avith a woman to build nothing but Cripplegates ! Well, God sends fools fortune, and it may be, he may light upon his matrimony by such a device; for wedding and hanging goes by destiny. Exit. Scene 4. London: a room in the Lord Mayor's house. Enter Lacy as Hans and Bose, arm in arm. Hans. How happy am I by embracing thee ! Oh, I did fear such cross mishaps did reigii That I should never see my Rose again. Rose. Sweet Lacy, since fair opportunity Offers herself to further our escape. Let not too over-fond esteem of me Hinder that happy hour. Invent the means. And Rose will follow thee through all the world. Hans. Oh, how I surfeit with excess of joy, 27 Indeed, mistress, it shall fit well, or 2S Tes, 't is a good shoe, you shall not pay. that w Made happy by thy rich perfection! But since thou pay'st sweet interest to my hoiDes, Redoubling love on love, let me once more Like to a bold-fae'd debtor crave of thee This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre's house, Who now by death of certain aldermen Is mayor of London, and my master once, Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of change, Your father's anger, and mine uncle's hate. Our hapiiy nuptials will we consummate. Enter Sybil. Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mis- tress? Shift for yourself, your father is at hand ! He 's coming, he 's coming ! Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mis- tress! For God's sake, shift for your- selves ! Hans. Your father come ! Sweet Rose, what shall I do? Where shall I hide me? How shall I es- cape? Bose. A man, and want wit in extremity? Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoe- maker, Pull on my shoe. Enter the Lord Mayor. Hans. Mass, and that 's well rememb'red. Sybil. Here comes your father. Hans. Forware, metresse, 't is un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit be- tallen.^'' Bose. Oh God, it pincheth me; what will you do? Hans. [Aside.) Your father's presence pincheth, not the shoe. L. Mayor. Well done ; fit my daughter well, and she shall please thee well. Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; for- ware, 't is un good skoo, 't is gimait van neitz leither : se ever, mine here.^^ Enter a Prentice. L. Mayor. I do believe it. — What 's the news with you? Prentice. Please you, the Earl of Lincoln at the gate Is newly lighted, and would speak with you. s, I know 't is a good shoe, neat's leather; ell; indeed, 't is made of see here, sir! 144 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD L. Mayor. The Earl of Lincoln come to speak with nle? Well, well, I know his errand. Daugh- ter Rose, Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, have done ! Syb, make things handsome! Sir boy, follow me. Exit. Hans. Mine uncle come ! Oh, what may this portend? Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an end. Bose. Be not dismay'd at this ; whatever befall, Rose is thine own. To witness I speak truth. Where thou appoint'st the place, I '11 meet with thee. I Avill not fix a day to follow thee, But presently -^ steal hence. Do not re- ply:. Love which gave strength to bear my father's hate, Shall now add wings to further our es- cape. Exeunt. Scene 5. Another room in the same house. Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln. L. Mayor. Believe me, on my credit, I speak truth : Since first your nephew Lacy went to France I have not seen him. It seem'd strange to me, When Dodger told me that he stay'd be- hind. Neglecting the high charge the king- im- posed. Lincoln. Trust me, Sir Roger Oateley, I did think Your counsel had given head to this at- tempt, Drawn to it by the love he bears your child. Here I did hope to find him in your house ; But now I see mine error, and confess, My judgment wrong'd you by conceiving so. L. Mayor. Lodge in my house, say you? Trust me, my lord, I love your nephew Lacy too too dearly, So much to wrong his honor; and he hath done so. That first gave him advice to stay from France. To witness I speak truth, I let you know How careful I have been to keep my daughter Free from all conference or speech of him ; Not that I scorn your nephew, but in love I bear your honor, lest your noble blood Should by my mean worth be dishonored. Lincoln. (Aside.) How far the churl's tongue wanders from his heart ! — Well, well, Sir Roger Oateley, I believe you, With more than many thanks for the kind love So much you seem to bear me. But, my loi'd. Let me request your help to seek my nephew, Whom if I find, I '11 straight embark for France. So shall your Rose be free, my thoughts at rest. And much care die which now lies in my breast. Enter Sybil. Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God's sake! My mistress ; oh, my young mistress ! L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? What 's become of her ? Sybil. She 's gone, she 's fled ! L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled? Sybil. I know not, forsooth ; she 's fled out of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace ! L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! Where be my men? Which way? Sybil. I know not, an it please your wor- ship. L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can this be true? Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God 's in Heaven. Lincoln. Her love turn'd shoemaker? I am glad of this. L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoe- maker ! Will she forget her birth, requite my care With such ingratitude? Scorn'd she young Hammon To love a honniken.^" a needv knave? Well, let her fly, I'll not fly after her, 3f) Meaning not known. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 145 Let her starve, if she will : she 's none of mine. Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir. Enter Firk icitli shoes. Sybil. I am glad she 's scapt. L. Mayor. I '11 not account of her as of my child. Was there no better object for her eyes, But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly, A shoemaker? That's brave! Firk. Yea, forsooth ; 't is a very brave shoe, and as fit as a pudding-. L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this*? From whence eomest thou'? Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoe- maker, lusty Roger's chief lusty journey- man, and I have come hither to take up the i^retty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping- your worship is in as good health, as I was at the makmg hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk. L. Mayor. Stay, stay. Sir Knave ! Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker ! Firk. 'T is happy the knave is put before the shoemaker^ or else I would not have vouchsafed to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir. L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us knaves by craft. Firk. Then 'tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gently, is no hann. Sit your worship merry ! Syb, your young mistress — I '11 so bob ^^ them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London. L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, whose man are you? Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat. {Pointing to Sybil.) Lincoln. He means not, sir, to woo you to his maid. But only doth demand whose man you are. Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero.^- Roger, my fellow, is now my master. Lincoln. - Sirrah, know'st thou one Hans, a shoemaker? Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in seci'et : Mistress Rose and he are by this time — no, not so, but shortly are to come over one another with "Can you dance the shaking of the sheets?" It is that Hans— (Aside.) I'll so gnll^^ these diggers ! ^* L. Mayor. Know'st thou, then, where he is? ' Firk. Yes, forsooth ; yea. marry ! Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness" =*■'' Firk. Xo, forsooth, no, marry! L. Mayor. Tell me, good honest fellow, wliere he is, And thou shalt see what I'll bestow on thee. Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I care not for seeing, I love feeling; let me feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; and then Firk is your man — (Aside.) in a new pair of stretchers. ^° L. Mayor. Here is an angel, part of thy reward, Which I will give thee ; tell me where he is. Firk. No point.^'^ Shall I betray my brother? No! Shall I prove Judas to Hans? No! Shall I cry treason to my corporation? No, I shall be firkt and yerkt then. But give me your angel; your angel shall tell you. Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; 'tis no hurt to thee. Firk. Send simiDering Syb away. L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. Exit Sybil. Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids liave wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon my word, to-morrow morning he and young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to tan leather withal. L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this? Firk. Am I sure that Paul's steeple is a handful higher than London Stone, ^'^ or that the Pissing-Conduit ^" leaks nothing but pure Mother Bunch ? *" Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God's nails, do you think I am so base to gull you? Lincoln. Where ai'e they married? Dost thou know the church? Firk. I never go to church, but I know the name of it ; it is a swearing church — stay a while, 't is — aye, by the mass, no. « flout. 32 This, and the "Shaking of the Sheets" (below) were popular dance tunes, to which also bal- lads were set. 3.-? fool. 34 i.e. diggers for information. 3r, seriously. 30 lies. 3 7 not at all: ne point. Fr. ' .\. stone which marked the cen- ter from which the old Roman roads radiated. ^n a sma'l conduit in Cornhill. 40 Mother Bunch was a well- known ale-wife. 146 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD no, — 'tis — aye, by my troth, no, nor that; 'tis — aye, by my faith, that, that, 't is, aye, by my Faith's Church under Paul's Cross. There they shall be knit like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they '11 be incony.*^ Lincoln. Upon my life, my nephew Lacy walks In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker. Firk. Yes, forsooth. Lincoln. Doth he not, honest fellow? Firk. No, forsooth ; I think Hans is no- body but Hans, no spirit. L. Mayor. My mind misgives me now, 't is so, indeed. Lincoln. My cousin speaks the language, knows the trade. L. Mayor. Let me request your company, my lord; Your honoralale presence may, no doubt, Refrain their headstrong rashness, when myself Going alone perchance may be o'erborne. Shall I request this favor*? Lincoln. This, or what else. Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-pass and re- pass,*- pindy-pandy, which hand will you have, very early. L. Mayor. My care shall every way equal their haste. This night accept your lodging in my house. The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint Faith's Prevent this giddy hare-brain'd nuptial. This traffic of hot love shall yield cold gains : They ban *^ our loves, and we '11 forbid their banns. Exit. Lincoln. At Saint Faith's Church thou say'st? Firk. Yes, by their troth. Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. Exit. Firk. Yes, Avhen I kiss your Avif e ! Ha, ha, here 's no craft in the gentle craft. I came hither of purpose with shoes to Sir Roger's worship, whilst Rose, his daughter, be cony-catcht ** by Hans. Soft now ; these two gulls will be at Saint Faith's Church to-morrow morning, to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress Bride napping, and they, in the mean time, shall chop up the matter at the 41 snug. 43 cwrse. 45 A chapel 42 conjuring terms. 44 spirited away. don, Savoy.*^ But the best sjaort is. Sir Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame Ralph's wife going to marry a gentleman, and then he '11 stoj^ her instead of his daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to do*? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoe- makers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy Lane, to cozen *'^ my gentleman of lame Ralph's wife, that's true. Alack, alack! Girls, hold out tack ! ^^ For now smocks for this jumbling Shall go to wrack. Exit. ACT V. Scene 1. A ruom in Eyre's house. Enter Eyre, Margery, Hans, and Rose. Eyre. This is the morning, then ; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is it nof? Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you Eyre. Away with these ifs and ans, Hans, and these et caeteras ! By mine honor, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre"? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing. Rose: let them all say what they can ; dainty, come thou to me— laughest thou? Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may. Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah ! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had'st never cover'd thy Saracen's head with this French flap, nor loaden thy bum with this farthingale ('tis trash, trumpery, vanity) ; Simon Eyre had never walk'd in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journey- man's portagues. — And shall I leave him ? No ! Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind. Hans. My lord, 't is time for us to part from hence. Eyre. Lady MadgA^ Lady Madgy, take in Lon- connected with 46 cheat, formerly the Savoy palace. 47 stoutly. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 147 two or three of my pie-erust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyre's heels ; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my deli- cate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them linkt, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow turtle- doves. I '11 bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minc'd-pies and marchpane.*^ Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed ; kiss, and away ! Go, vanish ! Marg. Farewell, my lord. Rose. Make haste, sweet love. Marg. She 'd fain the deed were done. Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we '11 run. Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery. Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish ! Avaunt, I say ! By the lord of Ludgate, it 's a mad life to be a lord mayor ; it 's a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honor of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheei*. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I prom- ised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together,'*'' that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I '11 do 't, I '11 do 't, by the life of Pharaoh ; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flineher. Be- sides, I have procur'd that upon every Shrove Tuesday, at the sound of the pan- cake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away. This is the day, and this day they shall do 't, they shall do 't. Boys, that day are you free, let masters care, And prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre. Exit. Scene 2. A street near St. Faith's Clmrcli. Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and -five or six Shoemakers, all icith cudgels or such xceapons. Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong: were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure 'tis thy wife? Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I strokt on ^° her shoes, I lookt upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, askt me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she — tears standing in her eyes — and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this piece of gold. I took it ; my lame leg and my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she 's mine. Firk. Did she give thee this gold? glorious glittering gold ! She 's thine own, 't is thy wife, and she loves thee ; for I '11 stand ' to 't, there 's no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London. Is not our old master Eyre lord mayor? Speak, my hearts. All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost. Enter Hammon, his man, Jane, and others. Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they come. Ralph. Stand to 't, my hearts. Firk, let me speak first. Hodge. No, Ralph, let me. — Hammon, whither away so early? Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what 's that to thee? Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed with you ! God be thanked ! Ham. Villains, hands off ! How dare you touch my love? All. A^illains? Down with them! Cry clubs for pi'entices ! ^^ Hodge. Hold, ray hearts! Touch her, Hammon ? Yea, and more than that : we '11 carry her away with us. My mas- ters and gentlemen, never draw your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the 48 A sweetmeat made of sugar and almonds. 49 Apprentices car- ried water from the conduits to their masters' homes, no fitted. 51 "Clubs" was the rallying cry of the London appren- tices. 148 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD back, men every inch of them, all spirit. All of Mammon's side. Well, and what of all this? Hodge. I '11 show you. — Jane, dost thou know this man"? 'T is Ralph, I can tell thee ; nay, 't is he in faith, thouoh he be lam'd by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him. Jane. Lives then my husband? Oh, God, let me go ! Let me embrace my Ralph. Ham. What means my Jane? Jane. Nay, what meant you, to tell me he was slain ? Ham. Pardon me, dear love, for being misled. (To Ralph.) 'T was rnmor'd here in London thou wert dead. Firk. Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with him. Now, Master Hammon, where 's your mistress, your wifef Serv. 'Swounds, master, fight for her! AVill you thus lose her? All. Down with that creature ! Clubs ! Down with him ! Hodge. Hold, hold ! Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no wrong. Will my Jane leave me thus, and break her faith? Firk. Yea, sir! She must, sir! She shall, sir! What then? Mend it! Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wench in the midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman. Jane. Whom shall I choose? Whom should my thoughts af¥ect But him whom Heaven hath made to be my love? Thou ai't my husband, and these humble weeds Make thee more beautiful than all his wealth. Therefore, I will but put off this attire. Returning it into the owner's hand. And after ever be thy constant wife. Hodge. Not a rag, Jane ! The law 's on our side : he that sows in another man's ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point •''- from thee. Firk. Stand to that, Ralph ; the appurte- 52 A lace with a tag, which fastened the busk, or piece of wood or whale- bone used to stif- fen a corset. 1 It was a fashion- nances are thine own. Hammon, look not at her! Serv. 0, swounds, no ! Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we '11 give you a new livery else ; we 'II make Shrove Tues- day Saint George's Day ^^ for you. Look not, Hammon, leer not ! I '11 firk you ! For thy head now, one glance, one sheep's eye, anything, at her ! Touch not a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to clouts. Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there 's no striving here. Ham. Good fellows, hear me speak; and, honest Ralph, Whom I have injured most by loving Jane, Mark what I offer thee : here in fair gold Is twenty pound, I '11 give it for thy Jane ; If this content thee not, thou shall have more. Hodge. Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make her not a whore. Ham. Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claim in her. And let her be my wife? All. No, do not, Ralph, Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke with it ! Were I not lame, I would make thee eat thy words. Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? indignity! Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing. Ham. I will not touch one penny, but in lieu. Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane, To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound. Since I have fail'd of her, during my life, I vow, no woman else shall be my wife. Farewell, good fellows of the gentle trade : Your morning mirth my mourning day hath made. Exit. Firk. {To the Serving-man.) Touch the gold, creature, if you dare ! Y' are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let 's home, my hearts. Hodge. Stay! Who comes hei'e? Jane, on again with thy mask ! George's able wear custom to blue coats on St. day. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 149 Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord Mayor, and Servants. Lincoln. Yonder 's the lying varlet niockt VIS so. L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah ! F^V^•. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not? Lincoln. Where is my nephew married? Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus. L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my daughter Rose This morning should be married at Saint Faith's f "We have watch'd there these three hours at the least. Yet see we no such thing. Firk. Truly, I am soriy for 't ; a bride 's a pretty thing. Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder 's the bride and bridegroom you look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your authority men from women, are you? L. Mayor. See, see, my daughter 's maskt. Lincoln. Tnie, and my nephew, To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame. Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame and blind. L. Mayor. I '11 ease her blindness. Lincoln. I '11 his lameness cure. Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh ! My fel- low Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my knaveiy. L. Mayor. What, have I found you, min- ion? Lincoln. O base wretch ! Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt Can hardly be washt oi¥. Where are thy powers ? What battles have you made? O yes, I see. Thou fought'st with Shame, and Shame hath conquer'd thee. This lameness will not serve. L. Mayor. Unmask yourself. Lincoln. Lead home your daughter. L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence. Ralph. Hence ! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you can- not enforce my wife from me. Where 's Hammon? L. Mayor. Your wife? Lincoln. What, Hammon? Ecdph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lays hands on her first, I 'II lay my crutch 'cross his pate. Firk. To him, lame Ralph ! Here 's brave sport ! Bcdph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do you know her now? (Unmasking Jane.) Lincoln. Is this your daughter? L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew. My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abus'd By this base, crafty varlet. Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft. L. Mayor. Where is my daughter Rose? Where is my child? Lincoln. Where is my nephew Lacy mar- ried? Firk. "^Hiy, here is good lac'd mutton,'^* as I promist you. Lincoln. Villain, I'll have thee punisht for this wrong. Firk. Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeyman shoemaker. Enter Dodger. LJodger. My lord, I come to bring unwel- come news. Your nephew Lacy and your daughter Rose Early this morning wedded at the Savoy, None being present but the lady may- oress. Besides, I learnt among the officers, The lord mayor vows to stand in their de- fense 'Gainst any that shall seek to cross the match. Lincoln. Dares Evre the shoemaker up- hold the deed? Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman's quarrel, I Avarrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too. Dodger. Besides, his grace to-day dines with the mayor; Who on his knees humbly intends to fall And beg a pardon for your nephew's fault. Lincoln. But I '11 prevent him ! Come, Sir Roger Oateley; The king will do us justice in this cause. Howe'er their hands have made them man and wife, I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. Exeunt. 54 a slang term for a woman. 150 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Fare- well, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had stay'd, I would have so lam'd them with flouts! O heart, my eodpieee-point is ready to fly in pieces every time I think upon Mistress Rose. But let that pass, as my lady mayoress says. Hodge. This matter is answer'd. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine shoemakers, let 's to our master's the new lord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove Tuesday. I '11 promise you wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar. All. rare ! Madge is a good wench. Firk. And I '11 promise you meat enough, for simp'ring Susan keeps the larder. I '11 lead you to victuals, my brave sol- diers ; follow your captain. brave ! Hark, hark! {Bell rings.) All. The pancake-bell ^^ rings, the pan- cake-bell ! Trilill, my hearts ! Firk. O brave! sweet bell! deli- cate pancakes! Open the doors, my hearts, and shut up the windows ! keep in the house, let out the pancakes! rare, my hearts ! Let 's march together for the honor of Saint Hugh to the great new hall ^^ in Gracious Street corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built. Ralph. the crew of good fellows that Avill dine at my lord mayor's cost to-day I Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall prentices be bound to pray for him and the honor of the gentlemen shoemakers ! Let 's feed ^nd be fat with my lord's bounty. Firk. musical bell, still! Hodge, my brethren ! There 's cheer for the heavens : venison-pasties walk up and down piping hot, like sergeants ; beef and brewis ^^ comes marching in dry-vats,''^ fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheel-barrows ; hens and oranges hop- ping in porters'-baskets, collops ^'° and eggs in scuttles, and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels. Enter more Prentices. All. Whoop, look here, look here ! Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away so fast? 1 Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning. All. brave shoemakers, brave lord of incomijrehensible good-fellowship ! Whoo ! Hark you ! The pancake-bell rings. {Cast up caps.) Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove Tuesday is our year of jubilee; and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord mayor; we may shut up our shojDS, and make holiday ; I '11 have it call'd Saint Hugh's Holiday. All. Agreed, agreed ! Saint Hugh's Holi- day. Hodge. And this shall continue for evei'. All. brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away! Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft ! March fair, my hearts ! rare ! Exeunt. Scene 3. A street in London. Enter the King and Ms Train over the stage. King. Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant? Nobleman. One of the merriest madcaps in your land. Your grace will think, when you behold the man. He 's rather a wild ruffian than a mayor. Yet thus much I '11 ensure your majesty, In all his actions that concern his state He is as serious, provident, and wise, As full of gravity amongst the grave. As any mayor hath been these many years. King. 1 am with child °° till I behold this huffcap.^^ But all my doubt is, when we come in presence. His madness will be dasht clean out of countenance. Nobleman. It may be so, my liege. King. Which to prevent. Let some one give him notice, 't is our pleasure That he put on his wonted merriment. Set forward! All. On afore! Exeunt. 55 Pancakes were a feature of the Shrove Tuesday menu ; hence the bell which rang for Shrove Tues- day services was called the pan- cake bell. 56 Leadenhall. 57 beef broth. 58 barrels. 50 bacon. 60 in suspense. 61 swaggerer. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 151 Scene 4. A great hall Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, RalpJi, and otlur Shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders. Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gen- tlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers'? Let them all walk and wait wpon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign. Firk. my lord, it will be rare! Eyre. No more, Firk ; come, lively ! Let your fellow-iDrentiees want no cheer; let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water. Hang these penny-pinching fa- thers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb- skins. Ri]?, knaves, avaunt ! Look to my guests ! Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits' end for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them. Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly pren- tices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph ! Frisk about, my nimble Firk ! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honor of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk? Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it an they had it. Eyre. Want they meat? Where's this swag-belly, this greasy kitchen-stuff cook? Call the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat? Vanish, Firk ! Avaunt, Hodge ! Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Fii'k; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they can eat nothing. The Second Three Men's Song Cold 's the wind, and wet 's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed: III is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need. bowl, the jolly nut-bro\vn G2 pass. 63 sound the whole range of notes. 64 "A dish, made of milk. esgs, and susar, baked in a pot." (Web- ster.) 65 a steak cut cross- ways. 66 fur. 67 ruffs for the neck. Trowl 62 the bowl, And iiere, kind mate, to thee: Let s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily. Down a down hey down a down, (Close tcith the tenor boy.) Hey derry derry, down a down! Ho, well done; to me let come! Eing compass,,63 gentle joy. Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee: etc. {liepeat as often as there be men to drink; and at last ichen all have drunk, this verse : ) Colds the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed : 111 is tlie weather that bringeth no gain, JNor helps good hearts in need. Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery. Marg. Where is my lord? Eyre. How now, Lady Madgy? Marg. The king's most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honor; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass. Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren ; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose? Hans. Let me request you to remember me. I know, your honor easily may obtain Free pardon of the king for me and Rose, And reconcile me to my uncle's grace. Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my hon- est journeyman ; look cheerily ! I '11 fall upon both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I '11 get thy pardon. Marg. Good my lord, have a care what you si^eak to his grace. Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot ! *'* hence, you hopper-arse! you barley-pud- ding, full of maggots! you broiled car- bonado ! ^^ avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephis- tophiles ! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you. Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver '"^-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; meddle with your partlets *^^ and your pishery-pashery, your flews ^^ and your whirligigs; go, rub,**^ out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows hoAv to speak to a Pope, 68 flaps ; as resem- 69 obstruction, a bling the hancincr term in bowling; chaps of a hound. hence the point of "alley." 152 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an he v/eie here, and shall I melt, shall I droop before my sovereign'? No, come, my Lady Madgy ! Follow me, Hans ! About your business, my frolic free- booters ! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honor of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London. Firk. Hey, for the honor of the shoe- makers ! Exeunt. Scene 5. An open yard before the hall. A long flourish, or two. Enter the King, Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Rose. Lacy and Rose kneel. King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was veiy foul Of your revolting from our kingly love And your own duty, yet we pardon you. Rise both, and. Mistress Lacy, thank my lord mayor For your young bridegroom here. Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, shall set your sweet majesty's image cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this honor you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon my rude behavior; I am a handicraftsman, yet my heart is without craft; I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king. King. Nay, I pray thee, good lord mayor, be even as merry As if thou wert among thy shoemakers ; It does me good to see thee in this humor. Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Diocle- sian? Then, hump! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the lord of Ludgate, my liege, I '11 be as merry as a pie.'''° King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art. Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a younker ; you see not a white hair on my iiead, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon's ransom ; Tamar Cham's beard was a rubbing brush to 't : yet I 'II shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls '^'^ with it, to please my bully king. King. But all this while I do not know your age. 70 magpie. Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry hump ! with a sound heart for the honor of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danc'd the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanisli, cast it upon thy nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and eiy hump ! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. King. Ha, ha ! Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like"? Nobleman. Not I, my lord. Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Mayo r. King. Lincoln, what news with you? Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto yourself, For there are traitors here. All. Traitors'? Where'? Who'? Eyre. Traitors in my house'? God for- bid! Where be my officers'? I'll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm. King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln '? Lincoln. Here he stands. King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy ! — Lin- coln, speak. What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's charge "? Lincoln. This, my dear liege : your Grace, to do me honoi-, Heapt on the head of this degenerate boy Desertless favors; you made choice of him To be commander over powers in France. But he King. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a while ! Even in thine eyes I read what thou wouldst speak. I know how Lacy did neglect our love, Ran himself deeply, in the highest de- gree. Into vile treason Lincoln. Is he not a traitor'? King. Lincoln, he was; now have we par- d'ned him. 'T was not a base want of true valor's fire. That held him out of France, but love's desire. 71 The tennis-balls of the time were stuflfed with hair. THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 153 Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon luy back. King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln ; I forgive you both. Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the boy to wed One whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed. King. Are they not married ■? Lincoln. No, my liege. Both. "We are. King. Shall I divorce them then? be it far That any hand on earth should dare untie The sacred knot, knit by God's majesty ; I would not for my crown disjoin their hands That are conjoin'd in holy nuptial bauds. How say'st thou. Lacy, wouldst thou lose thy Rose? Lacy. Not for all India's wealth, my sov- ereign. King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy would forego f Rose. If Rose were askt that question, she 'd say no. King. You hear them, Lincohi'? Lincoln. Yea, my liege, I do. King. Yet canst thou find i' th' heart to part these two? Who. seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers ? L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am her father. King. Sir Roger Oatelev, our last mavor, I think? Nobleman. The same, my liege. King. Would you offend Love's laws? Well, you shall have your wills, you sue to me, To prohibit the match. Soft, let me see — You both are married, Lacy, art thou not? Lacy. I am, dread sovereign. King. Then, upon thy life, I charge thee, not to call this woman wife. L. Mayor. I thank your grace. Rose. my most gracious lord ! (Kneels.) King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell you true, Although as yet I am a bachelor, Yet I believe I shall not marry you. Bose. Can you divide the body from the soul. Yet make the body live? King. Yea, so profound? I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide. This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be your bride. Are you pleas'd, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleas'd? Both. Yes, my lord. King. Then must my heart be eas'd; For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain, Till these whom I divorc'd, be join'd again. Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine ! Be what you would be ! Kiss now ! So, that 's fine. At night, lovers, to bed ! — Now, let me see, Which of you all mislikes this harmony. L. Mayor. Will you then take from me my child perforce? King. Why tell me, Oateley: shines not Lacy's name As bright in the world's eye as the gay beams Of any citizen? Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord, I do mislike the match far more than he; Her blood is too too base. King. Lincoln, no more. Dost thou not know that love respects no blood. Cares not for difference of birth or state? The maid is young, well born, fair, vir- tuous, A Avorthy bride for any gentleman. Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoop To bear necessity, and, as I hear, Forgetting honors and all courtly pleas- ures. To gain her love, became a shoemaker. As for the honor which he lost in France, Thus I redeem it : Lacy, kneel thee down I — Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy ! Tell me now, Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou chide. Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride? L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done. Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there 's no remedy. King. Come on, then, all shake hands: I '11 have you friends ; Where there is much love, all discord ends. What says my mad lord mayor to all this love? Eyre. my liege, this honor you have done to my fine journeyman here, Row- 154 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD land Laey, and all these favors which you have shown to me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should. King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall be thy name; If any grace of mine can length thy life, One honor more I '11 do thee : that new building, Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected, Shall take a name from us ; we '11 have it call'd The Leadv?nhall, because in digging it You found the lead that covereth the same. Eyre. I thank your majesty. Marg. God bless your grace ! King. Lincoln, a word with you! Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and more Shoemakers. Eyre. How now, my mad knaves'? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king. King. With the old troop which there w^e keep in pay. We will incorporate a new suj^ply. Before one summer more pass o'er my head, France shall repent, England was in- jured. What are all these? Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege. Sometime my fellows; in their companies I liv'd as merry as an emperor. King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers "? Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gen- tlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers ; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh. All the Shoemakers. God save your maj- esty! King. Mad Simon, would they anything with US'? Eyre. Mum, mad knaves ! Not a word ! I '11 do 't, I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege ; all for themselves, and I for them all on both my knees do en- treat, that for the honor of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week. T2 merry-making. King. Mad Sim, I gTant your suit, you shall have patent To hold two market-days in Leadenhall, Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the times. Will this content you"? All. Jesus bless your gTace! Eyre. In the name of these my poor breth- ren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. King. W^hat is it, my lord mayor'? Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor ban- quet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence. King. I shall undo thee. Eyre, only with feasts ; Already have I been too troublesome; Say, have I not '? Eyre. my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving,'^- which I promist long ago to the prentices of London. For, an 't please your highness, in time past, I bare the water-tankard,'''^ and my coat Sits not a whit the worse uj^on my back; And then, ujDon a morning, some mad boys. It was Shrove Tuesday, even as 't is now, gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered ; they are gone home and vanisht ; Yet add more honor to the gentle trade. Taste of Eyre's banquet, Simon 's happy made. King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, and will say, I have not met more pleasure on a day. Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to you all. Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our cheer. — Come, lords, a while let 's revel it at home ! When all our sports and banquetings are done, Wars must right wrongs which French- men have begun. Exeunt. 73 cf. p. 150, n. 49. THOMAS HETWOOD A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS Thomas Heywood (c. 1575-1642) was of a Lincolnshire family, and may have been a member of the college of Peterliouse, Cam- bridge. We get our tirst definite information about him from Henslowe's Diary in 159G. He seems to have begun writing for the stage about 1594, and continued active until within a few years of his death, thus almost span- ning the greatest years of the Elizabethan drama. His productivity was amazing: he himself tells us that he had a hand or " a main finger " in two himdred and twenty plays, of which only nineteen (four in two parts) survive. Meanwhile he was acting, perhaps till 1620 or so. He did also a con- siderable amount of miscellaneous writing in prose and loose, easy-running verse. As The Shoemakers' Holiday represents domestic, or bourgeois, drama on the side of comedy, so A Woman Killed with Kindness is an example, and the best example, of do- mestic, or bourgeois, tragedy. The two plays spring from the same environment, and were written for identical audiences, by men who had a good deal in common. Both Dekker and Heywood were of the middle class them- selves, and reflect in their work the temper and moral soundness of the solid citizenry of London. Like the earlier play, A Woman Killed with Kindness was written for Hens- loive, and brought the same price of three pounds ; as an interesting illustration of the comparative value of plays and costumes in the manager's eyes, we may note that on March 7, 1G03, the day after he paid for the play, he spent ten shillings on a black satin dress for Mrs. Frankford. No other piece of dramatic criticism has had the influence of Aristotle's attempt in his Poetics to formulate, from the practice of the Athenian dramatists, the laws of tragedy and comedy. One of Aristotle's conclusions was that tragedy was concerned with the fate of persons of high rank, or at least illustrious above their fellows. This limitation was ac- cepted by Renascence scholars, and in gen- eral governed the practice of Elizabethan, Restoration, and eighteenth-century writers of tragedy. It is, for instance, true of Shakespeare's tragedy, for even in Romeo and Juliet, though the personages may not be called illustrious in a strict sense, yet we think of the Capulets and Montagues as of the aristocracy of Verona, and the star- crossed lovers themselves are by their passion and unhappy fate sensibly, if not actually, 155 raised above ordinary citizens. There were, however, in the Elizabethan period men who realized that tragic feeling was not neces- sarily confined to the palace; that circum- stance might lift to tragic dignity the lives of obscure people. One of the most power- ful of pre-8hakespereah plays, so grim and stark in its realism, so impressive in the por- trayal of the murderess its heroine, that con- jecture as to its authorship has even been busy with Shakespeare's name, is Arden of Feversham, written before 1590. Tliis drama- tization of Holinshed's account of a murder of a husband by a wife and her paramour, is the first extant example, though we hear of such plays earlier, of a group of murder plays, domestic tragedies, frequently taken from real life. For a number of years about the turn of the century, under the influence of a general swing toward realism manifest also in comedy, where Ben Jonson led a re- volt against romantic comedy and chronicle- history, plays of this sort were especially popular. Henslowe's Diary gives us the names of several no longer extant, and sur- viving plays such as A Warning for Fair Women (1599), Two Lamentable Tragedies (1599), and The Yorkshire Tragedy (1605), are home-bred tragedies dealing in rather artless fashion with family strife and blood- shed. Another kind of domestic drama, also popular in the same period, was that which showed the trials of a virtuous wife at the hands of a prodigal and unfaithful husband; such plays, though full of pathos, usually stopped short of tragedy, and ended in the reform of the erring husband and his recon- ciliation with his patient wife. The Shoe- makers' Holiday, in the episode of Jane, has a hint of the motive, and, in Patient (Irissil, Dekker deals with the subject more at large. How a Man May Choose a Good Wife from a Bad (1602), The London Prodigal (1605), and Marston's The Dutch Courtesan (1605) are representative of the type. A Woman Killed with Kindness, belong- ing specifically to the first of the above-men- tioned groups, is thus related to a consider- able body of plays of its own day. Heywood may fairly be called the most important of writers of domestic drama, not alone because of the number of examples he has given us, but from his sincere and afi'ecting handling of his material.' Once he treats the wronged- wife motive, in his comedy The Wise Woman of Hogsdon (printed 1638). LTsually, how- ever, he deals seriously with domestic in- . 156 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD felicit}', and always from the point of view of a husband whose wife has transgressed. The story of Jane Shore in the two-part chronicle play Edward 1 V ( 159S ) , although involving two kings, is in effect a domestic tragedy ; " the whole treatment of that deli- cate subject, the relation of a true and honor- able man to the wife who has wronged him, but whom he continues to love in a spirit chastened by his wrongs, is handled with the same delicacy, the same wide tolerance and sympathy, and yet with the ethical soundness, which Heywood displays with so much effect in A Woman Killed with Kindness" (Schel- ling, Elizabethan Drama, I. 283). Heywood returned to the theme in The English Travel- ler (1G33), a very ffne play, and in The Late Lancashire Witches (1034,) where the wife, having fallen from grace by indulging in witchcraft, is handed over to justice by her husband. What chieffy distinguishes Hey- wood's domestic tragedies in which an adult- erous wife figures from those by other men is the wife's treatment at the hands of her husband. The Elizabethan code of morals justified summary and bloody vengeance. Such a punishment, indeed, Mrs. Frankford expects : ". . . Mark not my face, Nor hack me with your sword ; but let me go Perfect aud undeformed to my tomb. I am not worthy that I should prevail In the least suit; no, not to speak to you. Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence; Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave ; This granted, I am ready for my grave." Heywood's delicacy of feeling and perception of true honor in such circumstances win our admiration, as he shows the husband remem- bering that vengeance is God's and leaving the wife to the torture of her guilty con- science. So, in The English Traveller, young Geraldine, discovering the adultery of Mrs. Wincot, with whom he has exchanged vows of fidelity, forbears punishment more severe than a passionate upbraiding of her crime, and al- lows her to die of a broken heart. It is no easy matter for a dramatist to handle a situ- ation of this sort in such a way as to pre- serve our sympathy and respect for the in- jured husband. lit would have been far easier, as well as more theatrically effective, for Heywood to have had Frankford take refuge behind " the unwritten law," and sat- isfy the natural expectation of his audience \v\t\\ a scene of bloody retribution. Heywood makes his solution possible and sympathetic by a thorough characterization of Frankford as a Christian gentleman, and by a masterly depiction of the man's emotion at the crisis. He prays for patience before he disturbs the guilty pair, his first natural impulse toward immediate revenge displays itself when he pursues Wendoll with drawn sword, and he has to struggle in private with his anger be- fore he can pronounce the lenient sentence on his wife. We see in action his better nature • contending with his worse, and the struggle humanizes as the victory ennobles him. Hey- wood commands our admiration, moreover, by the fine restraint with which he handles the story. Neither in the climactic scenes nor in the equally difficult scenes of Mrs. Frankford's repentance and death in act five, does he allow intrusion of sentimentality. Frankford indulges in no false heroics, Mrs. Frankford in no mawkish agonizings. No lietter illustration could be found of the dif- ference between true sentiment and false sentimentality, the sentimental dramatists of the eighteenth century could have studied this play with profit. The only speeches which do not ring true are those of Wendoll in V. iii, but from him we should not expect honest penitence. It must be admitted that the play, consider- ing it as a whole, is not a model structurally. It is typical of one method of Elizabethan construction, which violates unity of action by a combination of two plots essentially un- connected. Heywood was a frequent oft'ender in this respect: The English Traveller and The Captives are flagrant examples. In this case the sub-plot does not, as sometimes, of- fer so violent a contrast in feeling with the main plot that the dignity of the play is practically destroyed. Here tlie sub-plot, dealing as it does with a question of per- sonal and family honor, in a way supports the more serious ethical problem of the main plot. Tliere is also this to be said for the sub-plot, that by the rapidity of its de- velopment it helps to conceal the bareness of the main plot, whose exposition is very leis- urely. But the actual binding of the plots is of the flimsiest: the two groups of people are brought together in the opening scene, Wendoll and Cranwell are transferred from one group to the other, the people of the sub-plot are present at Mrs. Frankford's death, but of interaction between the groups there is none. As for the main plot itself, barring the slowness of the exposition, it is well done, with one important exception. The climactic upbuilding to the scene of the dis- covery is strong; devices like Frankford's unwillingness to believe Nicholas's story, the card game, and the feigned letter are ef- fectively used. The climax is stirring, the pathos of the situation enhanced by the skil- ful introduction of the children, and the last act avoids anticlimax; the business of the lute is particularly effective. The use of sus- pense is notable, in Frankford's hesitation be- fore entering the house and at tlie door of the chamber, and in the pause before Mrs. Frankford's fate is made known. The one great flaw in the play is the ease with which Mrs. Frankford falls. This is altogether a matter of characterization. Nothing in the exposition of the woman's character pre- pares us for the abruptness of her yielding, nor is Wendoll presented as so attractive as to make it credible. Heywood was a master in portraying a gentleman — he was no hand A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 157 at a villain, WendoU is tliroughout stiff, stagy, impossible. Bourgeois tragedy seems to have lost popu- lar favor not long after 1605. Save for two or three plays of Heywood's, and fine single examples in ^liddleton's and Rowley's Tii^e Fair Quarrel (printed 1617) and The Witch of Edmonton (1621), assigned to Dekker, Ivowley and Ford, domestic drama of a seri- ous sort was practically abandoned during the rest of the Elizabethan period. The senti- mental drama of the eighteenth century re- vived interest in domestic problems from a moral point of view, but it was not until Lillo wrote George Barnwell in 1731 that bourgeois tragedy appeared again upon the London stage. By that time the sentimentalizing and moralizing tendency had become so strong that Barnwell is as strenuously didactic as a Morality. Not until we come to the modern realistic drama do we find any achievement in domestic tragedy so appealing as A Woman Killed with Kindness. Tlie simplicity of method, the sanity, the sound ethics, the freedom from preaching, of this, the Hower ot Elizabethan domestic tragedies, are enough to insure for Heywood an honorable place in the history of the drama. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS By THOMAS HEYWOOD. NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS Sir Francis Acton, Brother to Mistress Frankford. Sir Chaules Mountford. Master John Frankford. Master jMalby, friend to Sir Francis. Master Wendoll, friend to Frankford. Master Cranwell. Master Shafton, false friend to Sir Charles. Old ]\Iountford, Uncle to Sir Charles. Master Sandy. Master Roder. Master Tidy, Cousin to Sir Charles. PROLOGLT]. I COME but like a harbinger, being sent To tell you what these prej^arations mean. Look for no glorious state ; our Muse is bent Upon a barren subject, a bare scene. We could afford this twig- a timber-tree, Whose strength might boldly on your favors build ; Our russet, tissue ; drone, a honey-bee ; Our barren plot, a large and spacious field ; Our coarse fare, banquets ; our thin water, Avine ; Our brook, a sea ; our bat's eyes, eagle's sight; Our poet's dull and earthy Muse, divine; Our ravens, doves ; our crow's black feathers, white. But gentle thoughts, when they may give the foil,i Save them that yield, and spare where they may spoil. 1 defeat. Household Servants to Frankford. Nicholas, Jenkin, Roger Brickbat, Jack Slime, Spigot, Butler, Sheriff. Keeper of Prison. Sheriff's Officers, Sergeant, Huntsmen, Fal- coners, Coachmen, Carters, Servants, Mu- sicians. Mistress Anne Frankford. Susan, Sister to Sir Charles Mountford. Cicely, Maid to Mistress Frankford. Women Servants in Frankford's household. ScEXE. — Yorkshire. ACT L Scene 1. Boom in Frankford's house. Enter Master Frankford, Mistress Frank- ford, Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Master Malhy, Master Wen- doU, and Master Cranwell. Sir F. Some music, there! None lead the bride a dance"? Sir C. Yes, would she dance The Shaking of the Sheets; - But that 's the dance her husband means to lead her. • Wen. That 's not the dance that eveiy man must dance, According to the ballad. Sir F. Music, ho! By your leave, sister, — by your husband's leave, I should have said, — the hand that but this day 2 A ■well-known ballad and dance tune. 158 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Was given you in the church I '11 bor- row. — Sound ! This marriage music hoists me from the ground. Frank. Aye, you may caper ; you are light and free ! Marriage hath yok'd my heels; pray, then, pardon me. Sir F. I'll have you dance too, brother! Sir C. Master Frankford, You are a happy man, sir, and much joy Succeed your marriage mirth : you have a wife So qualified, and with such ornaments Both of the mind and body. First, her birth Is noble, and her education such As might become the daughter of a prince ; Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own hand Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace. From the shrilFst treble to the hoarsest base. To end her many praises in one word. She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest daughter, Only found by yours, though many a heart hath sought her. Frank. But that I know your virtues and chaste thoughts, I should be jealous of your praise. Sir Charles. Cran. He speaks no more than you ap- prove. Mai. Nor flatters he that gives to her her due. Mrs. F. I would your praise could find a fitter theme Than my imperfect beauties to speak on ! Such as they be, if they my husband please, They suffice me now I am married. His sweet content is like a flattering glass, To make my face seem fairer to mine eye; But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow. Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and patient ! How strangely the word husband fits your mouth, Not married three hours since! Sister, 't is good ; You that begin betimes thus must needs prove Pliant and duteous in your husband's love. — Gramereies, brother ! Wrought her to 't alread}-, — "Sweet husband," and a curtsey, the first day? Mark this, mark this, you that are bach- elors, And never took the grace ^ of honest man ; Mark this, against * you marry, this one jjhrase : In a good time that man both wins and woos That takes his wife down ^ in her wed- ding shoes. Frank. Your sister takes not after you, Sir Francis, All his wild blood your father spent on you ; He got her in his age, when he grew civil. All his mad tricks were to his land en- tail'd. And you are heir to all; your sister, she Hath to her dower her mother's mod- esty. Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you ! This morning, which to many seems a burden. Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleas- ure. This lady is no clog, as many are; She doth become you like a well-made suit. In which the tailor hath us'd all his art ; Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze, Forc'd on your back in summer. She 's no chain To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke ; But she 's a chain of gold to adorn your neck. You both adorn each other, and your hands, Methmks, are matches. There 's equality In this fair combination ; you are both Scholars, both young, both being de- scended nobly. There 's music in this sympathy ; it car- ries Consort ^ and expectation of much joy, 3 attained the honor. 4 in anticipation of the time when. 5 reduces her to suhmission. 6 harmony. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 159 Which God bestow on you from this first day Until your dissolution, — that 's for ay ! Sir F. We keep you here too long, good brother Frankford. Into the hall; away! Go cheer your guests. What! Bride and bridegroom both withdrawn at once^ If you be miss'd, the guests will doubt their welcome, And charge you with unkindness. Frank. To prevent it, I '11 leave you here, to see the dance within. Mrs. F. And so will I. Exeunt Master and Mistress Frankford. Sir F. To part you it were sin. — Now, gallants, while the town musi- cians Finger their frets within, and the mad lads And country lasses, every mother's child, With nosegays and bride-laces ^ in their hats, Dance all their country measures, rounds, and jigs, What Shalt we do? Hark! They 're all on the hoigh ; ^ They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round, — Marry, not on the toe! Aye, and they caper. Not without cutting; you shall see, to- morrow, The hall-floor peckt and dinted like a mill-stone, Made with their high shoes. Though their skill be small, Yet they tread heavy where their hob- nails fall. Sir C. Well, leave them to their sports ! — Sir Francis Acton, I '11 make a match with you ! Meet me to-morrow At Chevy Chase; I'll fly my hawk with yours. Sir F. For what ■? For what? Sir C. Wliy, for a hundred pound. Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that ! Sir C. Here are ten angels ; ° I '11 make them good a hundred pound to- morrow Upon my hawk's wing. Sir F. 'T is a match ; 't is done. Another hundred pounds upon your dogs ;— 7 streamers. 8 excited. gold coins worth ten shillings. Dare ye. Sir Charles'? Sir C. I dare ; were I sure to lose, I durst do more than that; here is my hand. The hrst course for a hundred pound ! Sir F. A match. Wen. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton's hawk; As much upon his dogs ! Cran. I 'm for Sir Charles Mountford : I have seen His hawk and dog both tried. What ! Clap you hands,^° Or is 't no bargain ? Wen. Yes, and stake them down. Were they five hundred, they were all my own. Sir F. Be stirring early with the lark to- morrow ; I '11 rise into my saddle ere the sun Rise from his bed. Sir C. If there you miss me, say I am no gentleman ! I '11 hold my day. Sir F. It holds on all sides. — Come, to- night let 's dance ; Early to-morrow let 's prepare to ride : We 'd need be three hours up before the bride. Exeunt. Scene 2. Yard of the same. Enter Nicholas and Jenkin, Jack Slime, Roger Brickbat, with Country Wenches, and two or three Musicians. Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to trace withal ; Jack Slime, traverse you with Cicely Milkpail; I will take Jane Trubkin, and Eoger Brickbat shall have Isabel Motley. And now that they are busy in the parlor, come, strike up ; we '11 have a crash ^^ here in the yard. Nich. My humor is not compendious: dancing I possess not, though I can foot it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands of Cicely Milkpail, I consent. Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have been brought up with serving crea- tures,— aye, and God's creatures, too ; for we have "been brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs, and such like; and, though we be but country fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can do the horse-trick as well as the serving-men. Brick. Aye, and the cross-point too. Jen. Slime ! Brickbat ! Do not you know that comparisons are odious? 11 revel. 10 shake hands on it. 160 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Now we are odious ourselves, too ; there- fore there are no comparisons to be made betwixt us. Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous; I am quarrelsome, and not seditious ; I am peaceable, and not contentious; I am brief, and not compendious. Slime. Foot it quickly! If the music overcome not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently strike thee down. Jen. No quarreling, for God's sake ! Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave be- tween ye. Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel. Come, what shall it bef Rogero? Jen. Rogero? No; we will dance The Begimiing of the World. Cicely. I love no dance so well as John come kiss me now. Nich. I that have ere now deserv'd a cushion, call for the Cushion-dance. Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well as Tom Tyler. Jen. No; we'll have The Hunting of the Fox. Slime. The Hoy, The Hay! There's nothing like The Hay.'^" Nich. I have said, I do say, and I will say again Jen. Every man agree to have it as Nick says! All. Content. Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall be Cicely. Wliat, Master Nicholas"? What^ Nich. Put on your Smock a' Monday. Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off! Come, for God's sake, agree of some- thing : if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we '11 have Sellenger's Round. All. That, that, that! Nich. No, I am resolv'd thus it shall be; first take hands, then take ye to your heels. Jen. Why, would you have us run away? Nich. No; but I would have you shake your heels. — Music, strike up ! They dance; Nick dancing, speaks stately and scurvily, the rest after the country fashion. Jen. Hey ! Lively, my lasses ! Here 's a turn for thee ! Exeunt. Scene 3. Chevy Chase. Wind horns. Enter Sir Charles Mount- ford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cran- well, Wendoll, Falconers, and Huntsmen. Sir C. So; well cast off! Aloft, aloft! Well flown! Oh, now she takes her at the souse, ^^ and strikes her Down to the earth, like a swift thunder- clap. Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of my way. Sir F. A hundred pound from me. Sir C. What, falconer ! Falc. At hand, sir! Sir C. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl and 'gins to plume ^* her. Rebeck ^^ her not ; rather stand still and check her! So, seize her gets,^^ her jesses, and her bells ! Away ! Sir F. My hawk kill'd, too. Sir C. Aye, but 't was at the quenre,^'' Not at the mount like mine. Sir F. Judgment, my masters ! Cran. Yours miss'd her at the ferre.^^ Wen. Aye, but our merlin first had plum'd the fowl, And twice renew'd ^^ her from the river too. Her bells. Sir Francis, had not both one weight. Nor was one semi-tune above the other. Methinks, these Milan bells do sound too full, And spoil the mounting of your hawk. Sir C. 'T is lost. Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise seiz'd a fowl Within her talons, and you saw her paws Full of the feathers; both her petty singles -° And her long singles grijjp'd her more than other; The terrials -^ of her legs were stain'd with blood. Not of the fowl only; she did discom- fit 12 All these were well-known dance tunes. 13 while the victim was rising from the ground. 14 pluck. 15 recall. was attached i(> same as jesses: 1 7 swoop. straps on a is unexplained. hawk's legs, to lo renewed the at- the long sinples which the leash tack upon. were the middle -0 the outer claws claws. of a hawk's feet; 21 une.xplained. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 161 Some of her feathers; but she brake away. Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler.^- Sir C. How! Sir F. Aye, and your dogs are trindle- tails -^ and eurs. Sir C. You stir my blood. You keep not one good hound in all your kennel. Nor one good hawk upon your perch. Sir F. How, knight ! Sir C. So, knight. You Avill not swag- ger, sir? Sir F. Why, say I did? Sir C. Why, sir, I say you would gain as much by swag- g'ring As you have got by wagers on your dogs. You will come short in all things. Sir F. _ Not in this ! Now I '11 strike home. {Strikes Sir Charles.) Sir C. Thou shalt to thy long home, Or I will want my will. Sir F. All they that love Sir Francis, follow me! Sir C. All that affect Sir Charles, draw on my part ! Cran. On this side heaves my hand. Wen. Here goes my heart. They divide themselves. Sir Charles Mountford, Cranwell, Falconer, and Huntsman, fight against Sir Francis Ac- ton, Wendoll, his Falconer and Hunts- man; and Sir Charles hath the better, and beats them aivai/, killing both of Sir Francis's men. Exeunt all but Sir Charles Mountford. Sir C. My God, what have I done! What have I done ! My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood. In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor innocents, For whom we are to answer! Well, 'tis done. And I remain the victor. A great eon- quest, When I would give this right hand, nay, this head. To breathe in them new life whom I have slain ! — Forgive me, God ! 'T was in the heat of blood, And anger quite removes me from my- self. It was not I, but rage, did this vile mur- der; Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it. Sir Francis Acton, he is fled the field ; With him all those that did partake his quari^el ; And I am left alone with sorrow dumb, And in my height of conquest overcome. Enter Susan. Susan. God! My brother wounded 'mong the dead ! Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends! The rumor of this fear stretcht to my ears, And I am come to know if you be wounded. Sir C. Oh, sister, sister! Wounded at the heart. Susan. My God forbid ! Sir C. In doing that thing which he for- bade, I am Avounded, sister. Susan. I hope, not at the heart. Sir C. Yes, at the heart. Susan. God! A surgeon, there. Sir C. Call me a surgeon, sister, for my soul ! The sin of murder, it hath pierc'd my heart And made a wide wound there; but for these scratches, They are nothing, nothing. Susan. Charles, what have you done? Sir Francis hath great friends, and will pursue you Unto the utmost danger ~* of the law. Sir C. My conscience is become mine enemy, And will pursue me more than Acton can. Susan. Oh, fly, sweet brother! Sir C. Shall I fly from thee? Why, Sue, art weary of my company? Susan. Fly from your foe! Sir C. You, sister, are my friend, And flying you, I shall pursue my end. Susan. Your company is as my eyeball dear; Being far from you, no comfort can be near. Yet fly to save your life ! What would I care To spend my future age in black de- spair, So you were safe? And yet to live one week Without my brother Charles, through every cheek My streaming tears would doAvnwards run so rank,^^ 22 bungler. 23 curly-tailed, low-bred. 24 power. 25 copiously. 162 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Till they could set on either side a bank, And in the nndst a channel; so my face For two salt-water brooks shall still find place. Sir C. Thou shall not weep so much ; for I will stay, In spite of danger's teeth. I '11 live with thee, Or I '11 not live at all. I will not sell My country and my father's patrimony, Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of life. Enter Sheriff, with Officers. Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwil- ling instrument Of your attach ~^ and apprehension. I 'm sorry that the blood of innocent men Should be of you exacted. It was told me That you were guarded with a troop of friends. And therefore I come thus arm'd. Sir C. Oh, Master Sheriff! I came into the field with many friends, But see, they all have left me ; only one Clings to my sad misfortune, my dear sister. I know you for an honest gentleman ; I yield my weapons, and submit to you. Convey me where you please ! Sher. To prison, then, To answer for the lives of these dead men. Susan. God ! God ! Sir C. Sweet sister, every strain Of sorrow from your heart augnnents my pain ; Your grief abounds, and hits against my breast. Sher. Sir, will you go'? Sir C. Even where it likes you best. Exeunt. ACT II. Scene 1. Frankford's studif. Enter Master Frank ford. Frank. How happy am I amongst other men, That in my mean estate embrace con- tent! I am a gentleman, and by my birth Companion with a king; a king's no more. I am possess'd of many fair revenues, Suflficient to maintain a gentleman ; Touching my mind, I am studied in all arts, The riches of my thoughts; and of my time Have been a good proficient ; -'^ but, the chief Of all the sweet felicities on earth, I have a fair, a chaste, and loving wife, — Perfection all, all truth, all ornament. If man on earth may truly happy be. Of these at once possest, sure, I am he. Enter Nicholas. Nieh. Sir, there 's a gentleman attends without To speak with you. Frank. On horseback? Nich. Yes, on horseback. Frank. Entreat him to alight, I will at- tend him. Know'st thou him, Nick? Nich. Know him? Yes; his name's Wen- doll. It seems, he comes in haste : his horse is ' booted Up to the flank in mire, himself all spotted And stain'd with plashing. Sure, he rid in fear, i' Or for a wager. Horse and man both sweat ; I ne'er saw two in such a smoking heat. Frank. Entreat him in : about it in- stantly ! Exit Nicholas. This Wendoll I have noted, and his car- riage Hath pleas'd me much ; by observation I have noted many good deserts in him. He 's affable, and seen -^ in many things ; Discourses well ; a good companion ; And though of small means, yet a .gen- tleman Of a good house, though somewhat prest by want. I have preferr'd him to a second place In my opinion and my best regard. Enter Wendoll, Mistress Frankford, and Nicholas. Mrs. F. Oh, Master Frankford! Master Wendoll here Brings you the strangest news that e'er you heard. Frank. What news, sweet wife? What news, good Master Wendoll? Wen. You knew the match made 'twixt Sir Francis Acton 26 arrest. 27 have made good use of. 28 accomplished. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 163 And Sir Charles Mountfordf Frank. True; with their hounds and hawks. Wen. The matches were both play'd. Frank. Ha"? And which won"? Wen. Sir Francis, your wife's brother, had the worst, And lost the wager. Frank. Why, the worse his chance; Perhaps the fortune of some other day Will change his luck. Mrs. F. Oh, but you hear not all. Sir Francis lost, and yet was loth to yield. At length the two knights grew to dii¥er- ence. From words to blows, and so to banding sides ; Where valorous Sir Charles slew, in his spleen, Two of your brothei''s men, — his fal- coner, And his good huntsman, whom he lov'd so well. More men were wounded, no more slain outright. Frank. Now, trust me, I am sorry for the knight. But is my brother safe"? Wen. All whole and sound, His body not being blemish'd with one wound. But poor Sir Charles is to the prison led. To answer at th' assize for them that 's dead. Frank. I thank your pains, sir. Had the news been better. Your will was to have brought it, Master Wen doll. ■• Sir Chai'les will find hard friends; his case is heinous And will be most severely censur'd on.-^ I 'm sorry for him. Sir, a word with you ! I know you, sir, to be a gentleman In all things ; your possibilities ^^ but mean : Please you to use my table and my purse ; They 're youi's. Wen. Lord, sir! I shall ne'er de- serve it. Frank. sir, disparage not your worth too miich : You are full of quality ^^ and fair desert. J Choose of my men which shall attend on you. And he is yours. I will allow you, sir, 29 judged. 30 resources. 3i natural Your man, your gelding, and your table, all At my own charge ; be my companion ! Wen. Master Frankford, I have oft been bound to you By many favors ; this exceeds them all. That I shall never merit j'our least favor; But when your last remembrance I for- get, Heaven at my soul exact that weighty debt ! Frank. There needs no protestation ; for I know you Virtuous, and therefore grateful. — ■ Prithee, Nan, Use him with all thy loving'st courtesy ! Mrs. F. As far as modesty may well ex- tend. It is my duty to receive your friend. Frank. To dinner ! Come, sir, from this present day. Welcome to me for ever ! Come, away ! Exeunt Frankford, Mistress Frankford, and Wendoll. Nich, I do not like this fellow by no means : I never see him but my heart still yeanis."- Zounds ! I could fight with him, yet know not why ; The devil and he are all one in mine eye. Enter Jenkin. Jen. Nick ! What gentleman is that comes to lie at our house'? My master allows him one to wait on him, and I be- lieve it will fall to thy lot. Nich. I love my master; by these hilts, I do; But rather than I '11 ever come to serve him, I '11 turn away my master. Enter Cicely. Cic. Nich'las! where are you, Nieh'lasl You must come in, Nich'las, and help the young gentleman off with his boots. Nich. If I pluck off his boots, I '11 eat the spurs. And they shall stick fast in my throat like burrs. Cic. Then, Jenkin, come you! Jen. Nay, 't is no boot ^^ for me to deny it. My master hath given me a coat here, but he takes pains himself to brush it once or twice a day with a holly wand. Cic. Come, come, make haste, that you gifts. 32 grieves. sa use. 164 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD may wash your hands again, and help to serve in dinner! Jen. You may see, my masters, though it be afternoon with you, 't is yet but early days with us, for we have not din'd yet. Stay but a little ; I '11 but go in and help to bear up the first course, and come to you again presently. Exeunt. Scene 2. The Jail. Enter Mulhy and Cranwell. Mai. This is the sessions-day; pray can you tell me How young Sir Charles hath sped? Is he acquit, Or must he try the laws' strict penalty? Cran. He 's elear'd of all, spite of his enemies, Whose earnest labor was to take his life. But in this suit of pardon he hath spent All the rcA^enues that his father left him ; And he is now turn'd a plain country- man, Reform'd in all things. See, sir, here he comes. Enter Sir Charles and hi$ Keeper. Keep. Discharge your fees, and you are then at freedom. Sir C. Here, Master Keeper, take the poor remainder Of all the wealth I have! My heavy foes Have made my purse light ; but, alas ! to me 'T is wealth enough that you have set me free. Mai. God give you joy of your delivery! I am glad to see you abroad, Sir Charles. Sir C. The poorest knight in England, Master Malby. My life has cost me all my patrimony My father left his son. Well, God for- give them That are the authors of my penury ! Enter Shafton. Shaft. Sir Charles! A hand, a hand! At liberty? Now, by the faith I owe, I am glad to see it. What want you? Wherein may I pleas- ure you? Sir C. Oh me! Oh, most unhappy gen- tleman ! I am not worthy to have friends stirr'd up. Whose hands may help me in this plunge of want. I would I were in Heaven, to inherit there Th' immortal birthright which my Savior keejDS, And by no unthrift can be bought and sold; For here on earth what pleasures should we trust ! Shaft. To rid you from these contempla- tions, Three hundred pounds you shall receive of me ; Nay, five for fail.^* Come, sir, the sight of gold Is the most sweet receipt for melancholy, And will revive your spirits. You shall hold law With your proud adversaries. Tush ! let Frank Acton Wage, with his knighthood, like expense with me. And he will sink, he will. — Nay, good Sir Charles, Applaud your fortune and your fair es- cape From all these perils. Sir C. Oh, sir! they have undone me. . Two thousand and five hundred pound a year My father at his death possest me of; All which the envious Acton made me spend ; And, notwithstanding all this large ex- pense, I had much ado to gain my liberty; And I have only now a house of pleas- ure, With some five hundred pounds reserv'd, Both to maintain me and my loving sis- ter. Shaft. (Aside.) That must I have, it lies convenient for me. If I can fasten but one finger on him, With my full hand I '11 gripe him to the heart. 'T is not for love I proffer'd him this coin, But for my gain and pleasure. — Come, Sir Charles, I know you have need of money ; take my offer. Sir C. Sir, I accept it, and remain in- debted Even to the best of my unable ^^ power. 34 to prevent failure. 35 feeble. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 165 Come, gentlemen, and see it tend'red down! Exeunt. Scene 3. Frankford's house. Enter Wendoll, melanclioly. Wen. I am a villain, if I apprehend ^'^ But such a thought ! Then, to attempt the deed, Slave, thou art damn'd without redemp- tion. — I Ml drive away this passion with a song. A song! Ha, ha! A song! As if, fond ^^ man. Thy eyes could swim in laughter, when thy soul Lies drench'd and drowned in red tears of blood ! I '11 pray, and see if God within my heart Plant better thoughts. Why, prayers are meditations, And when I meditate (oh, God forgive me ! ) It is on her divine perfections. I will forget her; I will arm myself Not t' entertain a thought of love to her; And, when I come by chance into her presence, I '11 hale these balls until my eye-strings crack. From being pull'd and drawn to look that way. Enter, over the Stage, Frankford, his Wife, and Nicholas, and exeunt. God, God ! With wdiat a violence 1 'm hurried to mine own destruction ! There goest thou, the most perfeetest man That ever England bred a gentleman. And shall I wrong his bed"?— Thou God of thunder! Stay, in Thy thoughts of vengeance and of wrath, Tliy great, almighty, and all-judging hand From speedy execution on a villain, — A villain and a traitor to his friend. Enter Jenkin. Wen. He doth maintain me; he allows me largely Money to sjoend. Joi. By my faith, so do not you me: I cannot get a cross ^* of you. Wen. My gelding, and my man. Jen. That 's Sorrel and I. Wen. This kindness grows of no alli- ance "^ 'twixt us. Jen. Nor is my service of any great ac- quaintance. Wen. I never bound him to me by desert. Of a mere stranger, a poor gentleman, A man by whom in no kind he could gain, He hath plac'd me in the height of all his thoughts, Made me companion with the best and chiefest In Yorkshire. He cannot eat without me, Nor laugh without me ; I am to his body As necessary as his digestion. And equally 'do make him whole or sick. And shall I wrong this man 1 Base man ! Ingrate ! Hast thou the power, straight with thy gory hands, To rip thy image from his bleeding heart. To scratch thy name from out the holy book Of his remembrance, and to wound his name That holds thy name so dearf Or rend his heart To whom thy heart was knit and join'd together "? — And yet I must. Then Wendoll, be con- tent! Thus villains, when they would, cannot repent. Jen. What a sti'ange humor is my new master in ! Pray God he be not mad ; if he should be so, I shoidd never have any mind to serve him in Bedlam. *° It may be he 's mad for missing of me. Wen. What, Jenkin ! Where 's your mis- tress *? Jen. Is your worship married'? Wen. Why dost thou ask? Jen. Because you are my master; and if I have a mistress, I would be glad, like a good servant, to do my duty to her. Wen. I mean Mistress Frankford. Jen. Many, sir, her husband is riding out of town, and she went very lovingly to bring him on his way to horse. Do you Jen. Did your worship call? 36 conceive. 37 foolish. 38 a coin with a cross on one side 39 kinship. 40 lunatic asylum. 166 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD see, sir? Here she comes, and here I go. Wen. Vanish ! Exit Jenkin. Enter Mistress Frankford. Mrs. F. You are well met, sir; now, in troth, my husband Before he took horse, had a great desire To speak with you; we sought about the house, Halloo'd into the fields, sent every way, But eould not meet you. Therefore, he enjoin'd me To do unto you his most kind com- mends, — Nay, more : he wills you, as you prize his love. Or hold in estimation his kind friend- ship, To make bold in his absence, and com- mand Even as himself were present in the house ; For you must keep his table, use his serv- ants. And be a present Frankford in his ab- sence. Wen. I thank him for his love. — {Aside.) Give me a name, you, whose infectious tongues Are tipt with gall and poison : as you would Think on a man that had your father slain, Murd'red your children, made your wives base strumpets. So call me, call me so; print in my face The most stigmatic title of a villain, For hatching treason to so true a friend ! Mrs. F. Sir, you are much beholding to my husband; You are a man most dear in his regard. Wen. I am bound unto your husband, and you too. (Aside.) I will not speak to wrong a gentleman Of that good estimation, my kind friend. I will not ; zounds ! I will not. I may choose, And I will choose. Shall I be so mis- led. Or shall I purchase to my father's crest The motto of a villain"? If I say I will not do it, what thing can enforce me"? What can compel me? What sad des- tiny Hath such command upon my yielding thoughts'? I will not; — ha! Some fury pricks me on; The swift fates drag me at their chariot wheel. And hurry me to mischief. Speak I must : Injure myself, wrong her, deceive his trust ! Mrs. F. Are you not well, sir, that you seem thus troubled? There is sedition in your countenance. Wen. And in my heart, fair angel, chaste and wise. I love you ! Start not, speak not, answer not; I love you, — nay, let me speak the rest ; Bid me to swear, and I will call to record The host of Heaven. Mrs. F. The host of Heaven forbid Wen doll should hatch such a disloyal thought? Wen. Such is my fate; to this suit was I born, To wear rich pleasure's crown, or for- tune's scorn. Mrs. F. My husband loves you. Wen. I know it. Mrs. F. He esteems you. Even as his brain, his eye-ball, or his heart. Wen. I have tried it. Mrs. F. His purse is your exchequer, and his table Doth freely serve you. Wen. So I have found it. 3£rs. F. Oh, with what face of brass, what brow of steel. Can you, unblushing, speak this to the face Of the espous'd wife of so dear a friend? It is my husband that maintains your state. — Will you dishonor him that in your power Hath left his whole affairs? I am his wife. It is to me you speak. Wen. O speak no more ; For more than this I know, and have re- corded Within the red-leav'd table of my heart. Fair, and of all belov'd, I was not fear- ful Bluntly to give my life into your hand, And at one hazard all my earthly means. Go, tell your husband ; he will turn me off, ■ And I am then undone. I care not, I; A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 167 'T was for your sake. Perchance, in ratje he '11 kill me ; I care not, 't was for you. Say I incur The general name of villain through the world, Of traitor to my friend ; I care not, I. Beggary, shame, death, scandal, and re- proach, — For you I '11 hazard all. Why, what care I? For you I '11 live, and in your love I '11 die. Mrs. F. You move me, sir, to passion and to pity. The love I bear my husband is as pre- cious As my soul's health. Wen. I love your husband too. And for his love I will engage my life. Mistake me not ; the augmentation Of my sincere affection borne to you Doth no whit lessen my regard to him. I will be secret, lady, close as night; And not the light of one small glorious star Shall shine here in my forehead, to be- wray That act of night. Mrs. F. What shall I say! My soul is wandering, and hath lost her way. Oh, Master Wendoll ! Oh ! Wen. Sigh not, sweet saint ; For evei'y sigh you breathe draws from my heart A drop of blood. Mrs. F. I ne'er offended yet: My fault, I fear, will in my brow be writ. Women that fall, not quite bereft of grace, Have their offenses noted in their face. I blush, and am asham'd. Oh, Master Wendoll, Pray God I be not born to curse your tongue. That hath enchanted me ! This maze I am in I fear will prove the labyrinth of sin. Enter Nicholas behind. Wen. The path of pleasure and the gate to bliss, Which on your lips I knock at with a kiss! Nich, I '11 kill the rogue. Wen. Your husband is from home, your bed 's no blab. 41 secret practices. Nay, look not down and blush ! Exeunt Wendoll and Mistress Frankford. Nich. Zounds ! I '11 stab. Aye, Nick, was it thy chance to come just in the nick? I love my master, and I hate that slave; I love my mistress, but these tricks I like not. My master shall not pocket up this wrong ; I 'II eat my fingers first. What say'st thou, metal? Does not the rascal Wendoll go on legs That thou nuist cut off? Hath he" not ham-strings That thou must hough? Nay, metal, thou shalt stand To all I say. I '11 henceforth turn a spy, And watch them in their close convey- ances.^^ I never look'd for better of that rascal, Since he came miching*^ first into our house. It is that Satan hath corrupted her; For she was fair and chaste. I '11 have an eye In all their gestures. Thus I think of them : If they proceed as they have done before, Wendoll 's a knave, my mistress is a Exit. ACT III. Scene 1. Sir Charles Mountford's house. Enter Sir Charles Mountford and Susan. Sir C. Sister, you see we are driven to hard shift. To keep this poor house we have left unsold. I 'm now enforc'd to follow husbandry, And you to milk; and do we not live well? Well, I thank God. Susan. brother! here's a change. Since old Sir Charles died, in our fa- ther's house. Sir C. All things on earth thus change, some up, some down ; Content 's a kingdom, and I wear that crown. Enter Shafton, with a Sergeant. 42 sneaking. 168 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Shaft. Good morrow, moiTow, Sir Charles ! What ! With your sister, Plying your husbandry'? — Sergeant, stand off ! — You have a pretty house here, and a gar- den, And goodly ground about it. Since it lies So near a lordship that I lately bought, I would fain buy it of you. I will give you Sir C. Oh, pardon me; this house suc- cessively Hath long'd to me and my progenitors Three hundred years. My great-great- grandfather, He in whom first our gentle style '^^^ be- gan, . Dwelt here, and in this ground uTcreast this mole-hill Unto that mountain which my father left me. Where he the first of all our house began, I now the last will end, and keep this house, — This virgin title, never yet deflower'd By any unthrift of the Mountfords' line. In brief, I will not sell it for more gold Than you could hide or pave the ground withal. Shaft. Ha, ha! a proud mind and a beg- gar's purse ! Wliere 's my three hundred pounds, be- sides the use '? ** I have brought it to an execution By course of law. What ! Is my money ready 1 Sir C. An execution, sir, and never tell me You put my bond in suit"? You deal ex- tremely. Shaft. Sell me the land, and I'll acquit you straight. Sir C. Alas, alas! 'T is all trouble hath left me To cherish me and my poor sister's life. If this were sold, our names should then be quite Raz'd from the bead-roll*^ of gentility. You see what hard shift we have made to keep it Allied still to our name. This palm you see, Labor hath glow'd within; her silver brow. That never tasted a rough winter's blast Without a mask or fan, doth with a grace Defy cold winter, and his storms out- face. Susan. Sir, we feed sparing, and we labor hard. We lie uneasy, to reserve to us And our succession this small spot of ground. Sir C. I have so bent my thoughts to hus- bandly,'**' That I protest I scarcely can remember What a new fashion is ; how silk or satin Feels in my hand. W^hy, pride is grown to us A mere, mere stranger. I have quite forgot The names of all that ever waited on me. I cannot name ye any of my hounds, Once from whose echoing mouths I heard all music That e'er my heart desir'd. What should I say?" To keep this place, I have chang'd my- self away. Shaft. Arrest him at my suit! — Actions and actions Shall keep thee in perpetual bondage fast; Nay, more, I '11 sue thee by a late appeal, And call thy former life in question. The keeper is my friend ; thou shalt have irons. And usage such as I '11 deny to dogs. — Away with him. Sir C. You are too timorous. '*''^ But trouble is my master, And I will serve him truly. — My kind sis- ter, Thy tears are of no use to mollify The flinty man. Go to my father's brother, My kinsmen, and allies ; entreat them for me, To ransom me from this injurious man That seeks my ruin. Shaft. Come, irons! Come away; I '11 see thee lodg'd far from the sight of day. Exeunt, except Stisan. Susan. My heart 's so hard'ned with the frost of gTief, Death cannot pierce it through. — Tyrant too fell ! So lead the fiends condemned souls to hell. 43 rank as gentry. 44 interest. 45 list; properly a list of names to be prayed for. 46 economy. 47 Neilson suggests tyrannous. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 169 Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. Malby, hast Shall v/e prison Sir F. Again to thou seen A poor slave better tortur'd hear The music of his voice cry from the grate,*^ Meat, for the Lord's sake? No, no; yet I am not Throughly reveng'd. They say, he hath a pretty wench Unto his sister; shall I, in mercy-sake To him and to his kindred, bribe the fool To shame herself by lewd, dishonest lust? I '11 proffer largely ; but, the deed being done, I '11 smile to see her base confusion. Mai. Methinks, Sir Francis, you are full reveng'd For greater wrongs than he can joroffer you. See where the poor sad gentlewoman stands! Sir F. Ha, ha! Now will I flout her poverty, Deride her fortunes, scoff her base es- tate; My very soul the name of Mountford hates. But stay, my heart ! Oh, what a look did fly To strike ihy soul through with thy piercing eye I am enchanted ; all my spirits are fled, And Avith one glance my envious spleen struck dead. Susan. Acton ! That seeks our blood ! Runs away. Sir F. chaste and fair! Mai. Sir Francis! Why, Sir Francis! Zounds, in a trance 1 Sir Francis! What cheer, man? Come, come, how is 'f? Sir F. Was she not fair"? Or else this judging eye Cannot distinguish beauty. Mai. She was fair. Sir F. She was an angel in a mortal's shape. And ne'er descended from old Mount- ford's line. But soft, soft, let me call my wits to- gether ! A poor, poor wench, to my great adver- sary Sister, whose very souls denounce stern war One against other! How now, Frank, turn'd fool Or madman, whether"? But no ! Master of My perfect senses and directest wits. Then why should I be in this violent humor Of passion and of love? And with a person So different every way, and so oppos'd In all contractions '^^ and still-warring actions? Fie, fie! How I disjiute against my soul ! Come, come ; I '11 gain her, or in her fair quest Purchase my soul free and immortal rest. Exeunt. Scene 2. Frank ford's house. Enter three or four Serving-men, one with, a voider ^° and a wooden knife, to take away all; another the salt and bread; another with the table-cloth and napkins; another the carpet; ^^ Jenkin with two lights after them. Jen. So; march in order, and retire in battle array ! My master and the guests have supp'd already; all's taken away. Here, now spread for the serving-men in the hall ! — Butler, it belongs to your office. But. I know it, Jenkin. What d' ye call the gentleman that supp'd there to-night? Jen. Who? My master? But. No, no ; Master Wendoll, he 's a daily guest. I mean the gentleman that came but this afternoon. Jen. His name 's Master Cranwell. God's light ! Hark, within there ; my master calls to lay more billets ^- upon the fire. Come, come ! Lord, how we that are in office here in the house are troubled ! One spread the carpet in the parlor, and stand ready to snuff the lights ; the rest be ready to prepare their stomachs ! More lights in the hall, there! Come, Nicholas. Exeunt all hut Nicholas. Nich. I cannot eat; but had I Wendell's heart, I would eat that. The rogue grows im- pudent. 48 grated window of the debtor's prison. lo dealings. 50 crumb-tray. 51 table-cloth. 52 logs. 170 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Oh ! I have seen such vile, notorious tricks, Ready to make my eyes dart from my head. I '11 tell my master ; by this air, I will ; Fall what may fall, I '11 tell him. Here he comes. Enter Master Frankford, as it were brushing the crumbs from his clothes with a napkin, as newly risen from sup- per. Frank. Nicholas, what make you here? Why are not you At supper in the hall, among your fel- lows? Nich. Master, I stay'd your rising from the boai'd, To speak with you. Frank. Be brief then, gentle Nicholas; My wife and guests attend ^^ me in the parlor. Why dost thou pause? Now, Nicholas, you want money, And, unthrift-like, would eat into your wages Ere you had earn'd it. Here, sir, 's half- a-crown ; Play the good husband,''^ — and away to supper Nich. By this hand, an honorable gentle- man ! I will not see him wrong'd. Sir, I have serv'd you long; you enter- tain'd me Seven years before your beard ; you knew me, sir, Before you knew my mistress. Frank. What of this, good Nicholas? Nich. I never was a make-bate ^^ or a knave ; I have no fault but one — I 'm given to quarrel, But not with women. I will tell you, master. That which will make your heart leap from your breast. Your hair to startle from your head, your ears to tingle. Frank. What preparation 's this to dis- mal news? Nich. 'Sblood ! sir, I love you better than your wife. I '11 make it good. Frank. You are a knave, and I have much ado With wonted patience to contain my rage, And not to break thy pate. Thou art a knave. I 'U turn you, with your base compari- sons. Out of my doors. Nich. Do, do. There is not room for Wendoll and me too. Both in one house. master, master. That Wendoll is a villain ! Frank. Aye, saucy? Nich. Strike, strike, do strike; yet hear me ! I am no fool ; I know a villain, when I see him act Deeds of a villain. Master, master, the base slave Enjoys my mistiness, and dishonors you. Frank. Thou hast kill'd me with a weapon, whose sharp point Hath prick'd quite through and through my shiv'ring heart. Drops of cold sweat sit dangling on my hairs. Like morning's dew upon the golden flowers, And I am plung'd into strange agonies. What did'st thou say? If any word that touclit His credit, or her reputation. It is as hard to enter my belief. As Dives into heaven. Nich. I can gain nothing: They are two that never wrong'd me. I knew before 'T was but a thankless office, and per- haps As much as is my service, or my life Is worth. All this I know ; but this, and more, More by a thousand dangers, could not hire me To smother such a heinous wrong from you. I saw, and I have said. Frank. (Aside.) 'T is probable. Though blunt, yet he is honest. Though I durst pawn my life, and on their faith Hazard the dear salvation of my soul, Yet in my trust I may be too secure. May this" be true? Oh, may it? Can it be? Is it by any wonder possible? Man, woman, what thing mortal can we trust. When friends and bosom wives prove so unjust? — What instance ^^ hast thou of this strange report ? Nich. Eyes, eyes. 58 await. 54 thrifty man. 55 breeder of qu.arrels. 56 evidence. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 171 Frank. Thy eyes may be deceiv'd, I tell thee ; For should an angel from the heavens drop down, And preach this to me that thyself hast told, He should have much ado to win belief; In both their loves I am so confident. Nich. Shall I discourse the same by cir- cumstance? Frank. No more ! To supper, and com- mand your fellows To attend us and the strangers ! Not a word, I charge thee, on thy life ! Be secret then ; For I know nothing. Nich. I am dumb ; and, now that I have eas'd my stomach,^" I will go fill my stomach. Exit. Frank. Away! Begone! — She is well born, descended nobly; Virtuous her education ; her repute Is in the general voice of all the country Honest and fair; her carriage, her de- meanor. In all her actions that concern the love To me her husband, modest, chaste, and godly. Is all this seeming gold plain copper? But he, that Judas that hath borne my purse. Hath sold me for a sin. O God ! O God ! Shall I put up these wrongs ? No ! Shall I trust The bare report of this suspicious groom, Before the double-gilt, the well-hatch'd ■''^ ore Of their two hearts'? No, I will lose these thoughts; Distraction I will banish from my bi'ow, And from my looks exile sad discon- tent, Their wonted favors in my tongue shall flow; Till I know all, I '11 nothing seem to know. — Lights and a table there ! Wife, Master ' Wendoll, And gentle Master Cranwell ! Enter Mistress Frankford, Master Wen- doll. Master Cranwell, Nicholas, and Jen- 57 anger. r.s of noble origin. 59 shun. so pack. 61 well done. 62 be my partner. kin with cards, carpets, stools, and other necessaries. Frank. ! Master Cranwell, you are a stranger here. And often balk ^^^ my house ; faith, y' are a churl ! — Now we have supp'd, a table, and to cards ! Jen. A pair^o of cards, Nicholas, and a carpet to cover the table ! Where 's Cicely, with her counters and her box? Candles and candlesticks, there ! Fie ! We have such a household of serving- creatures! Unless it be Nick and I, there 's not one amongst them all that can say bo to a goose. — Well said,"^ Ni-ck ! {They spread a carpet: set down lights and cards.) Mrs. F. Come, Mr. Frankford, who shall take my part? ^^ Frank. Marry, that will I, sweet wife. Wen. No, by my faith, when you are to- gether, I sit out. It must be Mistress Frankford and I, or else it is no match. Frank. I do not like that match. Nich. (Aside.) You have no reason, marry, knowing all. Frank. 'T is no great matter, neither. — Come, Master Cranwell, shall you and I take them up? Cran. At your pleasure, sir. Frank. I must look to you, Master Wen- doll, for you '11 be playing false. Nay, so will my wife, too. Nich. (Aside.) Aye, I will be sworn she will. Mrs. F. Let them that are taken playing false, forfeit the set ! Frank. Content; it shall go hard but I'll take you. Cran. Gentlemen, what shall our game be? Wen. Master Frankford, you play best at noddy. ^^ Frank. You shall not find it so; indeed, you shall not. Mrs. F. I can iilay at nothing so well as double-ruff. Frank. If Master Wendoll and my wife be together, there 's no inlaying against them at double-hand. Nich. I can tell yon, sir, the game that Master Wendoll is best at. Wen. What game is that, Nick? 63 This, and the other games mentioned, were all popular at the time. The doubles entendrrx throughout the scene should he noted ; such scenes, punnins: on the terms em- ployed in various games, occur in several Elizabethan plays. 172 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Nich. Marry, sir, knave out of doors. Wen. She and I will take you at lo- dam, Mrs. F. Husband, shall we play at saint? Frank. (Aside.) My saint 's turn'd devil. — No, we '11 none of saint : You are best at new-cut, wife, you '11 play at that. Wen. If you play at new-cut, I 'm soonest hitter of any here, for a Avager. Frank. (Aside.) 'T is me they play on. — Well, you may draw out ; For all your cunning', 't will be to your shame ; I '11 teach you, at your new-cut, a new game. Come, come ! Cran. If you cannot agree upon the game. To post and pair ! Wen. We shall be soonest pairs ; and my good host. When he comes late home, he must kiss the post.'''' Frank. Whoever wins, it shall be to thy cost. Cran. Faith, let it be vide-ruff, and let 's make honors ! Frank. If you make honors, one thing let me crave : Honor the king and queen, except the knave. Wen. Well, as you please for that. — Lift«5 who shall deal? Mrs. F. The least in sight. What are you, Master Wendoll? Wen. I am a knave. Nich. (Aside.) I '11 swear it. Mrs. F. la queen. Frank. (Aside.) A quean,''^ thou should'st say. — Well, the cards are mine : They are the grossest pair'^^ that e'er I felt. Mrs. F. Shuffle, I'll cut: would I had never dealt ! Frank. I have lost my dealing. Wen. Sir, the fault 's in me ; This queen I have more than mine own, you see. Give me the stock ! •"■ Frank. My mind 's not on my game. Many a deal I 've lost ; the more 's your shame. You have serv'd me a bad trick, Master Wend oil. Wen. Sir, you must take your lot. To end this strife. I know I have dealt better with your wife. Frank. Thou hast dealt falsely, then. Mrs. F. What's trumps? Wen. Hearts. Partner, I rub.^^ Frank. (Aside.) Thou robb'st me of my soul, of her chaste love; In thy false dealing thou hast robb'd my heart. — Booty you play ; ^'^ I like a loser stand. Having no heart, or here or in my hand, I will give o'er the set, I am not well. Come, who will hold my cards? Mrs. F. Not well, sweet Master Frank- ford? Alas, what ails you? 'T is some sudden qualm. Wen. How kmg have you been so. Mas- ter Frankford? Frank. Sir, I was lusty, and I had my health. But I grew ill when you began to deal. — Take hence this table ! — Gentle Master Cranwell, Y' are welcome; see your chamber at your pleasure ! I am sorry that this megrim '^° takes me so, I cannot sit and bear you company. — Jenkin, some lights, and show him to his chamber ! Exeunt Cranwell and Jenkin. Mrs. F. A nightgown for my husband; quickly, there ! It is some rheum or cold. Wen. Now, in good faith, This illness you have got by sitting late Without your gown. Frank. I know it. Master Wendoll. Go, go to bed, lest you complain like me! — Wife, prithee, wife, into my bed-cham- ber! The night is raw and cold, and rheu- matic. Leave me my gown and light ; I '11 walk away my fit. Wen. Sweet sir, good night ! Frank. Myself, good night! Exit Wendoll. Mrs. F. Shall I attend you, husband? Frank. No, gentle wife, thou 'It catch cold in thy head. Prithee, begone, sweet ; I '11 make haste to bed. 04 be shut out. 65 cut. 86 strumpet. 67 pack. 08 take all the cards of the suit. 60 "To play booty was to join with confederates to victimize another player." (N. E. T>.) 70 headache. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 173 BIrs. F. No sleep will fasten on mine eyes, you know, Until you come. Exit Mrs. Frankford. Frank. Sweet Nan, I prithee, go ! — I have bethought me ; get me by degrees The keys of all my doors, which I will mould In wax, and take their fair impression, To have by them new keys. This being compast. At a set hour a letter shall be brought me, And when they think they may securely play, They nearest are to danger. — Nick, I must rely Upon thy trust and faithful secrecy. Nich. Build on my faith ! Frank. To bed, then, not to rest ! Care lodges in my brain, grief in my breast. Exeunt. Scene 3. Old Mountford's house. Enter Susan, Old Mount ford, Sandy, Roder, and Tidy. Old Mount. You say my nephew is in great distress ; Vfho brought it to him but his own lewd life? I cannot spare a cross. I must confess, He was my brother's son ; why, niece, what tiien? This is no world in which to pity men. Susan. I was not born a beggar, though his extremes Enforce this language from me. I pro- test No fortune of mine own could lead my tongue To this base key. I do beseech you, uncle, For the name's sake, for Christianity, Nay, for God's sake, to pity his distress. He is denied the freedom of the prison. And in the hole is laid with men con- demn'd ; Plenty he hath of nothing but of irons, And it remains in you to free him thence. Old Mount. Money I cannot spare; men should take heed. He lost my kindred when he fell to need. Exit. Susan. Gold is but earth; thou earth enough shalt have, When thou hast once took measure of thy grave. You know me, Master Sandy, and my suit. Sandy. I knew you, lady, when the old man liv'd; I knew you ere your brother sold his' land. Then you were Mistress Sue, triek'd up in jewels; Then you sung well, play'd sweetly on the lute ; But now I neither know you nor your suit. Exit. Susan. You, Master Roder, was my brother's tenant; Rent-free he plac'd you in that wealthy farm. Of which you are possest. Roder. ' True, he did; And have I not there dwelt still for his sake? I have some business now; but, without doubt. They that have hurl'd him in, will help him out. Exit. Susan. Cold comfort still. Whatsay.you, , cousin Tidy? Tidy. I say this comes of roysting,'^^ swag- gering. Call me not cousin; each man for him- self! Some men are born to mirth, and some to sorrow : I am no cousin unto them that borrow. Exit. Susan. Charity, why art thou fled to heaven. And left all things upon this earth un- even ? Their scoffing answers I will ne'er return, But to myself his grief in silence mourn. ■ Enter Sir Francis and Malhy. Sir F. She is poor, I 'II therefore tempt her with this gold. Go, Malby, in ray name deliver it, And I will stay thy answer. Mai. Fair mistress, as I understand your grief Doth grow from want, so I have here in store A means to furnish you, a bag' of gold, 71 roistering. 174 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Which to your hands I freely tender you. Susan. I thank you, Heavens ! I thank you, gentle sir : God make me able to requite this favor! Mai. This gold Sir Francis Acton sends by me, And prays you — Susan. Acton? God ! That name I 'm born to curse. Hence, bawd; hence, broker! See, I spurn his gold. My honor never shall for gain be sold. Sir F. Stay, lady, stay! Susan. Erom you I '11 posting hie, Even as the doves from feather'd eagles fly. Exit. Sir F. She hates my name, my face; how should I woo? I am disgrac'd in every thing I do. The more she hates me, and disdains my love, The more I am rapt in admiration Of her divine and chaste ijerfeetions. Woo her with gifts I cannot, for all gifts Sent in my name she spurns; with looks I cannot. For she abhors my sight; nor yet with letters, For none she will receive. How then? how then? Well, I will fasten such a kindness .on her. As shall o'ercome her hate and conquer it. Sir Charles, her brother, lies in execu- tion For a great sum of money ; and, besides, The appeal is sued still for my hunts- men's death. Which only I have power to reverse. In her I '11 bury all my hate of him. — Go seek the keeper, Malby, bring him to me! To save his body, I his debts will pay; To save his life, I his appeal will stay. Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene 1. A prison cell. Enter Sir Charles Mount ford, with irons, his feet hare, his garments all ragged and torn. Sir C. Of all on the earth's face most miserable, 72 ceased. Breathe in this hellish dungeon thy la- ments ! Thus like a slave ragg'd, like a felon gyv'd, — That hurls the6 headlong to this base estate. Oh, unkind uncle ! Oh, my friends in- grate ! Unthankful kinsmen ! Mountford 's all too base. To let thy name be fetter'd in disgrace. A thousand deaths here in this grave I die; Fear, hunger, sorrow, cold, all threat my death. And join together to deprive my breath. But that wliich most torments me, my dear sister Hath left ^- to visit me, and from my friends Hath brought no hopeful answer; there- fore, I Divine they will not heli? nn' misery. If it be so, shame, scandal, and con- tempt Attend their covetous thoughts; need make their graves ! Usurers they live, and may they die like slaves ! Enter Keeper. Keep. Knight, be of comfort, for I bring thee freedom From all thy troubles. Sir C. Then, I am doom'd to die: Death is the end of all calamity. Keep. Live ! Your appeal is stay'd ; the execution Of all your debts diseharg'd ; your cred- itors Even to the utmost penny satisfied. In sian whereof your shackles I knock off. You are not left so much indebted to us As for your fees; all is diseharg'd; all paid. Go freely to your house, or where you please ; After long miseries, embrace your ease. Sir C. Thou grumblest out the sweetest music to me That ever organ play'd. — Is this a dream ? Or do my waking senses apprehend The pleasing taste of these applausive ''^ news ? Slave that I was, to wrong such honest friends, 73 joyful. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 175 My loving kinsman, .and my near allies ! Tongue, 1 aviII bite thee for the scandal breatb'd Against such faithful kinsmen ; they are all Compos'd of pity i^.nd compassion, Of melting cliarity and of moving ruth. That which I spoke before was in my rage; They are my friends, the mirrors of this age; Bounteous and free. The noble Mount- ford's race Ne'er bred a covetous thought, or humor base. Enter Susan. Susan. I cannot longer stay from visiting My woful brother. While I could, I kept My hapless tidings from his hojjef ul ear. Sir C. Sister, how much am I indebted to thee And to thy travail ! Susan. What, at liberty"? Sir C. Thou seest I am, thanks to thy in- dustry. Oh! Unto which of all my courteous friends Am I thus bound*? My uncle Mount- ford, he Even of an infant lov'd me; was it he? So did my cousin Tidy; was it he? So Master Roder, Master Sandy, too. Which of all these did this high Idndness do? Susan. Charles, can you mock me in your poverty, Kjiowing your friends deride your mis- ery? Now, I protest I stand so much amaz'd. To see your bonds free, and your irons knock'd off, That I am rapt into a maze of wonder; The rather for I know not by what means This happiness hath chane'd. Sir C. Why, by my uncle, My cousins, and my friends; who else, I pray, Would take upon them all my debts to pay? Susan. Oh, brother! they are men all of flint, Pictures of marble, and as void of pity As chased bears. I begg'd, I sued, I kneel'd, 74 too base in their conduct. (Ward.) 75 remind. Laid open all your griefs and miseries. Which they derided; more than that, de- nied us A part in their alliance; but, in pride, Said that our kindred with our plenty died. Sir C. Drudges too much,'^* — what did they ? Oh, known evil ! Rich fly the poor, as good men slum the devil. Whence should my freedom come? Of whom alive. Saving of those, have I deserv'd so well? Guess, sister, call to mind, remember "'^ me ! These have I rais'd, they follow the world's guise. Whom rich in honor, they in woe despise. Susan. My wits have lost themselves ; let 's ask the keeper! Sir C. Gaoler! Keep. At hand, sir. Sir C. Of courtesy resolve me one de- mand ! What was he took the burden of my debts From off my back, stayed my appeal to death, Discharg'd my fees, and brought me lib- erty ? Keep. A courteous knight, one eall'd Sir Francis Acton. Sir C. Ha ! Acton ! Oh me ! More dis- tress'd in this Than all my troubles ! Hale me back. Double my irons, and my sparing meals Put into halves, and lodge me in a dun- geon More deep, more dark, more cold, more comfortless ! By Acton freed ! Not all thy manacles Could fetter so my heels, as this one word Hath thrall'd my heart; and it must now lie bound In more strict prison than thy stony gaol. I am not free, I go but under bail. Keep. My charge is done, sir, now I have my fees. As we get little, we will nothing leese.'^^ Sir C. By Acton freed, my dangerous op- posite ! WTiy, to what end? On what occasion? Ha! Let me forget the name of enemy. And with indifference balance '''' this high favor ! 76 lose. 77 weigh impartially. 176 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Susan. (Aside.) His love to me, upon my soul, 't is so ! That is the root from whence these strange things grow. Sir C. Had this proceeded from my fa- ther, he That by the law of Nature is most bound Irt offices of love, it had deserv'd My best employment to requite that grace. Had it proceeded from my friends, or him, From them this action had deserv'd my life,— And from a stranger more, because from such There is less execution of good deeds. But he, nor father, nor ally, nor friend, More than a stranger, both remote in blood. And in his heart oppos'd my enemy. That this high bounty should proceed from him, — Oh ! there I lose myself. What should I say. What think, what do, his bounty to re- pay? Susan. You wonder, I am sure, whence this strange kindness Proceeds in Acton; I will tell you, brother. He dotes on me, and oft hath sent me gifts. Letters, and tokens; I refus'd them all. Sir C. I have enough, though poor: my heart is set. In one rich gift to pay back all my debt. Exeunt. Scene 2. Frankford's house. Enter Frankford and Nicholas, with keys. Frank. This is the night that I must play my part, To try two seeming angels. — Where 's my keys? Nich. They are made according to your mould in wax. I bade the smith be secret, gave him money, And here they are. The letter, sir! {Gives Nicholas letter.) Frank. True, take it, there it is; And when thou seest me in my pleas- ant'st vein, T8 influence with. Ready to sit to supper, bring it me ! Nich. I'll do't; make no more question but I '11 do it. Exit. Enter Mistress Frankford, Cranwell, Wendoll, and Jenkin. Mrs. F. Sirrah, 't is six o'clock already struck ; Go bid them spread the cloth, and serve in supper! Jen. It shall be done, forsooth, mistress. Where 's Spigot, the butler, to give us out salt and trenchers'? Exit. Wen. We that have been a hunting all the • day, Come with prepared stomachs. — Master Frankford, We wish'd you at our sport. Frank. My heart was with you, and my mind was on you. — Fie, Master Cranwell ! You are , still thus sad. — A stool, a stool ! Where 's Jenkin, and where 's Nick f 'T is supper time at least an hour ago. What's the best news abroad? Wen. I know none good. Frank. {Aside.) But I know too much bad. Enter Butler and Jenkin, xvith a table- cloth, bread, trenchers, and salt; then exeunt. Cran. Methinks, sii", you might have that interest ^^ In your wife's brother, to be more re- miss "^ In his hard dealing against poor Sir Charles, Who, as I hear, lies in York Castle, needy And in great want. Frank. Did not more weighty business of mine own Hold me away, I would have labor'd peace Betwixt them with all care; indeed I would, sir. Mrs. F. 1 '11 write unto my brother ear- nestly In that behalf. Wen. A charitable deed, And will beget the good opinion Of all your friends that love you, Mis- tress Frankford. 79 lenient. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 177 Frank. That 's you, for one ; I know you love Sir Charles, {Aside.) And my wife too, well. Wen. He deserves the love Of all true gentlemen; be yourselves judge ! Frank. But supper, ho ! — Now, as thou lov'st me, Wendoll, Which I am sure thou dost, be merry, pleasant, And frolic it to-night ! — Sweet Mr. Cran- well, Do you the like ! — Wife, I protest, my heart Was ne'er more bent on sweet alacrity. Where be those lazy knaves to serve in supper? Enter Nicholas. Nich. Here 's a letter, sir. Frank. Whence comes it, and who brought it? NicJi. A stripling that below attends your answer. And, as he tells me, it is sent from York. Frank. Have him into the cellar, let him taste A cup of our March beer; go, make him drink ! Nidi. I '11 make him drunk, if he be a Trojan. 80 Frank. (After reading the letter.) My boots and spurs! Where's Jenkinl God forgive me. How I neglect my business! — Wife, look here ! I have a matter to be tried to-morrow By eight o'clock; and my attorney writes me, I must be there betimes with evidence, Or it will go against me. Whei'e 's my boots f ■Re-enter Jenkin, with boots and spurs. Mrs. F. I hope your business craves no such despatch, That you must ride to-night ? Wen. (Aside.) I hope it doth. Frank. God's me ! No such despatch ? Jenkin, my boots ! Where 's Nick ? Saddle my roan. And the gray dajiple for himself! — Con- tent ye. It much concerns me. — Gentle Master Cranwell, And Master Wendoll, in my absence use 80 good fellow. 81 armed. The very ripest pleasure of my house ! Wen. Lord ! Master Frankford, will you ride to-night? The ways are dangerous. Frank. Therefore will I ride Appointed ^^ well ; and so shall Nick, my man. 3Irs. F. I 'II call you up by five o'clock to-morrow. Frank. No, by my faith, wife, I '11 not trust to that : 'T is not such easy rising in a morning From one I love so dearly. No, by my faith, I shall not leave so sweet a bedfellow. But with much pain. You have made me a sluggard Since I first knew you. 3Irs. F. Then, if you needs will go This dangerous evening, Master Wendoll, Let me entreat you bear him company. Wen. With all my heart, sweet mistress. — My boots, there ! Frank. Fie, fie, that for my private busi- ness I should disease ^- a friend, and be a trouble To the whole house! — Nick! Nich. Anon, sir ! Frank. Bring forth my gelding! — As you love me, sir, Use no more words : a hand, good Master Cranwell ! Cran. Sir, God be your good speed ! Frank. Good night, SAveet Nan; nay, nay, a kiss, and part ! (Aside.) Dissembling lips, you suit ^^ not with my heart. Exeunt Frankford and Nicholas. Wen. (Aside.) How business, time, and hours, all gracious prove. And are the furtherers to my new-born love ! I am husband now in Master Frank- ford's place. And must command the house. — My pleasure is We will not sup abroad so publicly. But in your private chamber, Mistress Frankford. 3Irs. F. Oh, sir ! you are too public in your love. And Master Frankford's wife Cran. Might I crave favor, I would entreat you I might see my chamber. I am on the sudden grown exceeding ill. And would be spar'd from supper. 82 inconvenience. 83 agree. 178 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Wen. Light there, ho ! — See you want nothing, sir, for if you do, You injure that good man, and wrong me too. Cran. I will make bold ; good night ! Exit. Wen. How all conspire To make our bosom ^* sweet, and full en- tire ! Come, Nan, I prithee, let us sup within ! Mrs. F. Oh ! what a clog unto the soul is sin ! We pale offenders are still full of fear ; Every suspicious eye brings danger near; When they, Avhose clear hearts from of- fense are free, Despise report, base scandals do outface. And stand at mere defiance with dis- grace. Wen. Fie, fie ! You talk too like a puri- tan. Mrs. F. You have tempted me to mis- chief. Master WendoU : I have done I know not what. Well, you plead custom; That which for want of wit I granted erst, I now must yield through fear. Come, come, let 's in ; Once over shoes, we are straight o'er head in sin. Wen. My jocund soul is joyful beyond measure ; I '11 be profuse in Frankford's richest treasure. Exeunt. Scene 3. Another part of the house. Enter Cieehj, Jenkin, Butler, and other Serving-men. Jen. My mistress and Master Wendoll, my master, sup in her chamber to-night. Cicely, you are preferr'd, from being the cook, to be chambermaid. Of all the loves betwixt thee and me, tell me what thou think'st of this? Cic. Mum ; there 's an old proverb, — Avhen the cat 's away, the mouse may play. Jen. Now you talk of a cat, Cicely, I smell a rat. Cic. Good words, Jenkin, lest you be call'd to anSAver them ! Jen. Why, God made my mistress an hon- est woman! Are not these good words'? Pray God my new master play not the 84 intimacy. knave with my old master ! Is there any hurt in this'? God send no villainy in- tended; and if they do sup together, pray God they do not lie together! God make my mistress chaste, and make us all His servants ! What harm is there in all this? Nay, more; here in my hand, thou shalt never have my heart, unless thou say, Amen. Cic. Amen; I pray God, I say. Enter Serving-man. Serving-man. My mistress sends that you should make less noise, to lock up the doors, and see the household all got to bed. You, Jenkin, for this night are made the porter, to see the gates shut in. Jen. Thus by little and little I creep into office. Come, to kennel, my masters, to kennel; 'tis eleven o'clock already. Serving-man. When you have lock'd the gates in, you must send up the keys to my mistress. Cic. Quickly, for God's sake, Jenkin ; for I must carry them. I am neither pillow nor bolster, but I know more than both. Jen. To bed, good Spigot ; to bed, good honest serving-creatures; and let us sleep as snug as pigs in pease-straw ! Exeunt. Scene 4. Outside the house. Enter Frankford and Nicholas. Frank. Soft, soft ! We 've tied our geld- ings to a tree. Two flight-shot ®^ off, lest by their thun- dering hoofs They blab our coming back. Hear'st thou no noise? Nich. Hear? I hear nothing but the owl and you. Frank. So ; now my watch's hand points upon twelve, And it is dead midnight. Where are my keys ? Nich. Here, sir. Frank. This is the key that opes my out- ward gate; This, the hall-door; this, the withdraw- ing-chamber ; But this, that door that 's bawd unto my shame, -r* 85 bow-shots. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 179 Fountain and sj^^'iiiS' oi ^^^ iiiy bleeding lliuugiits, Where the most hallowed order and true knot Of nuptial sanctity hath been profan'd. It leads to my polluted bed-chamber, Once my terrestrial heaven, now my earth's hell. The place where sins in all their ripeness dwell. — But I forget myself ; now to my gate ! Nich. It must ojae with far less noise Than Cripplegate,*'' or your plot 's dash'd. Frank. So; reach me mj' dark lantern to the rest ! Tread softly, softly! Nicli. I will walk on eggs this pace. Frank. A general silence hath surpris'd the house, And this is the last door. Astonishment, Fear, and amazement, beat upon my heart, Even as a madman beats upon a drum. Oh, keep my eyes, you Heavens, before I enter, From any sight that may transfix my soul; Or, if there be so black a spectacle, Oh, strike mine eyes stark blind; or, if not so. Lend me such patience to digest my grief. That I may keep this white and virgin hand From any violent outrage, or red mur- der ! — And with that prayer I enter. Exeunt into the house. Scene 5. The hall of the house. Enter Nicholas. Nich. Here's a circumstance!^'' A man may be made cuckold in the time That he 's about it. An *^ the case were mine. As 't it my master's, 'sblood ! (that he makes me swear!) I would have plac'd his aetion,^^ enter'd there ; I would, I would ! Enter Frankford. Frank. Oh ! oh ! Nich. Master! 'Sblood! Master, master! i One of the old 87 formality, gates of London. 88 if. 89 established case. (Ward Frank. Oh me unhappy! I have found them lying Close in each other's arms, and fast asleei^. But that I Avould not damn two precious souls, Bought with my Savior's blood, and send them, laden With all their scarlet sins upon their backs, Unto a fearful judgment, their two lives Had met upon my rapier. Nich. Master, w^iat, have you left them sleeping still? Let me go wake 'em I Frank. Stay, let me pause awhile ! — Oh, God! Oh, God! That it were pos- sible To undo things done; to call back yester- day ; That Time could turn up his swift sandy glass. To untell °° the days, and to redeem these hours ! Or that the sun Could, rising from the west, draw his coach backward; Take from th' account of time so many minutes, Till he had all these seasons call'd again. Those minutes, and those actions done in them. Even from her first offense; that I might take her As spotless as an angel in my arms! But, oh ! I talk of things impossible. And cast beyond the moon.^^ God give me patience; For I will in, and wake them. Exit. Nich. Here's patience perforce! He needs must trot afoot that tires his horse. Enter Wendoll running over the stage in a night-go ivn/'- Frankford after him with his sword drawn; a maid in her smock stays his hand, and clasps hold on him. He pauses for a while. Frank. I thank thee, maid; thou, like the angel's hand, Hast stay'd me from a bloody sacrifice. — Go, villain ; and my wrongs sit on thy soul As heavy as this grief doth upon mine ! his 90 count backwards. impossible wish. ■ ) 91 proverbial for any 92 dressing-gown. 180 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD When thou record'st my many courtesies, And shalt comj^are them with thy treach- erous heart, Lay them together, weigh them equally, — 'T will be revenge enough. Go, to thy friend A Judas ; pray, pray, lest I live to see Thee, Judas-like, hang'd on an elder- tree ! Enter Mistress Frankford in her smock, night-gown, and night-attire* WIrs. F. Oh, by what word, what title, or what name. Shall I entreat your pardon"? Pardon! Oh! I am as far from hoj^ing such sweet grace, As Lucifer from Heaven. To call you husband, — Oh me, most wretched ! I have lost that name; I am no more your wife. Nich. 'Sblood, sir, she swoons. Frank. Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep for thee; And keep thy count'nance, for I '11 blush for thee. Now, I protest, I thmk 't is I am tainted, For I am most asham'd ; and 't is more hard For me to look ujion thy guilty face Than on the sun's clear brow. What would'st thou speak"? Mrs. F. I would I had no tongue, no ears, no eyes. No apprehension, no capacity. When do you spurn me like a dog"? When tread me Under feet ? When drag me by the hair ? Though I deserve a thousand thousand fold, More than you can inflict — yet, once my husband. For womanhood, to which I am a shame. Though once an ornament — even for His sake, That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not my face, Nor hack me with yoi;r sword ; but let me go Perfect and imdef ormed to my tomb ! I am not worthy that I should prevail In the least suit ; no, not to speak to you. Nor look on you, nor to be in your pres- ence ; Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave; 93 rank. This granted, I am ready for my grave. Frank. My God, with patience arm me! — Rise, nay, rise. And I '11 debate with thee. Was it for want Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou not suiDplied With every pleasure, fashion, and neAV toy,— Nay, even beyond my calling"? ^^ Mrs. F. I was. Frank. Was it, then, disability in me ; Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer man"? Mrs. F. Oh, no ! Frank. Did I not lodge thee in my bosom "? Wear thee here in my heart"? Mrs. F. You did. Frank. I did, indeed; witness my tears, I did— Go, bring my infants hither! — {Two Children are brought in.) Oh, Nan ! Oh, Nan !' If neither fear of shame, regard of honor, The blemish of my house, nor my dear love, Could have withheld thee from so lewd a fact,94 Yet for these infants, these young, harm- less souls, On whose white brows thy shame is char- acter'd. And grows in greatness as they wax in years, — Look but on them, and melt away in tears ! — Away with them ; lest, as her spotted body Hath stain'd their names with stripe of bastardy. So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits With her infectious thoughts ! Away with them ! Exeunt Children. Mrs. F. In this one life, I die ten thou- sand deaths. Frank. Stand up, stand up ! I will do nothing rashly. I will retire awhile into my study, And thou shalt hear thy sentence pres- ently. Exit. Mrs. F. 'T is welcome, be it death. Oh me, base strumpet. That, having such a husband, such sweet children. A WOIMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 181 Must enjoy neither! Oh, to redeem my honor, I 'd have this hand cut off, these my breasts sear'd; Be rack'd. strappado'd, put to any tor- ment : Nay, to whip but this scandal out, I 'd hazard The rich and dear redemption of my soul ! He cannot be so base as to forgive me. Nor I so shameless to accept his pardon. Oh, women, women, you that yet have kejit Your holy matrimonial vow unstain'd. Make me your instance; when you tread awiy, Your sins, like mine, will on your con- science lie. Enter Ciceln, Spigot, all the Serving-men, and Jenkin, as newlg come out of bed. All. Oh, mistress, mistress! What have you done, mistress "? Nich. 'Sblood, what a caterwauling: keep you here ! Jen. Lord, mistress, how comes this to pass"? My master is run away in his shirt, and never so much as call'd me to bring his clothes after him. 3Irs. F. See what guilt is ! Here stand I in this place, Asham'd to look my servants in the face. Enter Franhford and Cranivell; ivliom seeing, she falls on her knees. Frank. My words are regist'red in Heaven already. With patience hear me ! I '11 not martyr thee. Nor mark thee for a strumpet; but with usage Of more humility torment thy soul. And kill thee even with kindness. Cran. Master Frankford — Frank. Good Master Cranwell! — Woman, hear thy judgment ! Go make thee ready in thy best attire; Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy apparel ; Leave nothing that did ever call thee mis- tress, Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, I may remember such a woman by. Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber ; 95 nearby. 96 allow. Take with thee every thing which hath thy mark. And get thee to my manor seven mile off, Where live ; — 't is thine ; I freely give it thee. My tenants by ^^ shall furnish thee with wains To carry all thy stuff within two hours; No longer will I limit °^ thee my sight. Choose which of all my servants thou lik'st best. And they are thine to attend thee. Mrs. F. A mild sentence. Frank. But, as thou hop'st for Heaven, as thou believ'st Thy name 's recorded in the book of life, I charge thee never after this sad day To see me, or to meet me; or to send. By word or writing, gift or otherwise, To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends ; Nor challenge any part in my two chil- dren. So farewell, Nan ; for we will henceforth be As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. Mrs. F. How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears; What wants in words, I will supply in tears. Frank. Come, take your coach, your stuff; all must along'. Servants and all make ready; all be- gone ! It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. Exeunt. ACT V. Scene 1. Before Sir Francis Acton's house. Enter Sir Charles Mountford, gentleman- like, and Susan, gentlewoman-like. Susan. Brother, why have you trick'd ^"^ me like a bride. Bought me this gay attire, these orna- ments'? Forget you our estate, our poverty? Sir C. Call me not brother, but imagine me Some barbarous outlaw, or i:ncivil kern ; ^^ 97 adorned. 98 Irish irregular foot-soldier. 182 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD For if thou shutt'st thine eye, and only hear'st The words that I shall utter, thou shalt judge me Some staring ruffian, not thy brother Charles. Oh, sister! Susan. Oh, brother ! what doth this strange language mean? Sir C. Dost love me, sister? Would'st thou see me live A bankrupt beggar in the world's dis- grace, And die indebted to mine enemies'? Wouldst thou behold me stand like a huge beam In the world's eye, a by-word and a scorn ? It lies in thee of these to acquit me free, And all my debt 1 may outstrip by thee. Susan. By me"? Why, I have nothing, nothing left; I owe even for the clothes upon my back; I am not worth Sir C. sister, say not so ! It lies in you my downcast state to raise ; To make me stand on even points with the world. Come, sister, you are rich ; indeed, you are. And in your power you have, without delay Acton's five hundred pounds back to re- pay. Susan. Till now I had thought you lov'd me. By my honor (Which I have kept as spotless as the moon), I ne'er was misti'ess of that single doit "" Which I reserv'd not to supply your wants ; And do you think that I would hoard frpm you? Now, by my hopes of Heaven, knew I the means To buy you from the slavery of your debts (Especially from Acton, whom I hate), I would redeem it with my life or blood ! Sir C. I challenge it, and, kindred set apart. Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to your heart. What do I owe to Acton? Susan. Why, some five hundred pounds ; towards which, I swear, In all the world I have not one denier.^ Sir C. It will not prove so. Sister, now resolve - me : What do you think (and speak your eon- science) Would Acton give, might he enjoy your bed ? Susan. He would not shrink to spend a thousand pound To give the Mouiitfords' name so deep a wound. Sir C. A thousand pound ! I but five hundred owe : Grant him your bed ; he 's paid with in- terest so. Susan. Oh, brother! Sir C. Oh, sister! only this one way, With that rich jewel you my debts nuay pay. In speaking this my cold heart shakes with shame; Nor do I woo you in a brother's name, But in a stranger's. Shall I die in debt To Acton, my grand foe, and you still wear The precious jeAvel that he holds so dear? Susan. My honor 1 esteem as dear and precious As my redemption. Sir C. I esteem you, sister. As dear, for so dear prizing it. Susan. Will Charles Have me cut off my hands, and send them Acton? Rip up my breast, and with my bleeding heart Present him as a token? Sir C. Neither, sister; But hear me in my strange assertion ! Thy honor and my soul are equal in my regard ; Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy shame. His kindness, like a burden, hath sur- charg'd me, And under his good deeds I stooping go, Not with an upright soul. Had I re- main 'd In prison still, there doubtless I had died. Then, unto him that freed me from that prison, Still do I owe this life. What mov'd my foe To enfranchise me? 'T Avas, sister, for your love ; With full five hundred pounds he bought your love ; — And shall he not enjoy it? Shall the weight 99 any small coin. 1 penny. I A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 183 Of all this heavy burden lean on me, And will not you bear part ? You did jjartake The joy of my release; will you not stand In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt? Shall I be only eharg'd? Susan. But that I know These arguments come from an honor'd mind, As in your most extremity of need Scorning to stand in debt to one you hate, — Nay, rather would engage your un^taiu'd honor. Than to be held ingrate, — I should con- demn you. I see. your resolution, and assent ; So Charles will have me, and I am eon- tent. Sir C. For this I trick'd you up. Susan. But here 's a knife. To save mine honor, shall slice out my life. Sir C. I know thou pleasest me a thou- sand times More in that resolution than thy grant. — Observe her love; to soothe it to my suit, Her honor she will hazard, though not lose; To bring me out of debt, her rigorous hand Will pierce her heart, — wonder! — that will choose, Rather than stain her blood, her life to lose. Come, you sad sister to a woful brother, This is the gate. I '11 bear him such a present. Such an acquittance for the knight to seal. As will amaze his senses, and surprise With admiration all his fantasies. Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. Susan. Before his unchaste thoughts shall seize on me, 'T is here shall my imprison'd soul set free. Sir F. How ! Mountf ord with his sister, hand in hand ! What miracle's afoot? Mai. It is a sight Begets in me much admiration.^ Sir C. Stand not amaz'd to see me thus attended ! Acton, I owe thee money, and, being un- able 3 wonder. To bring thee the full sum in ready coin, Lo ! for thy more assurance, here 's a pawn, — My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste honor I prize above a million. Here! Nay, take her; She 's worth your money, man ; do not forsake her. Sir F. I would he were in earnest ! Susan. Impute it not to my immodesty. My brother, being rich in nothing else But in his interest that he hath in me. According to his poverty hath brought you Me, all his store; whom, howsoe'er you prize. As forfeit to your hand, he values highly, And would not sell, but to acquit your debt, For any emperor's ransom. Sir F. Stern heart, relent, Thy former cruelty at length repent ! Was ever known, in any former age. Such honorable, wrested* courtesy"? Lands, honors, life, and all the world forego. Rather than stand engag'd to such a foe ! Sir C. Acton, she is too poor to be thy bride. And I too much oppos'd to be thy brother. There, take her to thee; if thou hast the heart To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey; To blur our house, that never yet was stain'd ; To murder her that never meant thee harm ; To kill me now, whom once thou sav'dst from death : — Do them at once ; on her all these rely. And perish with her spotless chastity. Sir F. You overcome me in your love, Sir Charles. I cannot be so cruel to a lady I love so dearly. Since you have not spar'd To engage your reputation to the world, Your sister's honor, which you prize so dear, Nay, all the comforts which you hold on earth. To grow out of my debt, being your foe, — Your honoi-'d thoughts, lo ! thus I recom- pense. 4 over-wrought. 184 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Your metamorphos'd foe receives your gift In satisfaction of all former wrongs. This jewel I will wear here in my heart ; And where before I thought her, for her wants, Too base to be my bride, to end all strife, I seal you my dear brother, her my wife. Susan. You still exceed us. I will yield to fate, And learn to love, where I till now did hate. Sir C. With that enchantment you have charm'd my soul And made me rich even in those very words ! I pay no debt, but am indebted more; Rich in your love, I never can be poor. Sir F. All's mine is yours; we are alike in state ; Let 's knit in love Avhat was oppos'd in hate ! Come, for our nuptials we will straight provide. Blest only in our brother and fair bride. Exeunt. Scene 2. Frank-ford's house. Enter Cramvell^ Frankford, and Nicholas. Cran. Why do you search each room about your house. Now that you have despatch'd your wife away ? Frank. Oh, sii", to see that nothing may be left That ever was my wife's. I lov'd her dearly ; And when I do but think of her unkind- ness. My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment, I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire,^ Nor anything that ever was call'd hers, Left me, by which I might remember her. — Seek round about. Nich. 'Sblood! master, here's her lute flung in a corner. Frank. Her lute ! God ! Upon this instrument Her fingers have run quick division," Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts. These frets have made me pleasant, that have now Frets of my heart-strings made. Mas- ter Cran well ! Oft hath she made this melancholy weod, Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance. Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain To her own ravishing voice; which being well strung. What pleasant strange airs have they jointly sung! — Post with it after her ! — Now nothing 's left; Of her and hers I am at once bereft. Nich. I'll 7-ide and overtake her; do my message, And come back again. Exit. Cran. Meantime, sir. if you please, I'll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him Of what hath past betwixt you and his sister. Frank. Do as you please. — How ill am I bested, To be a widower ere my wife be dead ! Exeunt. Scene 3. A country road. Enter Mistress Frankford, with Jcnkin, her maid Cicely, her Coachmen, and three Carters. Mrs. F. Bid my coach stay ! Why should I ride in state, Beinc: hurl'd so low down by the hand of fate? A seat like to my fortunes let me have, — Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave ! Jen. Comfort, good mistress; you have watered your coach with tears already. You have but two miles now to go to your manor. A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors; for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now. Cic. Good mistress, be of good cheer! Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not; we all mourn to see you so sad. Carter. Mistress, I spy one of my land- lord's men Come riding post : 't is like he brings some news. 5 wire used to support a ruff. 6 variation. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS ISf) Mrs. F. Comes he from Master Frank- ford, he is welcome; So are his news, because they come from him. Enter Nicholas. Nich. There ! Mrs. F. I know the lute. Oft have I sung to thee; We both are out of tune, both out of time. Nich. Would that had been the worst in- strument that e'er you played on ! My master commends him to ye ; there 's all he can find that was ever yours; he hath nothing- left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart, and he could afford you that! All that I have to de- liver you is this : he prays you to forget him ; and so he bids you farewell. Mrs. F. I thank him; he is kind, and ever was. All you that have true feeling of my grief, That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, Gird me about, and help me with your tears To wash my sjDotted sins ! My lute shall groan ; It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. Enter Wendoll behind. Wen. Pursu'd with horror of a guilty soul, And with the sharp scourge of repent- ance lasli'd, I fiy from mine own shadow. my stars ! What have my parents in their lives de- serv'd. That you should lay this penance on their son? Wlien I but think of Master Frankf ord's love. And lay it to my treason, or compare My murdering him for his relieving me, It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash, To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl, Asham'd of day, live in these shadowy woods. Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast. Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her. {Seeing Mistress Frankf ord.) my sad fate ! . Here, and so far from home, and thus attended ! God ! I have divorc'd the truest tur- tles '' That ever liv'd togethei", and, being di- vided. In several places make their several moan; She in the fields laments, and he at home ; So poets write that Orpheus made the trees And stones to dance to his melodious harp, Meaning the rustic and the bai'barous hinds, That had no understanding part in them : So she from these rude carters tears ex- tracts. Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise. And draw down rivers from their rocky eyes. Mrs. F. (To Nicholas.) If you return unto my master, say (Though not from me, for I am all un- worthy To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue) That you have seen me weep, wish my- self dead ! Nay, you may say, too, for my vow is pass'd, Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. This to your master you may say and swear ; For it is writ in heaven, and decreed here. Nich. I'll say you wept; I'll swear you made me sad. Why, how now, eyes'? What now'? What's here to do'? 1 'm gone, or I shall straight turn baby too. Wen. (Aside.) I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire. Curs'd be the fruits of my unchaste de- sire ! Mrs. F. Go, break this lute upon my coach's wheel, As the last music that I e'er shall make, — Not as my husband's gift, but my fare- well 7 turtle doves. 186 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD To all earth's joy; and so your master tell! Nich. If I can for crying. Wen. {Aside.) Grief, have done, Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run. Mrs. F. You have beheld the wofull'st wretch on earth, — A woman made of tears; would you had words To express but what you see ! My in- ward grief No tongue can utter; yet unto your power You may describe my sorrow, and dis- close To thy sad master my abundant woes. Nich. I '11 do your commendations.^ Mrs. F. Oh, no! I dare not so presume; nor to my chil- dren ; I am diselaim'd in both ; alas ! I am. Oh, never teach them, when they come to speak. To name the name of mother : chide their tongue. If they by chance light on that hated word; Tell them 't is naught ; for when that word they name. Poor, pretty souls ! they harp on their own shame. Wen. {Aside.) To recompense their wrongs, what canst thou do? Thou hast made her husbandless, and childless too. Mrs. F. I have no more to say. — Speak not for me; Yet you may tell your master what you see Nich. I 'il do 't. Exit. Wen. {Aside.) I'll speak to her, and comfort her in grief. Oh, but her wound cannot be cur'd with words ! No matter, though ; I '11 do my best good will To work a cure on her whom I did kill. Mrs. F. So, now unto my coach, then to my home, So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste Of any cates ° that may preserve my life. I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest ; But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white. Sweet Savior, to thy hands I yield my sprite. Wen. {Coming forward.) Mistress Frankf ord ! Mrs. F. Oh, for God's sake, fly ! The devil doth come to tempt me, ere I die. My coach! — This sin, that with an angel's face Conjur'd ^° mine honor, till he sought my wrack, In my repentant eye seems ugly, black. Exeunt all except Wendell and Jenkin; the Carters whistling. Jen. What, my young master, that fled in his shirt ! How come yuu by your clothes again "? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha' ye not, think you? \Yhat, shall I serve you still, or cleave to the old house? Wen. Hence, slave ! Away, with thy un- season'd mirth ! Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, and howl. Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on fate. Thou art not for my turn. Jen. Marry, an you will not, another will ; farewell, and be hang'd ! Would you had never come to have kept this coil ^^ within our doors ! We shall ha' you run away like a sprite again. Exit. Wen. She 's gone to death ; I live to want and woe. Her life, her sins, and all upon my head. And I must now go wander, like a Cain, In foreign countries and remoted climes, Where the rejDort of my ingratitude Cannot be heard. I '11 over first to France, And so to Germany and Italy ; Where, when I have recover'd, and by travel Gotten those perfect tongues,^" and that these rumors May in their height abate, I will re- turn : And I divine (however now dejected). My worth and ]iarts being by some great man prais'd. At my return I may in court be rais'd. Exit. 8 present your re- spects. 9 food. 10 seduced by his charm. 11 made this trouble. 12 those languages perfectly. A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 187 Scene 4. Before the Manor House. F.nter Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Cranwell, Malby, and Susan. Sir. F. Brother, and now my wife, I think these troubles, Fall on my head by justice of the heavens, For being' so strict to you in your ex- tremities ; But Ave are now aton'd.^^ I would my sister Could with like happiness o'ercome her griefs As we have ours. Susan. You tell us. Master Cranwell, won- drous things Touching the patience of that gentleman, With what strange virtue he demeans ^^ his grief. Cran. I told you Avhat I was a witness of; It was my fortune to lodge there that night. Sir F. Oh, that same villain, WendoU ! 'T was his tongue That did corrupt her; she was of herself Chaste and devoted well. Is this the house ? Cran. Yes, sir; I take it, here your sister lies. Sir F. My brother Frankford show'd too mild a spirit In the revenge of such a loathed crime. Less than he did, no man of spirit could do. I am so far from blaming his revenge. That I commend it. Had it been my ease. Their souls at once had from their breasts been freed ; Death to such deeds of shame is the due meed. Enter Jenkin and Cicely. Jen. Oh, my mistress, my mistress ! my poor mistress ! Cicely. Alas ! that ever I was born ; what shall I do for my poor mistress*? Sir C. Why, what of her? Jen. Oh, Lord, sir ! she no sooner heard that her brother and her friends had come to see how she did, but she, for very shame of her guilty conscience, fell into such a swoon, that we had much ado to get life into her. Susan. Alas, that she should bear so hard a fate ! Pity it is repentance comes too late. Sir F. Is she so weak in body*? Jen. O sir, I can assure you there 's no hope of life in her; for she will take no sust'nance : she hath plainly starv'd her- self, and now she is as lean as a lath. She ever looks for the good hour. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen of the coun- try are come to comfort her. Exeunt. Scene 5. Mistress Frankford's Bed- chamber. Mistress Frankford in bed; enter Sir Charles Mountford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, and Susan. Mai. How fare you. Mistress Frankford? Mrs. F. Sick, sick, oh, sick ! Give me some air, I pray you ! Tell me, oh, tell me, where is JMaster Frankford ? Will not he deign to see me ere I die? Mai. Yes, Mistress Frankford ; divers gentlemen, Your loving neighbors, Avith that just re- quest Have mov'd, and told him of your Aveak estate : Who, though Avith much ado to sxei be- lief, Examining of the general circumstance. Seeing your sorroAv and your penitence, And hearing thereAvithal the great de- sire You have to see him, ere you left the Avorld, He gave to us his faith to folIoAV us, And sure he Avill be here immediately. Mrs. F. You have half reviv'd me with the pleasing neAvs, Raise me a little higher in my bed. Blush I not, broth^er Acton? Blush I not. Sir Charles? Can you not read my fault Avrit in my cheek? Is not my crime there? Tell me, gentle- men. Sir C. Alas, good mistress, sickness hath not left you Blood in your face enough to make you blush. 13 reconciled. 14 exercises. 188 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mrs. F. Then, sickness, like a friend, my fault would hide. — Is my husband come"? My soul but tar- ries His arrive ; then I am fit for heaven. Sir F. I came to chide you, but my words of hate Are tuni'd to pity and compassionate g-rief. I came to rate ^^ you, but my brawls, you see, Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. — Here 's Master Frankford now. Enter Frankford. Frank. Good morrow, brother; morrow, gentlemen ! God, that hath laid his cross upon our heads, Might (had He pleas'd) have made our cause of meeting On a more fair and more contented ground ; But He that made us made us to this woe. Mrs. F. And is he come"? Methinks that voice I know. Frank. How do you, woman? Mrs. F. Well, Master Frankford, well; but shall be better, I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe. Out of your grace and your humanity, To take a spotted strumpet by the hand? Frank. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds. Than now 't is gripp'd by me. God par- don them That made us first break hold ! Mrs. F. Amen, amen! Out of my zeal to Heaven, whither I 'm now bound, I was so impudent to wish you here ; And once more beg your ]iardon. O good man, And father to my children, pardon me. Pardon, oh, pardon me : my fault so heinous is. That if you in this world forgive it not. Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees, That kneel I cannot; but on my heart's knees My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet, To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, oh, pardon me ! Frank. As freely, from the low depth of my soul, As my Redeemer hath forgiven His death, I jDaixlon thee. I will shed tears for thee; pray with thee; And, in mere pity of thy Aveak estate, I '11 wish to die with thee. All. So do we all. Nich. So will not I ; I '11 sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not die. Sir F. Oh, Master Frankford, all the near alliance I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee. You are my brother by the nearest way; Her kindred hath fall'n of¥, but yours doth stay. Frank. Even as I hope for pardon, at that day When the Great Judge of Heaven in scarlet sits. So be thou pardon'd ! Though thy rash offence Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears Unite our souls. Sir C. Then comfort. Mistress Frank- ford! You see your husband hath forgiven your fall; Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul ! Susan. How is it with you? Sir F. How do you feel yourself? Mrs. F. Not of this world. Frank. 1 see you are not, and I weep to see it. My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ! Both those lost names I do restore thee back. And with this kiss I wed thee once again. Though thou art wounded in thy honor'd name. And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest. Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. Mrs. F. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free; Once more thy wife, dies thus embracing thee.^^ (Dies.) 15 upbraid. 10 Verity suggests, Once more (i. e. Kiss me once more) ; thy wife dies, etc. A WOIVIAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 189 Frank. New-married, and new-widow'd. — Ob ! she 's dead, And a cold grave must be her nuptial bed. Sir C. Sir, be of good comfort, and your heavy sorrow Part equally amongst us; storms divided Abate their force, and with less rage are guided. Cran. Do, Master Frankford; he that hath least part, Will find enough to drown one troubled heart. Sir F. Peace with thee. Nan ! — Brothers and gentlemen. All we that can plead interest in her grief. Bestow upon her body funeral tears ! Brother, had you with threats and usage bad Punish'd her sin, the grief of her of- fense Had not with such true sorrow touch'd her heart. Frank. I see it had not ; therefore, on her grave Will I bestow this funeral epitaph, Which on her marble tomb shall be en- grav'd. In golden letters shall these words be fill'd;!^ Here lies she whom her husband's kind- ness kilVd. THE EPILOGUE. An honest crew, disposed to be merry, Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine. The drawer brought it, smiling like a cherry. And told them it was pleasant, neat ^^ and fine. ''Taste it," quoth one. He did so. "Fie !" quoth he; "This wine was good ; now 't runs too near the lee." " Another sipp'd, to give the wine his due, And said unto the rest it drunk too flat ; The third said it was old ; the fourth, too new; "Nay," quoth the fifth, "the sharpness likes '^^ me not." Thus, gentlemen, you see how, in one hour, The wine was ncAv, old, flat, sharp, sweet, and sour. Unto this wine we do allude ~^ our play, Which some will judge too trivial, some too grave : You as our guests we entertain this day, And bid you welcome to the best we have. Excuse us, then; good wine may be dis- grac'd, When every several mouth hath sundry taste. 17 cut and filled in with gold. (N.) 18 pure. 19 pleases. 20 compare. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER PHILASTER Francis Beaumont (1585-1616) came of an old Leicestershire family, his father being a Justice of Common Pleas. He entered Ox- ford in 1597, and the Middle Temijle as a law student in 1600. He may have been writing for the stage as early as 1605, and was soon working in collaboration witli Fletcher. He cannot be traced on the stage after 1612. He died a montli before Shakes- peare, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. John Fletcher (1579-1625) was the son of a clergyman wlio rose to be liisliop of London. From the time that he entered Cambridge in 1591 we lose sight of him until he appears in 1607 as a dramatist. He continued active as a playwright till his death of the plague, collaborating at first with Beaumont, after- ward with Shakespeare, Massinger, Field, and others. Tradition has it tliat Beaumont and Fletcher lived together in terms of closest intimacy on the Bankside. In the share which each contributed to the work going under their names there has been great in- terest from their own day to ours, but only six or seven plays are now believed to be of their joint authorship. To Beaumont and Fletcher is usually as- cribed the honor of introducing to the Eng- lish stage a new type of play, the tragi- comedy, or, as it has sometimes been loosely called, the romance. Philaster was staged somewhere between 1608 and 1610. By that time Shakespeare had perfected romantic love-comedy, introduced by Lyly, chronicle- history, and tragedy; Ben .Jonson had intro- duced the comedy of humors, Jonson and Mid- dleton had established realistic comedy, and the vogue of domestic drama was practically over. Realism, owing largely to Jonson's in- fluence, had been the prevailing force for a number of years, and the time was ripe for a swing of the pendulum of popular taste back toward romanticism. Into the vexed ques- tion of priority between Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, specifically between the dates of production of Cymbeline and Philaster, it is not profitable here to venture. The more generally accepted opinion is to the effect that the younger dramatists were the innovators; certain it is that to them we owe the popularization and fixing of the chief features of the new type. In order to account for the wide differ- ence in spirit and manner between this tragi- comedy and earlier work it is necessary to understand certain social changes which had been taking place, liie drama of 1580-1600 is marked by a very healthy tone; during the next ten years an element of decadence crept in, and, broadly speaking, the drama degenerated steadily until the closing of the theaters in 1642. Times had changed since the brave days of Queen Bess. As G. C. Macaulay says (Camb. llist. Engl. Lit., VI. 121): "The genuinely national interest in the drama which especially characterized the last fifteen years of Elizabeth had, to a great extent, passed away, and the taste of the court had become gradually more and more the prevailing influence." Now the court of James was morally much less sound than that of Elizabeth. Corruption, political and social, was rife, and as the drama in- creasingly came to be the plaything of the court it reflected with increasing faithfulness the moral tone of the court. The immediate effect was a stimulation to greater brilliance, but at the expense of depth and a true inter- pretation of national life. " Closely con- nected with the want of moral earnestness was the demand for theatrical entertain- ments which did not make any serious ap- peal to the intellect; and hence, on the one hand, the exaggerated love of pageantry, which was gratified by the magnificence of the masques presented at court, and, on the other, the growing preference . . . for plots full of interesting events and surprising turns of fortune, rather than such as were de- veloped naturally from situation and char- acters: the result being a comparative neg- lect of character interest, and a disregard for the principle of artistic unity" (Camh. Hist., VI. 122). To be purveyors of entertainment of this new sort for court audiences Beau- mont and Fletcher were by birth and breed- ing well fitted. We get with them for the first time men of good family writing for the stage and it is not surprising that they should have been leaders in a new court drama. Philaster is so thoroughly typical an ex- ample of Beaumont and Fletcher's tragi- comedy that an analysis of it along the lines suggested by Professor Thorndike's study will serve to characterize the genre. The scene of the play is Sicily, but so far as realism of setting is concerned it might be anywhere else in the world; the locality of these plays is perfectly immaterial — the action always oc- curs in a No-man's Land of romance. As 190 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 191 usual however, in Elizabethan drama, the speech and manner of the inhabitants even of No-man"s Land occasionally bear a strange resemblance to those of the citizens of a more familiar city on the banks of the Tliames ; the captain's oration to the mob might be delivered by Simon Eyre to a band of shoe- maker apprentices, and it is with a right London swagger that the scene goes. The plot, probably invented, is highly ingenious, very complicated, and utterly improbable. With a story of pure sentimental love is con- trasted one of base sensual passion ; from the conflict of the two sorts of love arise the ' complications, for upon the discovery of IVlegra's intrigue with Pharamond hangs her spiteful accusation regarding Arethusa and the supposed Bellario, the working out of which hlls tiie rest of the play. The action is developed by a series of striking situations, each of which is carefully planned to secure the greatest degree of theatrical effectiveness, regardless of its probability or improbability. The play begins on a note of excitement in Philaster's almost hysterical defiance of Pharamond, capped by an obviously feigned submission, followed by a surprise as Arethusa woos Philaster and the rivals are again brought into Conflict. Between two scenes of lust is laid the strongly contrasting, sentimental conversation of Arethusa and Bel- lario. The fourth scene of act 11 is a good illustration of a situation developed for its own sake. V\'ith its cleverly arranged e.xits and entrances, its working up to the unex- pected appearance of Megra on the balcony, and her sensational charge, it is most skil- fully handled; but we should note tliat the revelation of the intrigue, out of which all possible effect is obtained, has no permanent interest of its own, and that the one point in which the scene advances plot is in the rousing of suspicion about Arethusa, which could have been done far more simply. The appeal of the third act is mainly through im- passioned rhetoric. Replete with sensation are the wood scenes of act IV, with turn and counterturn, surprising meetings and equally surprising exits, culminating in the amazing episodes where Philaster wounds Arethusa and the sleeping Bellario. Probability would suggest that in the third scene Bellario, who could not very well help seeing that Are- thusa's life was endangered, might easily have prevented bloodshed by revealing his identity, but in that event, of course, the, play would have ended then and there; Bellario, there- fore, keeps silence and meekly disappears at Philaster"s command. The conduct of the rest of the scene is highly ingenious as Bel- lario takes on himself the crime of wound- ing Arethusa, while Philaster, not to be out- done in generosity, crawls out from, under his bush to confess his guilt. The union of Philaster and Arethusa in act V seems to clear her honor, though the charge against her has never been refuted, but we are in dif- ficulties once more when the king pronounces bis sentence of death on the lovers. At this critical juncture the mob constitutes itself a dcits ex macliina, and Philaster "s quelling of the riot seems to establish him in favor. Here Megra, who has almost been forgotten, reiterates her charge, and Philaster is on the point of killing himself when Bellario makes his confession. Ihe skill with which this denouement is secured is undeniable, as is also the artihciality of structure wliich makes it possible. No better example could be found of the use of surprise in tragi- comedy, for the audience is as much astounded as are the persons of the play by Bellario's metamorphosis. Coleridge has called at- tention to Shakespeare's preference for the "expectation method" of denouement as con- trasted with the " surprise method." Shakes- peare uses the former consistently; with him, as, for instance, in the church scene in Much Ado About Xotliing, no character assumes dis- guise without informing the audience of the fact and its purpose. The audience is therefore at all times more cognizant of the true situa- tion than are the persons of the play — is sure that the truth will be revealed in time to avert a tragic conclusion, and the play is kept in the realm of comedy. The sole intention of Beaumont and Fletcher, on the contrary, is to provide as sensational an ending as pos- sible, and they delight in harrowing the feel- ings of the audience till the last moment. Where in Shakespeare the spectators think of the characters, their emotions, and their behavior in the situation, in tragicomedy their attention is directed to the event itself. The violent contrast of tragic and comic feel- ing involved in the surprise method is an essential characteristic of tragicomedy. The gist of the complications in Philaster is ex- pressed in Philaster's reproach to Bellario in the last scene : " .■Vll these jealousies Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered What now we know." Such stressing of plot, or, more accurately, of situation, is practically certain to result in a slurring of characterization. Anything like psychological analysis or logical develop- ment of character is sacrificed to immediate theatrical effectiveness. The behavior o^ Philaster is a case in point. When viewed coolly he stands forth a cad of deepest dye. His readiness to believe the worst of Are- thusa in the face of her own and Bellario's protestations of innocence shakes our confi- dence in him. and when this egregious hero attempts to kill ffrst his mistress and later a sleeping boy all semblance of consistency and lifelikeness is destroyed. Most of the characters are exaggerated or intensified on some one side ; they are too indubitably bad or too angelically good. Euphrasia's senti- mental devotion, Megra's lustfulness, Phara- 192 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD mond's poltroonery, Pliilaster's sensibility, are emphasized to the point of impossibility. Essentially they are not much more than types, which appear again and again in tragi- comedy and the later Fletcherian romantic tragedy. As always, the chief figures are of high rank, and make no impression of reality. Lamb's well-known apology for the behavior of the people in Kestoration comedy on the ground that they live in a world of their own, like fairies, might be applied to Phil- aster, Bellario, Megra, and the rest. Whatever criticism may be passed upon plotting and characterization, no dissent is possible from the unanimous opinion as to the dramatic propriety and poetic beauty of Beaumont and Fletcher's verse. Smooth, easy-rvnming, adapting itself with perfect facility to the action, as adequate for the ex- pression of frantic passion or heart-broken pathos as for the badinage of courtiers, ever W'ithout strain or visible effort, it is the per- fection of dramatic blank verse. Nothing quite like it had been heard on the Elizabethan stage before; small wonder that it delighted the auditors and readers of its own day, and that it was regarded by the Restoration as the perfect model of dramatic dialogue. At its best it has a haunting beauty, especially when Arethusa or Bellario is speaking. Bel- lario's reply to Philaster's " Oh, but thou dost not know What 'tis to die " — " Yes, I do know, my lord : 'Tis less than to born; a lasting sleep, A quiet resting from all jealousy, A thing we all pursue; I know, besides, It is but giving over of a game That must be lost " ; and Bellario's speech in V. ii: " Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing Worthy your noble thoughts; 't is not a life, 'T is but a piece of childhood thrown away " — the exquisite tenderness of these is beyond praise. On the basis of stylistic differences at- tempts have been made to assign various parts of tlie play to one or the other of the joint authors, and while such identifications are al- ways dangerous, it may be well to summarize the conclusions reached by Thorndike and Gayley, two of the most careful and recent of investigators. To Beaumont are assigned Li (to entrance of King), ii; II. i, ii (to en- trance of Megra, Gayley), iii, iv (to re-en- trance of Dion) ; III. 1, ii (in part) ; IV. i, ii, iii, iv; V. i, ii, v. To Fletcher: I. i (from entrance of King) ; II. ii (only from entrance of Megra, Gayley), iv. (from re-entrance of Dion) ; III. "ii (in part) ; V. iii, iv. This gives to Beaumont much the greater share in the composition, and most of the finest poetry of the play, like Philaster's descrip- tion of Bellario in I. ii, and all the wood scenes. Philaster was popular in its, o\vn day, held the stage up to the closing of the theaters, was put on as soon as they reopened (Pepys saw it in 1G61 and 1668), and had several revivals in the eighteenth century. Its theatrical effectiveness and the astonishing brilliance of the verse are quite sufficient to account for 'its longevity, and its importance in the Jiistory of the drama is enhanced by the fact that in tragicomedy may be found the roots of the heroic drama of the Restora- tion. PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING By FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS The King of Sicily. Philaster, Heir to the Crown. Phabamond, Prince of Spain. Dion, a Lord. Clereaiont, 1 Nohle Gentlemen, his associ- Thrasiline, J ates. An Old Captain. Five Citizens. A Country Fellow. Two Woodmen. ACT L Scene 1. The presence chamber in the palace. Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. Cle. Here's nor lords nor ladies. Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at The King's Guard and Train. Arethusa, Daughter of the King. Euphrasia, Daughter of Dion, but disguised like a Page and called Bellario. Megra, a Jasoivious Lady. Galatea, a xcise, modest Lady attending the Princess. Two other Ladies. Scene. — ^Sicily. it. They reeeiv'd strict charge from the King to attend here; besides, it was boldly published that no officer should forbid any gentleman that desired to at- tend and hear. Cle. Can you guess the cause? _ Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 193 Prince that 's come to marry our king- dom's lieir and be our sovereign. Thra. Many tliat will seem to know much say she looks not on him like a maid in love. Dion. Faith, sir, the nuiltitude, that sel- dom know any thing but their own opin- ions, speak that they Avould have; but the prince, before his own aj^i^roach, re- ceiv'd so many eonlident messages from the state, that I think she 's resolv'd to be rul'd. Cle. Sir, it is thought, witli her ho shall enjoy both these kingdoms of Sicily and Calabria. Dion. Sir, it is without controversy so meant. But 't will be a ti'oublesome la- bor for him to enjoy both these kingdoms with safety, the right heir to one of tliem living, and living so virtuously: espe- cially, the people admiring the braveiy of his mind and lamenting his injuries. Cle. Who? Philaster? Dion. Yes; whose father, we all know, was by our late King of Calabria un- righteously deposed from his fruitful Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those wars, which I would give my hand to be washed from. Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state-policy will not let me know Avhy, Philaster being heir to one of these kingdoms, the King should suffer him to w"alk abroad with such free liberty. Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more constant than to inquire after state- news. But the King, of late, made a hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicily and his own, with offering but to im- prison Philaster; at which the city was in arras, not to be charm'd down by any state-order or proclamation, till they saw Philaster ride through the streets pleas'd and without a guard : at which they threw their hats and their arms from them ; some to make bonfires, some to drink, all for his deliverance : which wise men say is the cause the King la- bors to bring in the power of a foreign nation to awe his own with. Enter Galatea, a Lady, and Megra. Thra. See, the ladies ! W^iat 's the first ? Dion. A wise and modest gentlewoman tliat attends the princess. Cle. The second"? Dion. She is one that may stand still dis- creetly enough and ill-favor'dly dance her measure; simper when she is courted by her friend, and slight her husband. Cle. The last? D'on. Faith, I think she is one whom thg state keeps for the agents of our con- federate princes; she'll cog ^ and lie with a whole army, before the league shall break. Her name is common through the kingdom, and the trophies of her dishonor advanced beyond Her- cules' Pillars.- She loves to try the several constitutions of men's bodies; and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of her own body by making experiment upon it for the good of the common- wealth. Cle. She 's a profitable member. Meg. Peace, if you love me! You shall see these gentlemen stand their ground and not court us. Gal. What if they should? La. What- if they should ! Meg. Nay, let her alone. — What if they should? Why, if they should, I say they were never abroad. What foreigner would do so? It writes them directly untravell'd. Gal. Why, what if they be? La. What if they be ! Meg. Good madam, let her go on. — ^What if they be? Why, if they be, I will justify, they cannot maintain discourse with a judicious lady, nor make a leg,^ nor say "Excuse me." Gal. Ha, ha, ha! Meg. Do you laugh, madam? Dion. Your desires upon you, ladies ! Bleg. Then you must sit beside us. Dion. I shall sit near you then, lady. 3Ieg. Near me, perhaps ; but there 's a lady endures no stranger; and to me you appear a veiy strange fellow. La. Methinks he's not so strange; he would quickly be acquainted. Thra. Peace, the King! Enter King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and Train. King. To give a stronger testimony of love Than sickly promises (which commonly In princes find botli birth and burial In one breath ) we have drawn you, worthy sir, To make your fair endearments to our daughter. 1 cheat. The rocky promontories formin<; the Straits of Oibraltnr were so called from the legend that they were torn asunder by Hercules. 3 bow. 194 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD And worthy services known to our sub- jects, Now lov'd and wondered at; next, our intent To plant you deeply our immediate heir Both to our blood and kingdoms. For this lady, (The best part of your life, as you eon- firm me, And I believe,) though her few years and sex Yet teach her nothing but her fears and blushes, Desires without desire, discourse and knowledge Only of what herself is to herself. Make her feel moderate health ; and when she sleeps. In making no ill day, knows no ill dreams. Think not, dear sir, these undivided parts. That must mould up a virgin, are put on To show her so, as borrowed ornaments To speak her perfect love to you, or add An artificial shadow to her nature, — No, sir; I boldly dare proclaim her yet No woman. But woo her still, and think her modesty A sweeter mistress than the offer'd lan- guage Of any dame, were she a queen, whose eye Speaks common loves and comforts to her servants.* Last, noble son (for so I now must call you), What I have done thus public, is not only To add a comfort in particular To you or me, but all; and to confirm The nobles and the gentry of these king- doms By oath to your succession, which shall be Within this month at most. Thra. This will be hardly done. Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done. Dion. When 't is at best, 't will be but half done, whilst So brave a gentleman is wrong'd and flung off. Thra. I fear. Cle. Who does not"? Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I fear too. Well, we shall see, we shall see. No more. PhcL Kissing your white hand, mistress, I take leave To thank your royal father ; and thus far To be my own free trumpet. Under- stand, Great King, and these your subjects, mine that must be, (For so deserving you have spoke me, sir. And so deserving I dare speak myself,) To what a person, of what eminence, Ripe expectation, of what faculties. Manners and virtues, you would wed your kingdoms; You in me have your wishes. Oh, this country ! By more than all the gods, I hold it happy ; Happy in their dear memories that have been Kings great and good; happy in yours that is; And from you (as a chronicle to keep Your noble name from eating age) do I Opine myself most happy. Gentlemen, Believe me in a word, a prince's word. There shall be nothing to make up a kingdom Mighty and flourishing, defensed, fear'd, Equal to be commanded and obeyed. But through the travails of my life I '11 find it. And tie it to this country. By all the gods. My reign shall be so easy to the subject. That every man shall be his prince him- self. And his own law — yet I his prince and law. And dearest lady, to your dearest self (Dear in the choice of him whose name and lustre Must make you more and mightier) let me say, You are the blessed'st living; for, sweet princess, You shall enjoy a man of men to be Your servant ; you shall make him yours, for whom Great queens must die. Thra. Miraculous ! Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, be- ing nothing but a large inventory of his own commendations. Dion. I wonder what 's his price ; for cer- tainly 4 lovers. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 195 He '11 sell himself, he has so prais'd his shape. Enter Philaster. But here comes one more worthy those large speeches Than the large speaker of them. Let me be swallowed quick, if I can tind. In all the anatomy of yon man's virtues, One sinew sound enough to promise for him He shall be constable. By this sun, He '11 ne'er make king unless it be of trifles. In my poor judgment. Phi. (Kneeling.) Right noble sir, as low as my obedience. And with a heart as loyal as my knee, I beg your favor. King. Rise ; you have it, sir. Dion. Mark but the King, how pale he looks ! He fears ! Oh, this same whoreson ^ conscience, how it jades us ! King. Speak your intents, sir. Phi. Shall I speak 'em freely"? Be still my royal sovereign. King. As a subject. We give you freedom. Dion. Now it heats. Phi. Then thus I turn . My language to you, prince, you, for- eign man ! Ne'er stare nor put on wonder, for you must Endure me, and you shall. This earth you tread uj)on (A dowry, as you hope, with this fair princess). By my dead father (oh, I had a father, Whose memory I bow to!) was not left To your inheritance, and I up and liv- ing- Having myself about me and my sword. The souls of all my name and memories, These arms and some few friends beside the gods — To part so calmly with it, and sit still And say, "I might have been." I tell thee, Pharamond, When thou art king, look I be dead and rotten, And my name ashes : for, hear me, Phara- mond, This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth My father's friends made fertile with their faiths, plaguey. 6 turtledove. Before that day of shame shall gape and swallow Thee and thy nation, like a hungry grave, Into her hidden bowels. Prince, it shall; By the just gods, it shall ! Pha. He 's mad ; beyond cure, mad. Dion. Here is a fellow has some fire in 's veins : The outlandish prince looks like a tooth- drawer. Phi. Sir Prince of popinjays, I '11 make it well Appear to you I am not mad. King. You displease us : You are too bold. Phi. No, sir, I am too tame. Too much a turtle,^ a thing born without passion, A faint shadow, that every drunken cloud Sails over, and makes nothing. King. I do not fancy this. Call our physicians ; sure, he 's somewhat tainted. '^ Thra. I do not think 't will prove so. Dion. H'as given him a general purge al- ready. For all the right he has; and now he means To let him blood. Be constant, gentle- men : By heaven, I '11 run his hazard. Although I run my name out of the kingdom ! Cle. Peace, we are all one soul. Ph,a. What you have seen in me to stir offence I cannot find, unless it be this lady, Offer'd into mine arms with the succes- sion ; Which I must keep, (though it hath pleas'd your fury To mutiny within you,) without dis- puting Your genealogies, or taking knowledge Whose branch you are. The King will leave it me. And I dare make it mine. You have your answer. Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him That made the world his,^ and couldst see no sun Shine upon any thing but thine; were Pharamond As ti'uly valiant as I feel him cold, And ring'd amongst the choicest of bis friends 7 unbalanced. 8 Alexander the Great, 196 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD (Such as would blush to talk such serious follies, Or back such bellied '■' couunendatious), And from this presence, spile of all these bugs/" You should hear further from me. King. Sir, you wronii' the prince; I gave you not this freedom To brave our best friends. You deserve our frown. Go to; be better temper'd. Phi. It nuist be, sir, when I am nobler us'd. Gal. Ladies, This would have been a pattern of suc- cession,^'^ Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my life. He is the worthiest the true name of man This day within my knowledge. Bleg. I cannot tell wliat you may call your knowledge ; But the other is the man set in mine eye. Oh, 'tis a prince of wax! ^- Gal. A dog' it is. King. Philaster, tell me The injuries you aim at in your riddles. Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and sull'er- ance, My griefs upon you, and my broken for- tunes. My wants great, and now nought but hopes and fears. My wrongs would make ill riddles to be laugiit at. Dare you be still my king, and right me not? King. Give me your wrongs in private. Phi. " Take them, And ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas. {They whisper.) Cle. He dares not stand the shock. Dion. I cannot blame him ; there 's dan- ger in 't. Every man in this age has not a soul of crystal, for all men to read their actions through : men's hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold no in- telligence. Do but view yon stranger well, and you sliall see a fever through all his bravery, '2 and feel him shake like a true tenant.^'* If he give not back his crown again upon the report of an elder- gun, I have no augury. King. Go to; Be more yourself, as you respect our favor ; You '11 stir us else. Sir, I nuist have you know. That y' are and shall be, at our pleasure, what Fashion we will put upon you. Smooth your brow, Or by the gods Phi. I am dead, sir; y' are my fate. It was not I Said, I was wrong'd : I carry all about me My weak stars lead me to, all my weak fortunes. Who dares in all this presence speak, (that is But num of liesh, and may be mortal,) tell me I do not most entirely love Uiis prince. And honor his full virtues ! King. Sure, he 's jiossess'd. Phi. Yes, with my father's spirit. It 's here, King, A dangerous spirit ! Now he tells me, King, I was a king's heir, bids me be a king. And whispers to me, these are all my subjects. 'T is strange he will not let me sleep, but dives Into my fancy, and there gives me shapes That kneel and do me service, cry me king. But I '11 suppress him ; he 's a factious spirit. And will undo me. — {To Phar.) Noble sir, your hand; I am your servant. King. Away ! I do not like this : I '11 make you tamer, or I '11 disjoossess you Both of your life and spirit. For this time I pardon your wild speech, without so much As your imprisonment. Exeunt King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and Train. Dion. I thank you, sir; you dare not for the people. Gal. Ladies, what think you now of this brave fellow? Meg. A pretty talking fellow, hot at hand. But eye yon stranger: is he not a fine complete gentleman'? Oh, these strangers, I do affect ^^ them strangely! They do the rarest home-things, and 9 swollen. 10 bugbears. 11 to succeeding kings. 12 a model prince. 13 ostentation. 14 Probably corrupt. Qi truant. 15 love. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 197 I please the fullest! As I live, I could love all the nation over and over for his sake. Gal. Gods comfort your poor head-piece, lady ! 'T is a weak one, and had need of a night-cap. Exeunt Ladies. Dion. See, how his fancy labors ! Has he not Spoke home and bravely*? What a dan- gerous train Did he give iire to ! IIoav lie shook the King, Made his soul melt within him, and liis blood Run into whey! It stood upon his brow Like a cold winter dew. Phi. Gentlemen, You have no suit to me? I am no min- ion. You stand, methinks, like men that would be courtiers, If I could well be tlatter'd at a price Not to undo your children.^" You 're all honest : Go, get you home again, and make your country A virtuous court, to which your great ones may, In their diseased age, retire and live re- cluse. Cle. How do you, wortliy sir*? Phi. Well, very well; And so well that, if the King please, I find I may live many years. Dion. The King must please, Whilst we know what you are and who you are. Your wrongs and virtues. Shrink not, worthy sir, But add your father to you ; in whose name We '11 waken all the gods, and conjure up The rods of vengeance, the abused peojile. Who, like to raging' torrents, shall sAvell high, And so begirt the dens of these male- dragons. That, through the strongest safety, they shall beg For mercy at your sword's point. Phi. Friends, no more; Our eai's may be corrupted ; 't is an age We dare not trust our wills to. Do you love me? Thra. Do we love heaven and honor? Phi. My Lord Dion, you had A virtuous gentlewoman call'd you fa- ther; Is she yet alive? Di(jn. Most honor'd sir, she is; And for the penance but of an idle dream, Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage. Enter a Lady. Phi. Is it to me, or any of these gentle- men, you come? Ladij. To you, brave lord; the princess would enti'eat Your present company. Phi. The princess send for me! You are mistaken. Lady. If you be called Philaster, 't is to you. Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will attend her. Exit Lady. Dion. Do you know what you do? Phi. Yes; go to see a woman. Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are in? Phi. Danger in a sweet face! By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman ! Thra. But are you sure it was the princess sent? It may be some foul train to catch your life. Pin. I do not think it, gentlemen; she's noble. Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true red And white friends in her cheeks may steal my soul out ; There 's all the danger in 't. But, be what may. Her single ^^ name hath arm'd me. Exit. Dion. Go on. And be as truly happy as thou 'rt fear- less ! — Come, gentlemen, let's make our friends acquainted. Lest the King prove false. Exeunt. Scene 2. Arethusa's apartment in the palace. Enter Arethusa and a Lady. Are. Comes he not? Ijadif. A re. Madam? Will Philaster come? ifi Mason conj. Qq. F. you. If you could flntter me without ruin- \\\Z your families by antagonizing the king. (Ncilson ) 198 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me At first. Are. But didst thou tell me so? I am forgetful, and my woman's strength Is so o'ercharg'd with dangers like to grow About my marriage, that these under- things Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. How lookt he when he told thee lie would come ? Lady. Why, well. Are. And not a little fearful? Lady. Fear, madam ! Sure, he knows not what it is. Are. You all are of his faction; the whole court Is bold in praise of him ; whilst I May live neglected, and do noble things, As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, Drown'd in the doing. But I know l\e fears. Lady. Fear, madam! Methought, his looks hid more Of love than fear. Are. Of love! To whom? To you? Did you deliver those plain words I sent. With such a winning gesture and quick look That you have caught him ? Lady. Madam, I mean to you. Are. Of love to me! Alas, thy ignorance Lets thee not see the crosses of our births ! Nature, that loves not to be questioned Why she did this or that, but has her ends, And knows she does well, never gave the Avorld Two things so opposite, so contrary As he and I am : if a bowl of blood Drawn from this arm of mine would poison thee, A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me ! Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. Are. Bring him in. Exit Lady. You gods, that would not have your dooms withstood. Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is To make the passion of a feeble maid The way unto your justice, I obey, Be-enter Lady with Philaster. Lady. Here is my Lord Philaster. Are. Oh, 't is well. Withdraw yourself. Exit Lady. Phi. Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wish'd to speak with me. Are. 'T is true, Philaster; but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loth to speak them. Have you known That I have aught detracted from your worth ? Have I in person wrong'd you, or have set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues? Phi. Never, madam, you. Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place. Injure a princess, and a scandal lay Upon my fortunes, fam'd to be so great, Calling a great part of my dowry in question? Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be Foolish : but, for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right To any thing you wish'd. Are. Philaster, know, I must enjoy these kingdoms. Phi. Madam, both? Are. Both, or I die: by heaven, I die, Philaster, If I not calmly may enjoy them both. Phi. I would do much to save that noble life ; Yet would be loth to have posterity Find in our stories, that Philaster gave His right unto a scepter and a crown To save a lady's longing. Are. Nay, then, hear: I must and will have them, and more Phi. What more? Are. Or lose that little life the gods pre- pared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. Phi. Madam, what more? Are. Turn, then, away thy face. Phi. No. A re. Do. Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my face ! I never yet saw enemy that lookt So dreadfully, but that I thought my- self PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 199 As great a basilisk ^^ as he; or spake So horrible, but that I thought my tongue Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; Nor beast that I could turn from. Shall I then Begin to fear sweet sounds'? A lady's voice, Whom I do love? Say you would have my life; Why, I will give it you; for 'tis of me A thing so loath'd, and unto you that ask Of so poor use, that I shall make no price : If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks. Phi. I do. Are. Then know, I must have them and thee. Fhi. And me"? Are. Thy love; without which, all the land Discovered yet will serve me for no use But to be buried in. Phi. Is 't possible 1 Are. With it, it were too little to be- stow On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may,) I have unript my breast. Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts, To lay a train for this contemned life. Which you may have for asking. To suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you ! By all my hopes, I do, above my life ! But how this passion should proceed fi'om you So violently, would amaze a man That would be jealous.^^ Are. Another soul into my body shot Could not have fill'd me with more strength and spirit Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time In seeking how I came thus : 't is the gods, The gods, that make me so; and, sure, our love Will be the nobler and the better blest. In that the seei'et justice of the gods Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss ; Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us, IS a fabulous serpent that killed with a glance. And we should part without it. Phi. 'T will be ill I should abide here long. Are. 'T is true; and worse You should come often. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree What path is best to tread? Phi. 1 have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymj^h again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers bred in the vale, Stuck in that mystic order that the rare- ness Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, T\niieli gave him roots ; and of the crys- tal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country-people hold, Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, Exprest his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read The prettiest lecture of his country-art That could be wisht : so that methought I could Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd Him, who was glad to follow; and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. Are. 'T is well ; no more. Re-enter Lady. Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do his service. 19 suspicious. 200 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Are. What will you do, Philaster, with yourself? Phi. Why, that which all the gods have pointed out for me. Are. Dear, hide thyself. — Bring in the prince. Exit Lady. Phi. Hide me from Pharamond ! When thunder speaks, which is the voice of God, Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not; And shall a stranger-prince have leave to brag Unto a foreign nation, that he made Philaster hide himself? Are. He cannot know it. Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to the world. It is a simple sin to hide myself, Which will for ever on my conscience lie. Are. Then, good Philaster, give him scope and way In what he says; for he is apt to speak What you are loth to hear. For my sake, do. Phi. I will. Re-enter Lady with Pharamond. Pha. My princely mistress, as true lovers ought, Exit Lady. I come to kiss these fair hands, and to show. In outward ceremonies, the dear love Writ in my heart. Phi. If I shall have an answer no di- reetlier, I am gone. Pha. To what would he have answer f Are. To his claim unto the kingdom. Pha. Sirrah, I forbai'e you before the King — Phi. Good sir, do so still ; I would not talk with you. Pha. But now the lime is fitter. Do but offer To make mention of right to any king- dom, Though it be scarce habitable Phi. Good sir, let me go. Pha. And by the gods — Phi. Peace, Pharamond! if thou Are. Leave us, Philaster. J^hi. I have done. {Goinq.) Pha. You are gone! by Heaven, I'll fctcli you back. Phi. You shall not need. {lU'turning.) Pha. What uowl Phi. Know, Pharamond, I loathe to brawl witli such a l)last as thou. Who art nought but a valiant voice; but if Thou shalt provoke mo fiu'ther, men shall say. Thou wert, and not lament it. Pha. Do you slight My greatness so, and in the chamber of The princess? Phi. It is a place to which I nuist confess I owe a reverence ; but were 't the church. Aye, at the altar, there 's no place so safe, Where thou dar'st injure me, but I dai'e kill thee. And for your greatness, know, sir, I can grasp You and your greatness thus, thus into nothing. Give not a word, not a ^yord back ! Farewell. Exit. Pha. 'T is an odd fellow, madam ; we must stop His mouth with some office when we are married. Are. You were best make him your con- troller. Pha. I think he would discharge it well. But, madam, I hope our hearts are knit ; but yet so slow The ceremonies of state are, that 't will be long Before our hands be so. If then you please, Being agreed in heart, let us not wait For dreaming form, but take a little stolen Delights, and so prevent -° our joys to come. Are. If you dare speak such thoughts, I must wiflidraw in honor. Exit. Pha. The constitution of my body will never hold out till the wedding; I nmst seek- elsewhere. Exit. ACT IL Scene 1. An apartment in the palace. Enter Philaster and Dcllario. Phi. And thou shalt find her honorable boy; 20 .anticipate. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 201 Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thine own modesty; and, for my sake, Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, Aye, or deserve. Bel. Sir, you did take me up When I was nothing; and only yet am something By being yours. You trusted me un- known ; And that which you were apt to con- ster -1 A simple innocence in me, perhaps Might have been craft, the cunning of a boy Hard'iied in lies and theft : yet ventur'd you To i)art my miseries and me : for which, I never can expect to serve a lady That bears more honor in her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer-- thee. Thou art young, And bear'st a childish overflowing love To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet; But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends That plac'd thee in the noblest way of life. She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world, I never knew a man hasty to part With a servant he thought tnisty. I remember. My father would prefer the boys he kej^t To greater men than he; but did it not Till they were grown too saucy for him- self. Phi. Wh}', gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behavior. Bel. Sir, if I have made A fault in igmorance, instruct my j^outh : I shall be willing, if not apt, to leani ; Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge ; and if I have done A wilful fault, think me not past all hope For once. What master holds so strict a hand Over his boy, that he will part with him Without one warning? Let me be cor- rected "1 construe. 22 advance. To break my stubbornness, if it be so, Kather than turn me oft"; and I shall mend. Plii. Thy love doth plead so prettily to slay, That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. Alas, I do not turn thee off! Thou knowest It is my business that doth call thee hence; And when thou art Avith her, thou dwell'st with me, Think so, and 't is so ; and when time is full, That thou hast well discharg'd this heavy trust, Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee; as I live, I will! Nay, weep not, gentle boy. "T is more than time Thou didst attend the princess. Bel. I am gone. But since I am to part with you, my lord. And none knows whether I shall live to do "More service for you, take this lit t la prayer : Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs ! May sick men, if they have your wish, be well; And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one! Exit. Plii. The love of boys unto their lords is strange; I have read wonders of it : yet this boy For my sake (if a man may judge by looks And speech) would out-do story. I may see A day to pay him for his loyalty. Exit. Scene 2. A gallery in the palace. E titer Pharamond. Pha. Why should these ladies stay so long"? They must come this way. I know the queen employs 'em not ; for the reverend mother -^ sent me word, they would all be for the garden. If they should all prove honest now, I were in a fair taking; I was never so long without sport in my life, and, in my conscience, 't is not my fault. Oh, for our country ladies ! 23 in charge of the maids of honor. 202 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Enter Galatea. Here's one bolted; I'll hound at her. — Madam ! Gal. Your grace! Pha. Shall I not be a troubled Gal. Not to me, sir. Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick. By this sweet hand Gal. You '11 be forsworn, sir ; 't is but an old glove. If you will talk at distance, I am for you: But, good prince, be not bawdy, nor do not brag; These two I bar; And then, I think, I shall have sense enough To answer all the weighty apophthegms Your royal blood shall manage. Pha. Dear lady, can you love? Gal. Dear prince! how dearf I ne'er cost you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a banquet. Here 's no scarlet, sir, to blush the sin out it was given for. This wire ^* mine own hair covers ; and this face has been so far from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost penny painting; and, for the rest of my poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand -^ behind it, to make the jealous mercer's wife curse our good doings. Pha. You mistake me, lady. Gal. Lord, I do so; would you or I could help it! Pha. You 're veiy dangerous bitter, like a potion. Gal. No, sir, I do not mean to purge you, though I mean to purge a little time on you. Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give No more respect to men of my full being? Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless your grace means growing to fat- ness; and then your only remedy (upon my knowledge, prince) is, in a morning, a cup of neat white wine brewed with carduus,26 ^j^gjj f^^t till supper; about eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep a sparrow-hawk-; you can shoot in a tiller : -'' but, of all, your grace must fly phlebotomy,^^ fresh pork, conger,-^ and clarified whey; they are all dullers of the vital spirits. Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while. Gal. 'T is very true, sir; I talk of you. Pha. (Aside.) This is a crafty wench; I like her wit well ; 't will be rare to stir up a leaden appetite. She 's a Danae, and must be courted in a shower of gold. — Madam, look here; all these, and more than Gal. What have you there, my lord? Gold ! now, as I live, 't is fair gold ! You would have silver for it, to play with the pages. You could not have taken me in a worse time; but, if you have present use, my lord, I '11 send my man with silver and keep your gold for you. Pha. Lady, lady! Gal. She 's coming, sir, behind, will take white money. — (Aside.) Yet for all this I'll match ye. Exit behind the hangings. Pha. If there be but two such more in this kingdom, and near the court, we may even hang up our harps. Ten such camphire ^° constitutions as this would call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for eveiy ill-fac'd hus- band to get his own children ; and what a mischief that would breed, let all con- sider! _, . -, Enter Megra. Here 's another : if she be of the same last, the devil shall pluck her on. — Many fair mornings, lady! Meg. As many mornings bring as many days. Fair, sweet and hopeful to your grace ! Pha. (Aside.) She gives good words yet ; sure this wench is free.^^ — If your more serious business do not call you. Let me hold quarter with you; we will talk An hour out quickly. Meg. TMiat would your grace talk of? Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your- self : I '11 go no further than your eye, or lip ; There 's theme enough for one man for an age. Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet even. Smooth, young enough, rii~>e enough, and red enough, Or my glass wrongs me. Pha. Oh, they are two twinn'd cherries dy'd in blushes "V\niich those fair suns above with their bright beams Reflect upon and ripen. Sweetest beauty, Bow down those branches, that the long- ing taste 24 i. e. of a headdress. 25 note of indebtedness. 20 a thistle used for medicinal purposes. 27 cross-bow. «8 bloodletting. 29 conger-eel. 30 i. e. cold. 31 responsive. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 203 Of the faint looker-on may meet those blessings, And taste and live. (They kiss.) Meg. (Aside.) Oh, delicate sweet prince ! She that hath snow enough about her heart To take the wanton spring of ten such lines off. May be a nun without probation^ — Sir, You have in such neat poetry gathered a kiss, That if I had but five lines of that num- ber, Such pretty begging blanks,^- I should commend Your forehead or your cheeks, and kiss you too. Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, madam. Meg. I shall, I shall. Pha. By my life, but you shall not; I '11 prompt you first. (Kisses her^) Can you do it now? Aleg. Methinks 't is easy, now you ha' done 't before me ; But yet I should stick at it. (Kisses him.) Pha. Stick till to-morrow; I '11 ne'er part you, sweetest. But we lose time : Can you love me? Meg. Love you, my lord ! How would you have me love you'? Pha. I'll teach you in a short sentence, 'cause I will not load your memory ; this is all : love me, and lie with me. Meg. Was it "lie with you" that you said? 'T is impossible. Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will en- deavor. If I do not teach you to do it as easily in one night as you '11 go to bed, I '11 lose my royal blood for 't. Meg. Why, prince, you have a lady of your own That yet wants teaching. Pha. I '11 sooner teach a mare the old measures than teach her anything be- longing to the function. She 's afraid to lie with herself if she have but any masculine imaginations about her. I know, when we are married, I must rav- ish her. Meg. By mine honor, that 's a foul fault, indeed ; But time and your good help will wear it out, sir. Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self, dearest lady, I had rather be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a dairy-maid, madam. Meg. Has your grace seen the court-star, Galatea? Pha. Out upon her ! She 's as cold of her favor as an apoplex; she sail'd by but now. Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir? Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it; she would blow 'em out of the kingdom. They talk of Jupiter ; he 's but a squib-cracker to her : look well about you, and you may find a tongue- bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely welcome? Meg. Whither? Pha. To your bed. If you mistrust my faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong. Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not. Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal 'em, and what you dare imagine you can want, I '11 furnish you withal. Give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come I know you are bashful ; Speak in my ear, will you be mine? Keep this. And with it, me : soon I will visit you. Meg. My lord, my chamber 's most un- safe ; but when 't is night, I '11 find some means to slip into your lodging; Till when Pha. Till when, this and my heart go with thee ! Exeunt several ivays. Ee-enter Galatea from behind the hang- ings. Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince ! are these your virtues? Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman : and. Lady Towsabel, I '11 , fit you for 't. Exit. Scene 3. Arethusa's apartment in the palace. Enter Arethusa and a Lady. Are. Where 's the boy? Lady. Within, madam. Are. Gave you him gold to buy him clothes"? Lady. I did. Are. And has he done't? Lady. Yes, madam. 32 blank verses. 204 THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD Are. 'T is a pretty sad-talking boy, is it not? Asked you his name? Lady. No, madam. Enter Galatea. Are. Oh, you are welcome. What good news ? Gal. As good as any one can tell your grace. That says she has done that you would have wish'd. Are. Hast thou discovered? Gal. I have strain'd a point of modesty for you. Are. I prithee, how? Gal. In list'ning after bawdi-y. I see, let a lady live never so modestly, she shall be sure to find a lawful time to hearken after bawdry. Your prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on 't! Are. With whom? Gal. Why, with the lady I suspected. I can tell the time and place. Are. Oh, when, and where? Gal. To-night, his lodging. Are. Run thyself into the presence; min- gle there again With other ladies ; leave the rest to me. Exit Galatea. If destiny (to whom we dare not say, "Why didst thou this?") have not de- creed it so, In lasting leaves (whose smallest cliarnc- ters Were never alter'd yet), this malcli sbnll break. — WTiere's the boy? Lady. Here, madam. Enter Bellario. Are. Sir, you are sad to change your serv- ice; is 't not so? Bel. Madam, I have not chang'd ; I wait on you, To do him service. Are. Thou disclaim'st in me.^^ Tell me thy name. Bel. P>ellario. Are. Thou canst sing and play? Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy years know? Hadst thou a curst •''* master when thou went'st to school? Thou art not capable of other grief; 33 my ri?:ht to your services. Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be When no breath troubles them. Believe me, boy. Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hol- low eyes. And builds himself caves, to abide in them. Come, sir, tell me truly, doth your lord love me? Bel. Love, madam ! 1 know nut what it is. A-ire. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love? Thou art deceiv'd, boy. Does he speak of me As if he wish'd me well? Bel. If it be love To forget all respect of his own friends With thinking of your face; if it be love To sit cross-arm'd and sigh away the day, Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud And hastily as men i' the streets do fire; If it be love to weep himself away When he but hears of any lady dead Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance; If, when he goes to rest (which will not be), 'Twixt eveiy prayer he says, to name you once, 7\s others drop a bead, be to be in love, Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. .1 re. Oh, you 're a cunning boy, and taught to lie For your lord's credit ! But thou know'st a lie That bears this sound is welcomer to me Than any ti'uth that says he loves me not. Lead the way, boy. — [To Ladi/.) Do you attend me too. — 'T is thy lord's business hastes me thus. Away ! Exeunt. Scene 4. Before Pharamnnd's lodging in the court of the palace. Enter Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Megra, and Galatea. Dion. Come, ladies, shall we talk a round? As men Do walk a mile, women should talk an hour After supper: 'tis their exercise. 3 1 cruel. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 205 dal 'Tis late. 3Ieg. 'Tis all My eyes will do to lead me to my bed. Gal. I fear, they are so heavy, you '11 scarce find The way to your own lodging with 'etn to-night. Enter Pharamond. Thra. The prince! Pha. Not a-bed, ladies'? You're good sit- ters-up. What think you of a pleasant dream, to last Till morning'? Meg. I should choose, my lord, a pleasing wake before it. Enter Aretlmsa and Bellario. Are. 'Tis well, my lord; you're courting of these ladies. — Is 't not late, gentlemen'? C'le. Yes, madam. Are. Wait you there. Exit. Meg. (Aside.) She 's jealous, as I live. — Look you, my lord, The princess has a Ilylas, an Adonis. Pha. His form is angel-like. Meg. Why, this is he that must, when you are wed, Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, with His hand and voice binding your thoughts in sleep; The princess does provide him for you and for herself. Pha. I find no music in these boys. Meg. Nor I : They can do little, and that small they do, They have not wit to hide. Dion. Serves he the princess'? Thra. Yes. Dion. 'T is a sweet boy : how brave ^'^ she keeps him ! Pha. Ladies all, good rest; I mean to kill a buck To-mon-ow moi'ning ere you 've done your dreams. Meg. All happiness attend your gi'ace! Exit Pharamond. Gentlemen, good rest. — Come, shall we go to bed'? Gal. Yes. — All. good night. Dion. May your dreams be true to you ! — Exeunt Galatea and Megra. What shall we do, gallants? 'tis late. The King Is up still: see, he comes, a guard along With him. Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. King. Look your intelligence be true. Are. Upon my life, it is; and I do hope Your highness will not tie me to a man That in the heat of wooing throws me off, And takes anothei\ Dion. What should this mean'? King. If it be true. That lady had been better have era- brac'd Cureless diseases. Get you to your rest : You shall be righted. Exeunt Arethusa and Bellario. — Gentlemen, draw near; We shall employ you. Is young Phara- mond Come to his lodging"? Dion. I saw him enter there. King. Haste, some of you, and cunningly discover If Megra be in her lodging. Exit Dion. Cle. Sir, She parted hence but now, with other ladies. King. If she be there, we shall not need to make A vain discovery of our suspicion. [Aside.) You gods, I see that who un- righteously Holds wealth or state from othei's shall be curst In that which meaner men are blest withal : Ages to come shall know no male of him Left to inherit, and his name shall be Blotted from earth ; if he have any child. It shall be crossly match'd; the gods themselves Shall sow wild strife betwixt her lord and her. Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin I have committed ; let it not fall Upon this understanding child of mine ! She has not broke your laws. But how can I Look to be heard of gods that must be just, Praying upon the ground I hold by wrone:'? Re-enter Dion. 35 richly attired. 206 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Dion. Sir, I have asked, and her Avomen swear she is within ; but they, I think, are bawds. I told 'em, I must speak with her; they laught, and said, their lady lay speechless. I said, my business was im- portant; they said, their lady was about it. I grew hot, and cried, my business was a matter that concern'd life and death ; they answered, so was sleeping, at which their lady was. I urg'd again, she had scarce time to be so since last I saw her : they smil'd again, and seem'd to in- struct me that sleeping was nothing but lying down and winking.^® Answers more direct I could not get : in short, sir, I think she is not there. King. 'T is then no time to dally. — You o' th' guard. Wait at the back door of the prince's lodging. And see that none pass thence, upon your lives. Exeunt Guards. ■ Knock, gentlemen; knock loud; louder yet. {They knock at the door of Pharamond's lodging.) What, has their pleasure taken off their hearing? — I '11 break your meditations. — Knock again. — Not yet? I do not think he sleeps, hav- ing this Larum by him. — Once more. — Phara- mond! prince! (Pharamond appears above.) Pha. What saucy groom knocks at this dead of night? Where be our waiters ? ^'' By my vexed soul. He meets his death that meets me, for his boldness. King. Prince, prince, you wrong your thoughts ; we are your friends : Come down. Pha. The King! King. The same, sir. Come down, sir : We have cause of present counsel with you. Pha. If your grace please To use me, I '11 attend you to your cham- ber. Enter Pharamond below. King. No, 't is too late, prince ; I '11 make bold with yours. Pha. I have some private reasons to my- self Makes me unmannerly, and say you can- not. — {They press to come in.) Nay, press not forward, gentlemen; he must Come through my life that comes here. King. Sir, be resolv'd I must and will come. — Enter. Pha. I will not be dishonor'd. He that enters, enters upon his death. Sir, 't is a sign you make no stranger of me. To bring these renegadoes to my chamber At these unseasoned hours. King. Why do you Chafe yourself so? You are not wrong'd nor shall be; Only I '11 search your lodging, for some cause To ourself known. — Enter, I say. Pha. I say, no. Enter Megra above. Meg. Let 'em enter, prince, let 'em enter; I am up and ready : ^^ I know their busi- ness ; 'T is the poor breaking of a lady's honor They hunt so hotly after; let 'em enjoy 'it— You have your business, gentlemen ; I lay here. Oh, my lord the King, this is not noble in you To make public the weakness of a woman ! King. Come down. Meg. I dare, my lord. Your hootings and your clamors, Your private whispers and your broad fleei'ings,^^ Can no more vex my soul than this base carriage.'*^ But I have vengeance yet in store for some Shall, in the most contempt you can have of me, Be joy and nourishment. King. Will you come down ? Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst; but I shall wring you. If my skill fail me not. Exit above. King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for this looseness; You have wrong'd a worthy lady; but, no more. — Conduct him to my lodging and to bed. Exeunt Pharamond and Attrndants. 3c closing the eyes. 37 those that wait on us. 38 dressed. 39 gibes. 40 conduct. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 207 Cle. Get him another wench, and you bring him to bed indeed. Dion. 'T is sti'ange a man cannot ride a stage Or two, to breathe himself, without a warrant. If his gear hold, that lodgings be search'd thus, Pray God we may lie with our own wives in safety, That they be not by some trick of state mistaken ! Enter Attendants with Megra helow. King. Now, lady of honor, where 's your honor now"? No man can fit your palate but the prince. Thou most ill-shrouded rottenness, thou piece Made by a painter and a 'potheeary, Thou troubled sea of lust, thou wilder- ness Inhabited .by wild thoughts, thou swoln cloud Of infection, thou ripe mine of all dis- eases. Thou all-sin, all-hell, and last, all-devils, tell me. Had you none to pull on with your . courtesies But he that must be mine, and wrong my daughter"? By all the gods, all these, and all the pages, And all the court, shall hoot thee through the court, Fling rotten oranges, make ribald rhymes, And sear thy name with candles upon walls ! Do you laugh, Lady Venus'? Meg. Faith, sir, you must pardon me ; I cannot choose but laugh to see you merry. If you do this, King! nay, if you dare do it. By all those gods you swore by, and as many More of my own, I will have fellows, and such Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth ! The princess, your dear daughter, shall stand by me On walls, and sung in ballads, any thing. Urge me no more; I know her and her haunts, Her lays, leaps, and outlays, and will dis- cover all; Nay, will dishonor her. I know the boy She keeps; a handsome boy, about eight- een; Know what she does with him, where, and when. Come, sir, you put me to a woman's mad- ness, The glory of a fury ; and if I do not Do 't^to the height King. What boy is this she raves at *? Meg. Alas ! good-minded prince, you know not these things ! I am loth to reveal 'em. Keep this fault, As you would keep your health from the hot air Of the corrupted people, or, by Heaven, I will not fall alone. What I have known Shall be as public as a print ; all tongues Shall speak it as they do the language they Are bom in, as free and commonly ; I '11 set it. Like a prodigious *^ star, for all to gaze at, And so high and glowing, that other kingdoms far and foreign Shall read it there, nay, travel with it, till they find No tongue to make it more, nor no more people ; And then behold the fall of your fair prmcess King. Has she a boy"? Cle. So please your grace, I have seen a boy wait On her, a fair boy. King. Go, get you to your quarter: For this time I will study to forget you. Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I '11 study To forget you. Exeunt King, Megra, and Guard. Cle. Why, here 's a male spirit fit for Her- cules. If ever there be Nine Worthies of women, this wench shall ride astride and be their captain. Dion. Sure, she has a garrison of devils in her tongue, she uttered such balls of wild-fire. She has so nettled the King, that all the doctors in the country will scarce cure him. That boy was a strange- found-out antidote to cure her infection ; that boy, that princess' boy; that brave, chaste, virtuous lady's boy; and a fair 41 portentous. 208 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD boy, a well-spoken boy ! All these con- sidered, can make nothing else — but there I leave you, gentlemen. Thra. Nay, we '11 go wander with you. Exeunt. ACT III. Scene 1. The court of the palace. Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasillnc. Cle. Nay, doubtless, 'tis true. Dion. Aye ; and 't is the gods That rais'd this punishment, to scourge the King With his own issue. Is it not a shame For us that should write noble in the land. For us that should be freemen, to behold A man that is the braveiy of his age, Philaster, prest down from his royal right By this regardless king? and only look And see the sceptre ready to be cast Into the hands of that lascivious lady That lives in lust with a smooth boy, now to be married To yon strange prmee, who, but that peo- ple please To let him be a prince, is born a slave In that which should be his most noble part, His mind? Thra. That man that would not stir with you To aid Philaster, let the gods forget That such a creature walks upon the earth ! Cle. Philaster is too backward in 't him- self. The gentry do await it, and the people. Against their nature, are all bent for him. And like a field of standing corn, that 's moved With a stiff gale, their heads bow all one way. Dion. The only cause that draws Phil- aster back From this attempt is the fair princess' love, Which he admires, and we can now con- fute. Thra. Perhaps he '11 not believe it. Dion. Why, gentlemen, 't is without ques- tion so. Cle. Aye,, 't is past speech she lives dis- honestly. But how shall we, if he be curious,'- work Upon his faith? Thra. We all are satisfied within our- selves. Dion. Since it is true, and tends to lys own good, I '11 make this new report to be my knowledge ; I '11 say I know it; nay, I '11 swear I saw it." Cle. It will be best. Thra. 'T will move him. Enter Pliilasier. Dion. Here he comes. Good moiTow to your honor: we have spent Some time in seeking you. Plii. My worthy friends. You that can keep your memories to know Your friend in miseries, and cannot frown On men disgrae'd for virtue, a good day Attend you all ! What service may I do Worthy your acceiotation? Dion. My good lord, We come to ui'ge that virtue, which we know Lives in your breast, forth. Rise, and make a head ; '^^ The nobles and the people are all duU'd With this usurping king; and not a man, That ever heard the woi'd, or knew such a thing As virtue, but will second your attempts. Phi. How honorable is this love in you To me that have deserv'd none ! Know, my friends, (You, that wei'e born to shame your poor Philaster With too much courtesy,) I could afford To melt myself in thanks : but my designs Are not yet ripe. Suffice it, that ere long I shall employ your loves ; but yet the time Is short of what I would. Dion. The time is fuller, sir, than you ex- pect; That which hereafter will not, perhaps, be reach'd By violence, may now be caught. As for the King, 42 scrupulous. 43 raise an army. PIIILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 209 You know the people have loug hated him; But now the princess, whom they lov'd Phi. Why, what of her? Dion. Is loath'd as much as he. Phi. By what strange means'? Dion. She 's known a wliore. Phi. Thouliest! Dion. My lord Phi. Thou liest, (Offers to dratv and is held.) And thou shalt feel it! I had thought thy mind Had been of honor. Thus to rob a la3 a lean doe. 0] eover. •'.4 Inrkinff. liJ Tristram, in the or) ii fast one. romances. was a GO suitable. PIllLASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 211 Kemains there yet a plague untried for me? Even so thou wept'st, and lookt'st, and spok'st when first I took thee up. Curse on the time! If thy commanding- tears Can work on any other, use thy art ; I'll not hctray it. Which way wilt thou take, That I may shun thee, for thine eyes are poison To mine, and I am loth to grow in rage'? This way, or that way? Bel. Any Avill serve; but I will choose to have That path in chase that leads unto my grave. Exeunt severally. Enter on one side Dion, and on the other the two Woodmen. Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance! — You, woodmen ! 1 Wood. My lord Dion? Dion. Saw you a lady come this way on a sable horse studded with stars of white? 2 Wood. Was she not young and tall? Dion. Yes. Rode she to the wood or to the plain? 2 Wood. Faith, my lord, we saw none. Exeunt Woodmen. Dion. Pox of your questions then ! Enter Cleremont. What, is she found? Cle. Nor will be, I think. Dion. Let him seek his daughter himself. She cannot stray about a little necessary natural business, but the whole court must be in arms. When she has done, we shall have peace. Cle. There 's already a thousand father- less tales amongst ns. Some say, her horse ran away with her; some, a wolf pursued her; others, 'twas a plot to kill her, and that arm'd men were seen in the wood : but questionless she rode away willingly. Enter King and ThrasiUne. King. W^hei'e is she? Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. King. How's that? Answer me so again ! Cle. ' Sir, shall I lie? King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell me that. I say again, where is she? Mutter not !— Sir, speak you; where is she? Dion. Sir, I do not know. King. Speak that again so boldly, and, by Heaven, It is thy last! — You, fellows, answer me; Where is she? Mark me, all; I am your _ King- : I wish to see my daughter; show her me; I do command you all, as you are sub- jects, To show her me ! What ! am I not your King? If aye, then am I not to be obeyed? Dion. Yes, if you command things possi- ble and honest. King. Things possible and honest ! Hear me, thou, — Thou traitor, that dar'st confine thy King to things Possible and honest ! Show her me, Or, let me perish, if I cover not All Sicily with blood ! Dion. Faith, I cannot, Unless you tell me where she is. King. You have betray'd me ; you have let me lose The jewel of my life. Go bring her me, And set her here before me. 'T is the King Will have it so, whose breath can still the winds, Uneloud the sun, charm down the swell- ing sea. And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, can it not? Dion. No. King. No! cannot the breath of kings do this? Dion. No; nor smell sweet itself, if once the lungs Be but corrupted. King. Is it so? Take heed ! Dion. Sir, take you heed how you dare the powers That mnst be just. King. Alas! what are we kings! Why do you gods place us above the I'est, To be serv'd, flatter'd, and ador'd, till we Believe we hold within our hands your thunder? And when we come to ti-y the power we have. There 's not a leaf shakes at our threat'- nings. I have sinn'd, 'I is true, and here stand to be punish'd ; 218 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Yet would not thus be punish'd. Let me choose My way, and lay it on! Dion. (Aside.) He articles with the gods. Would somebody would draw bonds for the performance of covenants betwixt them! Enter Pharamond, Galatea, and Megra. King.' What, is she found? Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse ; He gallop'd empty by. There is some treason. You, Galatea, rode with her into the wood ; Why left you her? Gal. She did command me. King. Command! you should not. Gal. 'T would ill become my fortunes and my birth To disobey the daughter of my king. King. You're all cunning to obey us for our hurt ; But I will have her. pjia. If I have her not, By this hand, there shall be no more Sicily. Dion. (Aside.) What, will he carry it to Spain in's pocket? Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but the king, A cook, and a tailor. Dion. (Aside.) Yes; you may do well to spare your lady-bedf ellow ; and her you may keep for a spawner. King. I see the injuries I have done must be reveng'd. Dion. Sir, this is not the way to find her out. King. Run all, disperse yourselves. The man that finds her, Or (if she be kill'd) the traitor, I'll make him great. Dion. I know some would give five thou- sand pounds to find her. Pha. Come, let us seek. King. Each man a several way; here I myself. Dion. Come, gentlemen, Ave here. Cle. Lady, you must go search too. Meg. I had rather be search'd myself. Exeunt severally. Scene 3. Another part of the forest. Enter Arethusa. Are. Where am I now? Feet, find me out a way. Without the counsel of my troubled head. I '11 follow you boldly about these woods, O'er mountains, thoi'ough bi'ambles, pits, and floods. Heaven, I hope, will ease me : I am sick. (Sits down.) Enter Bellario. Bel. Yonder 's my lady. God knows I want nothing, Because I do not wish to live ; yet I Will try her charity. — Oh hear, you have plenty ! From that flowing store drop some on diy ground. — See, The lively red is gone to guard her heart ! I fear she faints. — Madam, look up ! — She breathes not. — Open once more those rosy twins, and send Unto ray lord your latest farewell ! — Oh, she stirs. — How is it. Madam? Speak comfort. Are. 'T is not gently done, To put me in a miserable life. And hold me there. I prithee, let me go ; I shall do best without thee ; I am well. Enter Philaster. Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage. I 'II tell her coolly when and where 1 heard This killing truth. I will be temperate In speaking, and as just in hearing. Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, you gods ! good gods, Tempt not a frail man ! What 's he, that has a heart, But he must ease it here ! Bel. My lord, help, help! The princess! Are. I am well: forbear. Phi. (Aside.) Let me love lightning, let me be embrac'd And kist by scorpions, or adore the eyes Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues Of hell-bred women ! Some good god look down. And shrink these veins up! Stick me here a stone. Lasting to ages in the memoiy Of this damn'd act!— Hear me, you wicked ones ! You have put hills of fire into this breast. Not to be quench'd with tears ; for which may guilt Sit on your bosoms! At your meals and beds PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 219 Despair await you ! What, before my face? Poison of asps between your lips ! Dis- eases Be your best issues ! Nature make a curse, And throw it on you ! Are. Dear Philaster, leave To be enrag'd, and hear me. Phi. I have done ; Forgive my passion. Not the calmed sea, When ^lilolvTS locks up his windy brood, Is less disturb'd than I. I '11 make you know 't. Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword, (Offers hia draicn a word.) And search how temperate a heart I have; Then you and this your boy may live and reign In lust without control. — Wilt thou, Bel- lario? I prithee kill me; thou art poor, and may'st Nourish ambitious thoughts; when I am dead, Thy way were freer. Am I raging now? If I were mad, I should desire to live. Sirs,*"^ feel my pulse, whether you have known A man in a more equal tune to die. Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps mad- man's time ! So does your tongue. PJii. You will not kill me, then? Are. Kill you ! Bel. Not for the world. Phi. I blame not thc-e, Bellario; thou bast done but that which gods Would have transform'd themselves to do. Be gone. Leave me without reply ; this is the last Of all our meetings. — Exit Bellario. Kill me with this sword ; Be wise, or worse will follow : we are two Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to do, Or suffer. Are. If my fortune be so good to let me fall Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in death. Yet tell me this, will there be no slan- ders, No jealousy in the other world; no ill there ? Phi. No. Are. Show me, then, the way. Phi. Then guide my feeble hand, You that have power to do it, for I must Perform a piece of justice ! — If your youth Have any way offended Heaven, let prayers Short and effectual reconcile you to it. Are. I am prepared. Enter a Country Fellow. C. Fell. I '11 see the King, if he be in the forest; I have hunted him these two hours. If I should come home and not see him, ray sisters would laugh at me. I can see nothing but people better hors'd than myself, that outride me; I can hear nothing but shouting. These kings had need of good brains; this whooping is able to put a mean man out of his wits. There 's a courtier with his sword drawn ; by this hand, upon a woman, I think! Phi. Are you at peace? Are. W^ith heaven and earth. Phi. May they divide thy soul and body! {Wounds her.) C. Fell. Hold, dastard ! strike a woman ! Thou 'rt a craven. I warrant thee, thou wouldst be loth to play half a dozen venies ^^ at wasters ^^ with a good fellow for a broken head. Phi. Leave us, good friend. Are. What ill-bi'ed man art thou, to in- trude thyself Upon our private sports, our recrea- tion? C. Fell. God 'uds '^^ me, I understand you not; but I know the rogue has hurt you. Phi. Pursue thy own affairs : it will be ill To multiply blood upon my head ; which thou W^ilt force me to. C. Fell. I know not your rhetoric; but I can lay it on, if you touch the woman. Phi. Slave, take what thou deservest! {The,i light.) Are. Heavens guard my lord ! C. Fell. Oh, do you breathe? Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am hurt. 67 Formerly used to women as well as to men. 68 bouts. 69 cudgels. 70 God judge. 220 THE ELIZABETHAN PEIHOD The fTods take i>art against me : could this boor Have held me thus else? I must shift for life, Though I do loathe it. I would find a course To lose it rather by my will than force. Exit. C. Fell. I cannot follow the rogue. I pray thee, wench, come and kiss me now. Enter Pharamond, Dion, Clercmont, Thrasiline, and Woodmen. Pha. What art thou? C. Fell. Ahnost kill'd I am for a foolish woman ; a knave has hurt her. Pha. The princess, gentlemen ! — Where 's the wound, madam! Is it dangerous'? Are. He has not hurt me. C. Fell. By God, she lies; h'as hurt her in the breast; Look else. Pha. sacred spring of innocent blood ! Dion. 'T is above wonder! Who should dare this? Are. I felt it not. Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the princess? C. Fell. Is it the princess? Dion. Aye. C. Fell. Then I have seen something yet. Pha. But who has hurt her? C. Fell. I told you, a rogue; I ne'er saw him before, I. Pha. Madam, who did it? Are. Some dishonest wretch ; Alas, I know him not, and do forgive him ! C. Fell. He 's hurt too ; he cannot go far ; I made my father's old fox ''^ fly about his ears. Pha. How will you have me kill him? Are. Not at all; 'tis some distracted fel- low. Pha. By this hand, I '11 leave ne'er a piece of him bigger than a nut, and bring him all to you in my hat. Are. Nay, good sir. If you do take him, bring him quick ^^ to me, And I will study for a punishment Great as his fault. Pha. I will. Are. But swear. Pha. By all my love, I will. Woodmen, conduct Iho princess to tlio King, And bear that wounded fellow to dress- ing. Come, gentlemen, we '11 follow the chase close. Exeunt Arethiisa, Pharamond, Dion, Clcremont, Thrasiline, and 1 Wood- man. C. Fell. I pi'ay you, friend, let me see the King. 2 Wood. That you shall, and receive thanks. C. Fell. If I get clear with this, I '11 go see no more gay sights. Exeunt. Scene 4. Another part of the forest. Enter Bcllario. Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my brow, And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle bank. For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones all, {Lies down.) Let me unworthy press you ; I could wish I rather wei'e a corse strew'd o'er with you Than quick above you. Dulness ^-"^ shuts mine eyes. And I am giddy : oh, that I could take So sound a sleep that I might never wake! (Sleeps.) Enter Pliilaster. Phi. I have done ill ; my conscience calls me false To strike at her that would not strike at me. When I did fight, methought I heard her pray The gods to guard me. She may be abus'd. And I a loathed villain ; if she be. She will conceal who hurt her. He has wounds And cannot follow; neither knows he me. Wlio 's this? Bellarijo sleeping! If thou bc'st Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep Should be so sound, and mine, whom thon hast wrong'd. So broken. (Cri/ within.) Hark! T am pursued. You gods, I 'II take tliis offer'd means of my escape. 71 brond sword. 72 alive. 73 drowsiness. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 221 They have no mark to know uie but my blood, If she be true; if false, let mischief liyht On all the world at once! Sword, print my wounds Upon this sleeping boy ! I ha' none, I think, Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on thee. (Wounds Bellario.) Bel. Oh, death, I hope, is come ! Blest be that hand ! It meant me well. Again, for pity's sake ! Phi. I have caught myself; \Falis.) The loss of blood hath stay'd my flight. Here, here. Is he that struck thee : take thy full re- venge ; Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than death ; I '11 teach thee to revenge. This luckless hand Wounded the princess; tell my follow- ers ^* Thou didst receive these hurts in staying me. And I will second thee ; get a reward. ■Bel. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself! . Phi. How's this? Wouldst thou I should be safe"? Bel. Else were it vain For me to live. These little wounds I have Ha' not bled nmch. Reach me that noble hand ; I '11 help to cover you. Phi. Art thou then true to me? Bel. Or let me perish loath'd ! Come, my good lord. Creep in aniongst those bushes; who does know But that the szods may save your mucli- lov'd breath'? Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for this. That I have wounded thee. What wilt thou do? Bel Shift for myself well. Peace! I hear 'em come. (Philaster creeps into a bush.) Voices within. Follow, follow, follow ! that way they went. Bel. With my own wounds I '11 bloody my own sword. I need not counterfeit to fall ; Heaven knows That I can stand no longer. {Fulls.) ^ Enter Pharamond, Dion, Cleremont, and ThrasUine. Pha. To this place we have trackt him by his blood. Clc. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. Dion, Stay, sir! what are you? Bel. A wretched creature, wounded in these woods By beasts. Relieve me, if your names be men. Or I shall perish. Dion. This is he, my lord. Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'T is the boy, That wicked bey, that serv'd her. Pha. Oh, thou damn'd In thy creation ! What cause eouldst thou sha]ie To hurt the princess? Bel. Then I am betrayed. Dion. Beti^ayed! No, apprehended. Bel. I confess, (Urge it no more) that, big with evil thoughts, I set upon her, and did make my aim, Her death. For charity let fall at once The punishment you mean, and do not load This weary flesh with tortures. Pha. I will know Who hir'd thee to this deed. Bel. Mine own revenge. Pha. Revenge ! for what ? Bel. It pleas'd her to receive Me as her page and, when my fortunes ebb'd. That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower Her welcome graces on me, and did swell My fortunes till they overllow'd their banks, Threat'ning the men that crost 'em; when, as swift As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her eyes To burning suns upon me, and did dry The streams she had bestow'd, leaving me worse And more eontemn'd than other little brooks, Because I had been great. In short, I knew I could not live, and therefore did desire To die reveng'd. Pha. If tortures can be found 74 pursuers. 222 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel The utmost rigor. {Fhiluster creeps out of the bush.) Cle. Help to lead him hence. Fhi. Turn back, you ravishers of inno- cence ! Know ye the price of that you bear away So rudely? Pha. Who's that 1 Dion. 'T is the Lord Philaster. Phi. 'T is not the treasure of all kings in one, The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of pearl That pave the court of Neptune, can weigh down That virtue. It was I that hurt the prin- cess. Place me, some god, upon a pyramis '^^ Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice Loud as your thunder to me, that from hence I may discourse to all the under-world The worth that dwells in him ! Pha. How's this? Bel. My lord, some man Weary of life, that would be glad to die. Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bel- lario. Beh Alas, he 's mad ! Come, will you lead me on? Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most to keep. And gods to jDunish most when men do break. He touch'd her not. — Take heed, Bellario, How thou dost drown the virtues thou hast shown With perjury. — By all that 's good, 't was I! You know she stood betwixt me and my right. Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge ! Cle. It was Philaster. Dion. Is 't not a brave boy ? Well, sirs, I fear me we were all de- ceived. Phi. Have I no friend here? Dion. Yes. Phi. Then show it : some Good body lend a hand to draw us nearer. Would you have tears shed for you when you die? Then lay me gently on his neck, that there I may weep floods and breathe forth my spirit. 'T is not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold {Embraces Bellario.) Lockt in the heart of earth, can buy away This arm-full from me; this had been a ransom To have redeem'd the great Augustus Cffisar, Had he been taken. You hard-hearted men, More stony than these mountains, can you see Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut your flesh To stop his life, to bind whose bitter wounds. Queens ought to tear their hair, and with their tears Bathe 'em? — Forgive me, thou that art the wealth Of poor Philaster! Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. King. Is the villain ta'en? Pha. Sir, here be two confess the deed; but sure It was Philaster. Phi. Question it no more; It was. King. The fellow that did fight with him. Will tell us that. Are. Ay me ! I know he will. King. Did not you know him? Are. Sir, if it was he. He was disguis'd. Phi. I was so.''*' — Oh, my stars. That I should live still ! King. Thou ambitious fool. Thou that hast laid a train for thy own life !— Now I do mean to do ; I '11 leave to talk.'''" Bear them to prison. Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence This harmless life; should it pass unre- veng'd, I should to earth go weeping. Grant me, then, By all the love a father bears his child. Their custodies, and that I may appoint Their tortures and their deaths. Dion. Death ! Soft ; our law will not reach that for this fault. King. 'T is granted; take 'em to yon with a guard. — 75 pyramid. 76 i.e. out of my senses. 77 I '11 cease talking. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 223 Come, princely Pharamond, this business past, We may with security go on To your intended match. Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. Cle. I pray that his action lose not Phil- aster the hearts of the people. Dion. Fear it not; their over-wise heads will think it but a trick. Exeunt. ACT V. Scene 1. Before the palace. Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. Thra. Has the King sent for him to death ? Dion. Yes; but the King must know 'tis not in his power to war with Heaven. Cle. We linger time; the King sent for Philaster and the headsman an hour ago. Thra. Are all his wounds well? Dion. All; they were but scratches; but the loss of blood made him faint. Cle. We dally, gentlemen. Thra. Away ! Dion. We '11 scuffle hard before he perish. Exeunt. Scene 2. A ^orison. Enter Philaster, Arethusa, and Bellario. Are. Nay, faith, Philaster, grieve not; we are well. Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear ; we 're wondrous well. Phi. Arethusa, O Bellario, Leave to be kind ! I shall be shut from Heaven, as now from earth. If you continue so. I am a man False to a pair of the most trusty ones That ever earth bore; can it bear us all? Forgive, and leave me. But the King hath sent To call me to my death : oh, show it me. And then forget me ! And for thee, my boy, I shall deliver words will mollify The hearts of beasts to spare thy inno- cence. Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing Worthy your noble thoughts ! 'T is not a life, 'T is but a piece of childhood thrown away. Should I outlive you, I should then out- live Virtue and honor; and when that day comes. If ever I shall close these eyes but once. May I live spotted for my perjury. And waste my limbs to nothing! Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was, Forc'd with my hands to bring my lord to death) Do by the honor of a virgin swear To tell no hours beyond it ! Phi. Make me not hated so. Are. Come from this prison all joyful to our deaths ! Phi. People will tear me, when they find you true To such a wretch as I ; I shall die loath'd. Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably whilst I For ever sleep forgotten with my faults. Every just servant, every maid in love. Will have a piece of me, if you be true. Are. My dear lord, say not so. Bel. A piece of you! He was not born of woman that can cut It and look on. Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, for my heart Will break with shame and sorrow. Are. Why, 't is well. Bel. Lament no more. Phi. Why, what would you have done If you had wrong'd me basely, and had found Your life no price eompar'd to mine"? For love, sirs, Deal with me truly. Bel. 'T was mistaken, sir. Phi. Why, if it were? Bel. Then, sir, we would have ask'd You pardon. Phi. And have hope to enjoy it? Are. Enjoy it ! aye. Phi. Would you indeed? Be plain. Bel. We would, my lord. Phi. Forgive me, then. Are. So, so. Bel. 'T is as it should be now. Phi. Lead to my death. Exeunt. Scene 3. A state-room in the palace. Enter King, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline , and Attendants. King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince? Cle. So please you, sir, he 's gone to see the city 224 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD And the new platform, with some gentle- men Attending- on him. King. Is the princess ready To bring her prisoner out":? Thra. Siie waits your grace. King. Tell her we stay. Exit Thr aniline. Dion. (Aside.) King, you may be de- ceiv'd yet. The head you aim at cost more setting on Than to be lost so lightly. If it nmst off,— Like a wild overilow, that swoops before him A golden stack, and with it shakes down biidges, Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable-roots Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders, And, so made mightier, takes whole vil- lages Upon his back, and in that heat of pride Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces, And lays them desolate; so shall tliy head, Thy noble head, bury the lives of thou- sands. That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice. In thy red ruins. Enter Arethusa, Pliilaster, Bellario in a rohe and garland, and Thrasiline. King. How now? What masque is this"? Bel. Right royal sir, I should Sing you an epithalaniion of these lovers, But having lost my best airs with my fortunes. And wanting a celestial harp to strike This blessed union on, thus in glad story I give you all. These two fair cedar- bi'anches, The noblest of the mountain where they grew, Straightest and tallest, under whose still shades The worthier beasts have made their lairs, and slept Free from the fervor of the Sirian star ''^ And the fell thunder-stroke, free from the clouds When they were big witli humor, and deliverVl In thousand spouts their issues to the earth ; Oh, there was none but silent quiet there! Till ne\er-pleased Fortune shot up shrubs. Base under-brambles, to divorce these branches ; And for a while they did so, and did reign Over tlie mountain, aiul choke up his beauty With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, till the sun Scorcht them even to the roots and dried them there. And now a gentle gale hath blown again. That made these branches meet and twine together. Never to be divided. The god that sings His holy numbers over marriage-beds Hath knit their noble hearts; and here they stand Your children, mighty King; and I luive done. King. How, how? Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth, (For now theie is no niastiuing in't,) this gentleman. The ])risoner that you gave me, is become My keeper, and through all tlie bitter throes Your jealousies and his ill fate have wrought him, Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length Arrived here my dear husband. King. Your dear husband ! — Call in the Captain of the Citadel — There you shall keep your wedding. I '11 provide A masque slmll make your Hymen turn his saffron ''^ Into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems To your departing souls. Blood shall put out your torches; and, instead Of gaudy flowers about your Avanton necks. An axe shall hang, like a prodigious meteor. Ready to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, you gods ! From tliis time do I shake all title off Of fatlier to this woman, this base woman ; And wluit there is of vengeance hi a lion Chaf'd among dogs or robl)\l of his dear voung. 78 Sirius, the dos stnr, was su])posed to bring hot weather, the dog-days. 7U Hymen wore a s;ilTron robe in tlie niasQues. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 225 The same, enforc'd more terrible, more mighty, Expect from me ! Are. Sir, by that little life I have left to swear by. There 's nothing that can stir me from myself. What I have done, I have done without repentance. For death can be no bugbear unto me, So long as Pharamond is not my heads- man. Dion. {Aside.) Sweet peace upon thy soul, thou worthy maid, Whene'er thou diest ! For this time I '11 excuse thee, Or be thy prologue. Phi. Sir, let me speak next; And let my dying words be better with you Than my dull living actions. If you aim At the dear life of this sweet innocent. You are a tyrant and a savage monster. That feeds upon the blood you gave a life to; Your memory shall be as foul behind you, As you are living; all your better deeds Shall be in water writ, but this in mar- ble; No chronicle shall speak you, though your own. But for the shame of men. No monu- ment, Though high and big as Pelion, shall be able To cover this base murder: make it rich With brass, with purest gold, and shining- jasper, Like the Pyramides; lay on epitaphs Such as make great men gods; my little marble, That only clothes my ashes, not my faults. Shall far outshine it. And for after- issues. Think not so madly of the heavenly wis- doms, That they will give you more for your mad rage To cut off, unless it be some snake, or something Like yourself, that in his birth shall strangle you. Remember my father, King! There was a fault; But I forgive it. Let that sin persuade you 80 fearing for. To love this lady; if you have a soul. Think, save her, and be saved. For my- self, I have so long expected this glad hour, So languisht under you, and daily with- ered. That, Heaven knows, it is a joy to die; I find a recreation in 't. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Where is the King'? King. Here. Mess. Get you to your strength, And rescue the Prince Pharamond from danger ; He 's taken prisoner by the citizens. Fearing ®° the Lord Philaster. Dion. (Aside.) Oh, brave followers ! Mutiny, my fine dear countrymen, mutiny ! Now, my brave valiant foremen, show your weapons In honor of your mistresses ! Enter a Second Messenger. 2 Mess. Arm, arm, arm, arm! King. A thousand devils take 'em ! Dion. {Aside.) A thousand blessings on 'em! 2 Mess. Arm, Kmg! The city is in mutiny, Led by an old gray ruffian, who comes on In rescue of the Lord Philaster. King. Away to the citadel ! I '11 see them safe. And then cope with these burghers. Let the guard And all the gentlemen give strong at- tendance. Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. Cle. The city up ! This was above our wishes. Dioyi. Aye, and the marriage too. By my life. This noble lady has deceiv'd us all. A plague upon myself, a thousand plagues, For having such unworthy thoughts of her dear honor! Oh, I could beat myself! Or do you beat me. And I '11 beat you ; for we had all one thought. CJe. No, no, 't will but lose time. Dion. You say true. Are your swords sharp?- — Well, my dear countrymen What-ye-lacks,^^ if you continue, and 81 i.e. shopkeepers, who thus addressed passers-by. 226 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD fall not back upon the first broken skin, 1 '11 have you chronicled and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and all-to-be- prais'd and sung in sonnets, and bawled in new brave ballads, that all tongues shall troll you in saccula sueculurum, my kind can-carriers. Thra. What, if a toy ^- take 'em i' th' heels now, mid they run all away, and cry, "the devil take the hindmost""? Dion. Then the same devil take the fore- most too, and souse him for his break- fast ! If they all prove cowards, my curses fly among them, and be speeding! May they have murrains reign to keep the gentlemen at home unbound in easy frieze! May the moths branch ^^ their velvets, and their silks only be worn be- foi'e sore eyes ! ''^ IMiiy their false lights undo 'em, and discover presses,^'' holes, stains, and oldness in their stuffs, and make them shop-rid ! ]\lay they keep whores and horses, and break ; and live mewed up with necks of beef and tur- nips ! May they have many children, and none like the father! May they know no language but that gibl)erish they prattle to their parcels, unless it be the goatish Latin they write in their bonds — and may they write that false, and lose their debts ! Ee-cnter King. King. Now the vengeance of all the gods confound them! How they swarm to- gether! What a hum they raise! — Devils choke your wild throats! — If a man had need to use their valors, he must pay a brokage for it. and then bring 'em on, and they will fight like sheep. 'T is Philaster, none but Philaster, must allay this heat. They will not hear me si)eak, but lling dirt at me and call me tyrant. Oh, run, dear friend, and bring the Lord Philaster! Speak him fair; call him jirince; do him all the courtesy you can; commend me to him. Oh, my wits, my Avits ! Erit Cleremont. Dion. (Aside.) Oh, my brave country- men! as I live, I will not buy a pin out of your walls ^^ for this. Nay, you shall cozen me, and T '11 thank you, and send you brawn and bacon, and soil ^'' you every long vacation a brace of foremen,^^ that' at Michaelmas shall come up fat and kicking. King. What they will do with this poor prince, the gods know, and I fear. Dion. [Aside.) Why, sir, they'll Hay him, and make church-buckets on 's skin, to quench rebellion; then clap a rivet in 's sconce, and hang him up for a sign. Enter Cleremont with Philaster. King. Oh, Avorthy sir, forgi\e me ! Do not make Your miseries and my faults meet to- gether. To bring a greater danger. Be youiself, Still sound amongst diseases. I have wrong'd you ; And though I lind it last, and beaten to it. Let first your goodness know it. Calm the people. And be Avhat you Avere born to. Take your love, And Avitli her my repentance, all my wishes. And all my prayers. By the gods, my heart S]>eaks this ; And if the least fall from me not per- form'd. May I be struck Avith thunder! Phi. Mighty sii-, 1 Avill not do your greatness so much Avrong, As not to make your Avord truth. Free the princess And the poor boy, and let me stand the shock Of this mad sea-breach, which I '11 either turn. Or perish Avith it. King. Let your oAvn Avord free them. Phi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing your hand. And hanging on your royal Avord. Be kingly. And be not mov'd, sir. I shall bring you peace. Or never bring myself back. King. All the gods go Avith thee. Exeunt. Scene 4. A street. Enter an old Captain and Citizens with Pharamond. Cap. Come, my brave myrmidons, let us fall on. S2 whim. 83 eat patterns on. 84 1. e. for patches. 85 creases. 80 outsiile your shops. tsT fatten. 88 geese. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLI-^EDING 227 Lt't your caps swanii, uiy boys, and your nimble toni^ucs i'orget your nioUier-yibberish of "what do you lack'?" And set your mouths ope, children, till your palates Fall frighted half a fathom jiast the cure Of bay-salt ^^ and gross pepper, and then cry "Philaster, brave Philaster!" Let Phil- aster Be deeper in request, my ding-dongs,'^*' My pairs of dear indentures,'-*^ kings of elubs,^^ Than your cold water-camlets,"- or your paintings Spitted with copper."^ Let not your hasty '•'* silks, Or your branch'd cloth of bodkia,**^ or your tissues. Dearly belov'd of spiced cake and cus- tards, You Robin Hoods, Scarlets, and Johns,''*^ tie your affections In darkness to your shops. No, dainty duckers,'*'' LTp with your three-pil'd spirits, your wrought valors ; ^^ And let your uncut cholers "'^ make the King feel The measure of your mightiness. Phil- aster ! Cry, my rose-nobles,^ crj' ! All. Philaster! Philaster! Cap. How do you like this, my lord prince ? These are mad boys, I tell you ; these are things That will not strike their top-sails to a foist," And let a man of war, an argosy, Hull ^ and cry cockles.'* PJia. Why, you rude slave, do you know what you do? Cap. My pretty prince of puppets, we do know; And give your greatness warning that you talk No more such bug's-words,^ or that solder'd crown so coarsegrained salt, obtained by evaporation from sea-water. 00 brave fellows. !H apiirentices, who wore bound by indentures and whose usual weap- ons were clubs. 92 rich fabrics with a watered surface. Shall be scratch'd with a nuisket." Dear l)rince Pii>pni,^ Down with your noble blood, or, as I live, I '11 have you coddled.® — Let him loose, my spirits : Make us a round ring with your bills,^ my Hectors, And let us see what this trim man dares do. Now, sir, have at you ! here I lie ; And with this swashing blow (do you see, sweet prince?) I could hulk ^" your grace, and hang you up cross-legg'd. Like a hare at a poulter's, and do this with this wiper.^^ Pha. You will not see me murder'd. wicked villains'? 1 Cit. Yes, indeed, will we, sir; we have not seen one For a great while. Cap. He would have weapons, would he? Give him a broadside, my brave boys, with your pikes; Branch me his skin in flowers like a satin. And between eveiy llower a mortal cut. — Your royalty shall ravel! — Jag ^^ him, gentlemen ; I '11 iiave hhn cut to the kell,^^ then down the seams. for a whip to make him galloon- laces ! !■* 1 '11 have a coach-whip. Pita. Oh, spare me, gentlemen! Cap. Hold, hold; The man begins to fear and know him- self. He shall for this time only be seel'd up,^^ With a feather through his nose, that he may only See heaven, and think whither he is go- ing. Nay, my beyond-sea sir, Ave will pro- claim yott : You would be king! Thou tender heir apparent to a church- ale,^o Thou slight i)rince of single sarcenet,^^ 93 colored cloth in- duck-hunters( ?). on the weapon. is membrane of the terwoven with 98 a pun on velour. 7 Pepin, King of the paunch. copper. 90 a pun on collars. Franks, with a 1^ ribbons, tape. 94 ). c. that soon i another pun ; rose- pun on the fruit. 15 have his eyelids wear out. nobles were gold 8 stewed. sewed together or, embroidered cloth coins. 9 pikes with a like a hawk s. of Kold and silk. 2 a small vessel. broad. spiked ui i. e. a bastard, 9G Scarlet and I.ittle 3 float idly. blade. one born after the .lohu were two -t be basely occupied, lo disembowel. convivialities of a of Robin Hood's r, swassrering words, ll instrument for church feast. men. 6 a male sparrow- cleaning a gun. 17 thin silk. 97 cringers( ?), hawk, with a pun 12 slash. 228 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Thou royal ring-tail/^ fit to fly at noth- ing But poor men's poultiy, and have every boy Beat thee from that too with his bread and butter! Pha. Gods keep me from these hell- hounds ! 1 at. Shall 's geld him, captain? Cap. No, you shall spare his dowcets, my dear donsels; ^^ As you respect the ladies, let them flour- ish. The curses of a longing woman kill As speedy as a plague, boys. 1 Git. I '11 have a leg, that 's certain. 2 at. I '11 have an arm. 3 at. I '11 have his nose, and at mine own charge build A college and clap 't upon the gate.^° 4 at. I '11 have his little gut to string a kit 21 with ; For certainly a royal gut will sound like silver. Pha. Would they were in thy belly, and I past My i3ain once ! 5 at. Good captain, let me have his liver to feed ferrets. Cap. Who will have parcels-- else? Speak. Pha. Good gods, consider me ! I shall be tortur'd. 1 at. Captain, I '11 give you the trim- ming of your two-hand sword. And let me have his skin to make false scabbards. 2 at. He had no horns, sir, had he? Cap. No, sir, he 's a pollard.-^ What wouldst thou do with horns? 2 at. Oh, if he had had, I would have made rare hafts and whistles of 'em ; But his shin-bones, if they be sound, shall serve me. Enter Philaster. All Phi Long live Philaster, the brave Prince Philaster ! I thank you, gentlemen. But why are these Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach your hands Uncivil trades? Cap. My royal Rosicleer,-* We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy roarers ; ^^ And when thy noble body is in durance, Thus do we clap our musty murrions -^ on. And trace the streets in terror. Is it peace. Thou Mars of men? Is the King soci- able. And bids thee live? Art thou above thy foemen, And free as Phoebus? Speak. If not, this stand ^^ Of royal blood shall be abroach, a-tilt, And run even to the lees of honor. Phi. Hold, and be satisfied. I am myself. Free as my thoughts are ; by the gods, I am! Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the King? Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules? Do the lords bow, and the regarded scar- lets 28 Kiss their gumm'd golls,^^ and ciy, "We are your servants"? Is the court navigable and the presence ^° stuck With fiags of friendship? If not, we are thy castle, And this man sleeps. Phi. I am what I desire to be, your friend ; I am what I was born to be, your prince. Pha. Sir, there is some humanity in you ; You have a noble soul. Forget my name. And know my miseiy ; set me safe aboard From these wild cannibals, and as I live, I '11 quit this land for ever. There is nothing, — Perpetual prisonment, cold, hunger, sick- ness Of all sorts, of all dangers, and all to- gether, The worst company of the worst men, madness, age. To be as many creatures as a woman. And do as all they do, nay, to despair, — But I would rather make it a new nature. And live with all these, than endure one hour Amongst these wild dogs. Phi. I do pity you. — Friends, discharge your fears; 18 kite, an inferior bird of prey. 19 youths aspiring to knightliood. 20 in allusion to Brasenose Col- lege, Oxford. 21 a small fiddle. 22 i. e. bits of him. 23 hornless stag. 24 A hero in The Alirrnur of Knighthood, a romance trans- lated from the Spanish. 2r. bullies. 26 steel caps. 27 cask, i. e. mond. Phara- 28 courtiers clad in scarlet. 20 perfumed hands. 30 presence cham- ber. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 229 Deliver me the prince. I '11 warrant you I shall be old enough to find my safety. 3 Cit. Good sir, take heed he does not hurt you; He is a fierce man, I can tell you, sir. Cap, Prince, by your leave, I '11 have a surcingle,^ ^ And make ^- you like a hawk. {Pharamond strives.) Phi. Away, away, there is no danger in him: Alas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit ofe! Look you, friends, how gently he leads ! Upon my word, He 's tame enough, he needs no further watching. Good, my friends, go to your houses, And by me have your pardons and my love ; And know there shall be nothing in my power You may deserve, but you shall have your wishes. To give you more thanks, were to flatter you. Continue still your love; and for an earnest. Drink this. (Gives money.) All. Long mayst thou live, brave prince, brave prince, brave prince ! Exeunt Philaster and Pharamond. Cap. Go thy ways, thou art the king of courtesy ! Fall off again, my sweet youths. Come, And every man trace to his house again, And hang his pewter ^^ up; then to the tavern. And bring your wives in muffs. We will have music; And the red grape shall make us dance and rise, boys. Exeunt. Scene 5. An apartment in the palace. Enter King, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Bellario, and Attendants. King. Is it appeas'd"? Dion. Sir, all is quiet night, As peaceable as sleep. aster as this dead of My lord Phil- Brings on the prince himself. King. Kind gentleman! I will not break the least word I have given In promise to him. I have heap'd a world Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope To wash away. Enter Philaster and Pharamond. Cle. My lord is come. King. My son! Biest be the time that I have leave to call Such virtue mine ! Now thou art in mine arms, Methinks I have a salve unto my breast For all the stings that dwell there. Streams of grief That I have wrong'd thee, and as much of joy That I repent it, issue from mine eyes ; Let them appease thee. Take thy right; take her; She is thy right too ; and forget to urge My vexed soul with that I did before. Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory. Past and forgotten. — For you, prince of Spain, Whom I have thus redeem'd, you have full leave To make an honorable voyage home. And if you would go furnish'd to your realm With fair provision, I do see a lady, Methinks, would gladly bear you com- pany. How like you this piece *? Meg. Sir, he likes it well. For he hath tried it, and hath found it worth His princely liking. We were ta'en abed; I know your meaning. I am not the first That nature taught to seek a fellow forth; Can shame remain perpetually in me. And not in others'? Or have princes salves To cure ill names, that meaner people want? Phi. What mean you? Meg. You must get another ship. To bear the princess and her boy to- gether. Dion. How now ! Meg. Others took me, and I took her and him 31 band. 33 i. e. sword. 230 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD At that all wonu'u ma}' be ta'eii soiiio- time. Ship us all four, my lord; wc can endure Weather and wind alike. King. Clear thou tliysell', or know not me for father. Are. This earth, how false it is! What means is left for mo To clear myself? It lies in your belief. My lords, believe me; and lol all things else Strug'gle tog'ether to dishonor me. Del. Oh, stop your ears, groat King, that I may speak As freedom would ! Then I will eall this lady 34 As base as are her actions. Hear me, sir; Believe your heated blood when it rebels Against your reason, sooner than this lady. Meg. By this good light, he bears it hand- somely. Phi. This lady ! I will sooner trust the wind With feathers, or tlie trouliled sea with l^earl, Tlian her with any thing. Believe her not. Why, think you, if I did Ixdieve her words, I would outlive 'em? Honor cannot take Revenge on you; then what were to be known But death? King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit Between us. But I must request of you One favor, and will sadly ^^ be denied. Phi. Conuiiand, whate'er it be. King. Swear to be true To what you promise. J'lii. By the powers above, Let it not be the death of her or him. And it is granted ! King. Bear away that boy To torture; I will liave her clear'd or buried. riii. Oh, let me call my word 1)ack, worthy sir! Ask something else: bury my life and right . In one poor grave; but do not take away My life and fame at once. King. Away with him ! It stands ir- revocable. /'/(/. Tuni all your eyes on me. Here stands a man, 34 i. e. Megr.a. The falsest and the basest of this world. Set swords against this breast, some hon- est man. For I have liv'd till I am pitied ! My former deeds were hateful; but this last Is pitiful, for I unAvillingly Have given the dear presei'ver of mj' life Unto his torture. Is it in the power Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live? {Offers to stab himself.) Are. Dear sir, be patient yet! Oh, stay that hand ! King. Sirs, strip that boy. Dion. Come, sir; your tender flesh Will try your constancy. Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen ! Dion. No. — Help, sirs. Bel. Will you torture me? King. Haste there; Why stay you? Bel. Then I shall not break my vow, You know, just gods, though I discover all. King. HoAv'slhat? Will he confess? Dion. Sir, so he says. King. Speak then. Bel. Great King, if you conuuand This lord to talk with me alone, my tongue Urg'd by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts My youth hath known; and stranger things than these You hear not often. King. Walk aside with him. {Dion and Bellario walk apart.) Dion. Why speak'st thou not ? Bel. Know you this face, my lord ? Dion. No. Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like? Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily I know not where. Bel. I have been often told In court of one Euphrasia, a lady. And daughter to you; betwixt whom and me They that would flatter my bad face would swear There was such strange resemblance, thai we two Could not be known asunder, drest alike. Dion. By Heaven, and so there is ! Bel. For her fail- sake. Who now dolb spend the spring-lime of her life In holy jnlgi'image, move to the King, ."jr. slwill 1>(' sorry to W dcniod. PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 231 That I may scape this torture. Dion. But thou speak'st As like Euphrasia as thou dost look. How came it to thy knowledge that she lives Tn pilgrimage'? Bel. I know it not, my lord ; But I liave heard it, and do scarce be- lieve it. Dion. Oh, my shame! is it possible*? Draw near, That I may gaze upon. thee. Art thou she, Or else her murderer? ^° Where wert thou born? Bel. In Syracusa. Dion. What 's thy name? Bel. Euphrasia. Dion. Oh, 'tis just,^^ 'tis she! Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou hadst died. And I had never seen thee nor my shame ! How shall I own thee? Shall this tongue of mine E'er call tlice daughter more? Eel. Would I had died indeed ! I wish it too; And so I must have done by vow, ere publish'd What I have told, but that there was no means To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this, The princess is all clear. King. What, have you done? Dion. All is discovered. Phi. Why then hold you me? All is discovered ! Pray you, let me go. (OlJcrs to stab himself.) King. Stay him. Are. What is discovered? Dion. Why, my shame. It is a woman ; let her s]ieak the rest. Phi. How? That again! Dion. It is a woman. Phi. Blest be you powers that favor inno- cence ! King. Lay hold ujion that lady. (Mcgra is seized.) Phi. It is a woman, sir ! — Hark, gentle- men, It is a woman ! — Arethusa, take My soul into thy breast, that would be s gone With joy. It is a Avnman ! Thou art fair. And virtuous still to ages, in despite Of malice. King. Speak you, where lies his shame? Bel. I am his daughter. Phi. , The gods are just. Dion. I dare accuse none ; but, before you two, The virtue of our age, I bend my knee For mercy. (Kneels.) Phi. (Raising him.) Take it freely; for I know. Though what thou didst were undiscreetly done, 'T was meant well. Are. And for me, I have a power to pardon sins, as oft As any man has power to wrong me. Cle. Noble and worthy! Phi. But, Bellario, (For I must call thee still so,) tell me why Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault, A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds Of truth outweigh'd it: all these jeal- ousies Had Hown to nothing if thou hadst dis- covered What now we know. Bel. My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow More and more apprehensive,^^ I did thirst To see the man so prais'd. But yet all this Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost As soon as found ; till, sitting in my win- dow. Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought, (but it was you,) enter our gates. My blood flew out and back again, as fast As I had puft it forth and suckt it in Like breath. Then was I eall'd away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man, Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a scepter, rais'd So high in tlioughts as I. You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever. I did hear you talk. 36 In some harbarous roiintries, it was believed that the murderer inherited the form and qualities of his vic- tim. (Mason.) 37 true. 38 able to understand. 232 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Far above singing. After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and seareh'd What stirr'd it so : alas, I found it love ! Yet far from lust; for, could I but have liv'd In presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest my- self In habit of a boy ; and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you; and, understanding well That when I made discovery of my sex I could not stay with you, I made a vow, By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known, •Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, For other than I seem'd, that I might ever Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount. Where first you took me up. King. Search out a match Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt. And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself Wilt well deserve him. Bel. Never, sir, will I Marry; it is a thing within my vow: But, if I may have leave to serve the princess. To see the virtues of her lord and her, I shall have hope to live. Are. I, Philaster, Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady Drest like a page to serve you ; nor will I Suspect her living here. — Come, live with me; Live free as I do. She that loves my lord. Curst be the wife that hates her! Phi. I grieve such virtue should be laid in earth Without an heir. — Hear me, my royal father ; Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much. To think to take revenge of that base woman; Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free As she was born, saving from shame and sin. King. Set her at liberty. — But leave the court ; Tliis is no place for such. — You, Phara- mond. Shall have free passage, and a conduct home Worthy so great a prince. When you come there, Remember 't was your faults that lost you her. And not my purpos'd will. Pha. I do confess, Renowned sir. King. Last, join your hands in one. En- joy, Philaster, This kingdom, Avhich is yours, and, after me, Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you ! All happy hours be at your marriage- joys. That you may grow yourselves over all lands. And live to see your plenteous branches spring Wherever there is sun! Let princes learn By this to rule the passions of their blood ; For what Heaven wills can never be withstood. Exeunt. BEN JONSON THE ALCHEMIST Benjamin or Ben Jonson, as he lias always been called (1573-1637), the stepson ox a bricklayer, rained the beginnings of his solid classical learning in Westminster School under the celebrated Camden, but went to no university. After working as a bricklayer, ligliting in Flanders, and being imprisoned for killing a man in a duel, he produced his hrst extant play, Every Man in His Humor, in 1598. In 1598-1002 he was concerned in a vigorous literary quarrel, especially with Dek- ker and ^larston, during wliich they were fertile in dramas satirical of each other. His tragedies, Sejaniis and Catiline, were pro- duced in 1603 and 1611, and his greatest comedies, those of his middle period, Volpone, Epicene, The Alchemist and Bartholomew Fair, from 1005 to 1614. Though his later plays were less meritorious, and though his lack of popular success often left him poor, to- ward the end of his life he held a station of commanding literary influence. Jonson is the most vivid literary person- ality of the whole Elizabethan epoch; indeed, he is the first English writer whom we know intimately as a man. We know him through the self-expression in his candid, pugnacious prologues and epilogues, and in certain jjrose works; and we know him through one of the most delightful of seventeenth-century books, the Conversations with him recorded by Wil- liam Drumniond, whom he fascinated but re- pelled. With Jonson's classical sympathies and literary good-taste, his gifts as a talker, his trenchant humor and biting tonguej his influence over younger men, his solidity, his downright good-sense, he reminds us to an extraordinary degree of his namesake Samuel, a century and a half later, to whose biography by Boswell the Conversations by Drummond are like a sort of imfiattering first sketch. Jonson, however, was no less inferior to John- son as a Christian soul than he was superior in both the importance and variety of his literary work, which shows most remarkable versatility. The most vigorous and pene- trating of early literary critics, author of an English grammar, yet also of some of the most limpid of songs, of strict and learned classical tragedy, of mordant realistic comedy, of highly poetic masques, he was the most weighty and versatile man of letters, though of course not the greatest poet or dramatist, in the entire Elizabethan period. While the other dramatists differ among themselves in degree, he stands apart in kind. The foundation of Jonson's literary ideals was an admiration for the classics, their con- scientious finish, their temperance and firm- ness, their reality. In the prologue to his first known comedy he cut loose from the extravagances of romantic drama in favor of deeds, and language, such as men do use, And persons such as comedy would choose, When she would show an image of the times, And sport with human follies, not with crimes. Jonson was the real founder and first worthy exjjonent of classicism in English literature. But he was fortunate in living in a romantic age, so that the bonds of the classic were never tight upon him. The conventionality which lay heavy as frost and deep almost as life on so much of the literature of the eighteenth century and earlier is not to be seen in his work. In a word, he was free, and wrote as he did because it pleased him. The Alchemist (first performed in 1610, and printed in 1612) has usually been recognized as his masterpiece. It was played till the theaters closed in 1642, and was one of the first comedies revived after the Restoration; Pepys the diarist thought it incomparable; indeed at this time Jonson was if anything preferred to Shakespeare, and Restoration comedy shows much of his influence. The play remained popular in the eighteenth cen- tury, when Garrick played both Face and Abel Drugger. Coleridge deemed the plots of Sophocles' (Edipus, The Alchemist, and Field- ing's Tom Jones the three most perfect ever devised, and Swinburne called the play a faultless work of art. It is too hard and cold in its realism to be beloved or widely popu- lar; Jonson wrote from and appeals to the head and not the heart; the play has been appreciated best in satirical times and by those who respond most to supreme technical skill. The Alchemist is thoroughly typical of Jon- son's plays. In his jjreface he censures the unrestrained extravagance of most of the dramatists, who he admits however will win more general favor than they who " use elec- tion and a mean " ( selection and modera- tion). The play is a satirical picture of con- temporary life, written with something of real moral purpose; his pen "did never aim to grieve, but better men " ; a salutary eflfect is even said to have been produced by his 233 234 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD exposure of the folly of those who trust charlatans. It contains little or nothing fan- tastic or improbable (save for the heightening essential to poetry). It follows classical precedent in its observance of the three uni- ties; in The Ahhoiiist the plot is single (though far from simple), and the action occurs in a single phu-e and within one day. Though the plot, as usual with Jonson, is in general original, it shows much inlluence of Plautus, especially of the Mostdlaria, or Haunted House. Both poets, like R. L. Stevenson, felt the fascinating possibilities, even the romance, of an empty house. In the Mostdlaria, Philolaches in his father's ab- sence introduces a disorderly crew into his house and holds high revel. A scene of lively quarreling at tlie opening of each play tells us the situation, but with such skill in The Alchemist that we hardly realize we are be- ing informed; the peace-making Doll is soon as irate as the other two. Lovewifs re- turn at the end of act four, and the complica- tions which follow, reflect a similar situation toward the middle of the Mostdlaria. These form the chief of Jonson's literary debts. The characters and most of the intrigue and situations, all that gives the play its vitality, are his own. Of a surety there is no anemic classicism in Sir Epicure Mammon, Face, and Tribulation Wholesome, in the scenes of bustling quackery, or in the deliciously human ending, where Lovewit, who cannot belie his name, smiles to himself so miu'h over Face's cleverness that he must needs forgive him. Jonson did not understand his literary theory so narrowly as his successors in regard to moral teaching, poetic justice, and the like; he has even been censured by critics of our own day for letting off his rogues scot-tree. But such critics miss the point of the play, and of Jonson's whole moral attitude. He would " sport with human follies, not with crimes." Tlie real villains of the piece are the hypocritical and superstitious, who allow themselves to be du])ed tlirough their avarice and self-seeking, and get tlie kind of punish- ment which they always get in life. But there was no more need of condemning the criminals. Subtle and Doll, than of organizing a crusade against the danmed in the Ijottom- less pit. Jonson could not have made their rascality alluring if he had wished, though he does leave us in a good humor with the rascals. They are the instruments with which he scourges his real villains. It is in his refusal to dole out trivial poetic justice that Jonson shows himself most laudably free from the narrower classic- ism. The play shows a classical spirit vitally animating a native English body. The personages are types, as is annoimced by their names, of the significant sort to be used so largely in later comedies and novels ot manners; but they are not the traditional types, as in other plays under classical in- lluence, such as Lyly's Mother Bomhie. The play is a comedy of manners, exhibiting the society of the day, or a part of it, in lirmly but broadly sketched persons. In Jonson's satirical and moral realism, and his vividly tj'pical jiersonages, we feel almost equally the traits of the ancient comedy and tlie medieval morality. So vigorous yet so general is the characterization that we recognize much ot it as permanently true of human nature, though the forms of embodiment may vary. The satire is mainly on gullibility and Puri- tan hypocrisy. The most imposing creation is Sir Epicure Mamm-on. in whom avarice and lust, without being made attractive, have become impressive through the force of his imagination. Tlie two Puritans are dis- tinguished from each other, Ananias narrow and more or less sincere, Tribulation intelli- gent but more of a hypocrite, of the Jesuit- type which is to be found in all religions. Jt is of much interest to see this unflattering old English picture of the Puritans exiled in Amsterdam, who were to sail from Holland for New England a few years later, and be canonized among their descendants as the Pilgrim Fathers. There is also similar satire in Bartholomew Fair. It must be re- membered, of course, that Jonson and other literary men, apostles of pagan culture and the drama, naturally were prejudiced against foes of the drama and apostles of a some- times bigoted piety and asceticism. A figure of more temporary significance is that of " the angry boy," who would learn the eti- quette of quarreling, much as Touchstone would have taught it (.is You Like It, V. iv). The personage most suggestive of modern counterparts is Subtle, -whose arts and methods are those of the quacks and confidence-men of all times, whether they capi- talize a false science or a feigning religion ; he has their dust-in-the-eyes methods, their skill in using decoys like Face, their pre- tense of personal sanctity and austerity. A word sliould be said as to the ])seudo- science which he exploits. Alchemy had long been studied in the Middle Ages, but the teaching of Paracelsus (1403-1541) had de- prived it of much of its supposed basis, and it had always been in disrepute among the sensible. Chaucer had attacked it in the Canon's Yeonia.n's Tale, Lyly in (lallalhra, Reginald Scot in his Discovery of Witchcraft (15S4), and Jonson himself in Eastirard Ho: he told Drummond that he had once fooled a woinan by disguising himself as an astrolo- ger. There is reason to believe that alchemy and other occult stiidies with which it was closely allied, astrology, magic, and forms of spiritualism, w(>re particularly a pest about the time of this play. As is well known, the chief desire of the alchemists was to discover a recipe or stone or elixir by which other substances could be transformed into gold. Such a possibility was not discountenanced THE ALCHEMIST 235 by medieval seieiititic conceptions, according to which gold was not an element wholly un- related to others, but all metals were com- bined out of simpler elements; a view in fact not so inconsistent with the chemical theory of to-day as with tliat of a few years ago. tJold might come into existence out of some- thing else, just as animal life, to one un- aware of the ubiquity of minute germs and eggs, seems to do out of putrefaction or stag- nant water (cf. II. i.). A large amount of gold might grow from a small; therefore a goldmine was sometimes sealed up with the expectation that in time the gold would increase. Tlie methods of the alchemists were largely based on the ijrevalent mystical con- ception of the universe, and on false analo- gies. Sex, likes and dislikes, goodness and badness, and other human traits, were at- tributed to i)hysical matter. Besides this there was Jiuich traditional hocus-pocus. By no means all the votaries of alchemy were mere cranks or rogues; even those who ex- torted money by duping the foolish and deal- ing in other dubious and occult arts often did so in order to carry on experiments which the next day, they believed, might lay the world at their feet. Finally, though the sub- ject and its terminology are too intricate and baffling to be fully explained here or in the notes, the reader may l3e assiu'ed that Jonson was not airily liuttering things he did not understand, but had read the masters of the subject and understood it thoroughly. THE ALCHEMIST By BEN JONSON NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS Subtle, the Alchemist. 1''ace, tlie House-keeper'. DoL Common, their., colleague. Dappeu, a Lawyer's clerk. Dkuggek, a Tohacco-man. LovEwiT, Master of the House. Sir Epicure Mammon, a Knight. Pertinax Surly, a Gamester. TO THE READER If thou beest more, thou art an under- stander, and then I trust thee. If thou art one that tak'st up, and but a pretender, beware at what hands thou reeeiv'st thy commodity ; for thou wert never more fair in the way to be coz'ned than in this age in poetry, especially in plays: wherein now the concupiscence of jigs and dances so reigneth, as to run away from nature and be afraid of her is the only point of art that tickles the spectators. But how out of pur- pose and place do I' name art, wdien the professors are grown so obstinate con- temners of it, and presuniers on their own naturals,! as they are deriders of all dili- gence that way, and, by simple mocking at the terms when they understand not the things, think to get off wittily with their ignorance! Nay, they are esteem'd the more learned and sufficient for this by the multitude, through their excellent vice - of judgment. For they commend writers as they do fencers or wrastlers ; who, if they come in robustiously and put for it with a Tribulation Wholesome, a Pastor of A Uls- ter dam. Ananias, a Deacon there. Kastrill, the ariyry hoy. Dame Pliant, his sister, a ^Yidow. Neighbors. Oflicers, Mutes. Scene. — London great deal of violence, are receiv'd for the braver fellows ; when many times their own rudeness is the cause of their disgrace, and a little touch of their adveisary gives all that boisterous force the foil.^ I deny not but that these men who always seek to do more than enough may some time happen on some thing that is good and great; but very seldom : and when it comes, it doth not recompense the rest of their ill. It sticks out, perhaps, and is more eminent, because all is sordid and vile about it ; as lights are more discern'd in a thick darkness than a faint shadow. I speak not this out of a hope to do good on any man againsf his will ; for I know, if it were put to the ques- tion of theirs and mine, the worse would find more suffrages, because the most favor common errors. But I give thee this warn- ing, that there is a gi-eat difference betAveen those that (to gain the opinion of copie *) utter all they can, however unfitly, and those that use election and a niean.^ For it is only the disease of the unskillful to think rude things greater than polish'd, or scat- ter'd more numerous than compos'd. 1 nat\iral endow- ments. 2 surpassing 3 check. 4 copiousness ; Lat. copia. moderation. 236 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD ARGUMENT T he sickness ^ hot, a master quit, for fear, H is house in town, and left one servant there. E ase him corrupted, and gave means to know A Cheater and his punk ; '^ who now brought low, L eaving .their narrow practice, were be- come C oz'ners ^ at large; and only wanting some H ouse to set up, with him they here contract, E ach for a share, and all begin to act. M ueh company they draw, and much abuse, I n casting figures,^ telling fortunes, news, S elling of flies,^° flat bawdry, with the stone,^^ T ill it, and they, and all, in fume ^^ axe gone. PROLOGUE Fortune, that favors fools, these two short hours We wish away, both for your sakes and ours. Judging spectators; and desire in place. To th' author justice, to ourselves but grace. Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known, No country's mirth is better than our own. No clime breeds better matter for your whore, Bawd, squire,^^ impostor, many persons more. Whose manners, now call'd humors, feed the stage ; And which have still been subject for the rage Or spleen of comic writers. Though this pen Did never aim to grieve, but better men ; Howe'er the age he lives in doth endure The vices that she breeds, above their cure. But when the wholesome remedies are sweet, And, in their working gain and profit meet. He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd. But will with such fair correctives be pleas'd. For here he doth not fear who can apply. If there be any that will sit so nigh Unto the stream, to look what it doth run, They shall find things, they 'd think, or wish, were done ; They are so natural follies, but so shown, As even the doers may see, and yet not own. Scene 1. ACT L A room in Lovewit's house}* Enter Face, in a captain's uniform, and Subtle with a vial, quarreling, and fol- lowed by Dol Common. Face. Believe 't, I will. Sub. Thy worst. I fart at thee. Dol. Ha' you your wits? Why, gentle- men! for love Sirrah, I '11 strip you- What to do? Lick figs 15 out of all your Face. Sub. Out at my Face. Rogue, rogue ! sleights.'® Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are you madmen? Sub. 0, let the wild sheep loose. I '11 gum your silks water, an ^'^ you come. Will you have Will you be- Sirrah- With good stron Dol. The neighboi's hear you tray all? Hark ! I hear somebody Face. Sub. I shall mar All that the tailor has made, if you ap- proach. Face. You most notorious whelp, you in- solent slave. Dare you do this? Sub. Yes,. faith; yes, faith. Face. Why, who Am I, my mongrel, who am I? Sub. I '11 tell you, Since you know not yourself. Face. Speak lower, rogue. Stib. Yes. You were once (time's not long past) the good, Honest, plain, liveiy-three-pound- thrum,'^ that kept 6 the plague. 7 mistress. 8 swindlers. 9 horoscopes. 10 dealing: in famil- iar spirits. 11 philosophers' stone. 12 smoke. 1."? pimp. 14 Jonson manages his action so clev- erly that practi- cally all the scenes can be con- ceived of as tak- ing place in a single room ; con- sequently changes of scene are rare- ly indicated in the stage direc- tions. 5 The phrase has an insulting con- notation. 16 drop your tricks. 17 if. IS underpaid serv ant in liverv. THE ALCHEMIST 237 Your master's worship's house here in the Friars,i9 For the vacations -^ Face. Will you be so loud? Suh. Since, by my means, translated -^ suburb-captain. Face. By your means, doctor dog! Suh. Within man's memory, All this I speak of. Face. Why, I pray you, have I Been countenanc'd by you, or you by mef Do but collect, sir, where I met you first. Sub. I do not hear well. Face. Not of this, I think it. But I shall put you in mind, sir ; — at Pie- corner, Taking your meal of steam in, from cooks' stalls. Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk Piteously costive, with your pinch'd- horn-nose. And your complexion of the Roman wash,^- Stuck full of black and melancholic worms. Like powder-corns -^ shot at the artillery- yard. Suh. I wish you could advance your voice a little. Face. W^hen you went pinn'd ujd in the several rags You had rak'd and pick'd from dung- , hills, before day ; Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes ; ^* A felt of rug,-'^ and a thin tlireaden cloak. That scarce would cover your no-but- tocks Suh. So, sir! Face. When all your alchemy, and your algebra. Your minerals, vegetals, and animals. Your conjuring, eoz'ning, and your dozen of trades, Could not relieve your corpse with so much linen Would make you tinder, but to see a fire ; -^ I ga' you count'nance, credit for your coals, Your stills, your glasses, your materials; 19 Blackfriars ; a 23 grains of powder. 27 don't feign ig- quarter of Lon- 24 chilblains. norance. don. 2.''> a rough hat. 28 It was usual to 20 between the ses- 2G tinder enough to distribute at the .sions of court. make a fire that pantry door (but- 21 changed to. could be even terij hatch) of 22 a cosmetic of seen. great houses, a some sort. Built you a furnace, drew you customers, Advanc'd all your black arts; lent you, beside, A house to practise in Suh. Your master's house ! Face. Where you have studied the more thriving skill Of bawdry, since. Suh. Yes, in your master's house. You and the rats here kept possession. Make it not strange.-^ I know you were one could keep The buttery-hatch still lock'd, and save the chippings. Sell the dole beer to aqua-vitae men,^^ The which, together with your Christmas vails -^ At post-and-]iair,^'' your letting out of counters,^ ^ Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks, And gave you credit to converse with cobwebs. Here, since your mistress' death hath broke up house. Face. You might talk softlier, rascal. Suh. No, you scarab,^2 I '11 thunder you in pieces. I will teach you How to beware to tempt a Fury again That carries tempest in his hand and voice. Face. The place has made you valiant. Sub. No, your clothes. Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of dung, So poor, so wretched, when no living thing Would keep thee company, but a spider or worse? Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and wat'ring-pots, Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee In the third region, eall'd our state of grace ? Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains Would twice have won me the philoso- pher's work? Put thee in words and fashion? made thee fit For more than ordinary fellowships? daily or weekly dole of broken bread (chippings) and beer to the poor (Gifford) ; the latter, says Subtle, Face has sold to liquor dealers. 29 tips. 30 a game of cards. 31 renting of mark- ers or chips. 32 beetle. 23S THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Giv'n thee tby oatlis, thy quarreling di- mensions "I ^^ Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, cards, Dice, or whatever gallant tincture "* else'? Made thee a second in mine own great art? And have I this for tlianks! Do yon rebel? Do you fly out i' the projection? ^^ Would you be gone now? Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you? Will you mar all? Sub. Slave, thou hadst had no name Dol. Will you undo yourselves with civil war? Sub. Never been known, past equi cliba- niim, The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars, Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; been lost To all mankind, but laundresses and tap- sters, Had not I been. Dol. Do you know Avho hears you, sover- eign ? Face. Sirrah Dol. Nay, general, I thought you were civil. Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus loud. Sub. And hang thyself, I care not. Face. Hang thee, collier. And all thy pots and pans, in picture I will, Since thou hast mov'd me Dol. (Aside.) 0, this '11 o'erthrow all. Face. Write thee up bawd in Paul's ; ^''' have all thy tricks Of eoz'ning with a hollow eoal,^'' dust, scrapings. Searching for things lost, with a sieve and shears, Erecting figures in your rows of houses. And taking in of shadows with a glass. Told in red letters; and a face cut for thee. Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.^^ Dol. Are you sound? Ha' you your senses, masters? Face. I will have A book, but barely reckoning thy impos- tures, 33 rules were posted in rious tricks of who wore a hide- 40 bitrh. 34 inclination. St. Paul's. astroloKcrs are oiis mask. 4i "swoatinf S.-i when the process 3T Chaucer exposes named in the fol- 3n eatinc; more than clippins: coins. is apiiroaching this practice in lowinR lines. his share of brok- 42 fool s cap. comp'ption the Canon's Yeo- 38 A his^hwayman, en meats sent in 4 3 n solvent. 3C, Advertisements man's Tale. Va- han-ed in 1G05, to prisoners. 44 blockhead. Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to printers. Sub. Away, you trencher- rascal! Face. Out, you dog-leech ! The vomit of all prisons Dol. Will you be Your own destructions, gentlemen? Face. Still spow'd out For lying too heavy o' the basket."^ Sub. Cheater! Face. Bawd ! Sub. Cow-herd ! Face. Conjurer! Sub. Cutpurse ! Face. Witch! Dol. me! We are ruin'd, lost! Ha' you no more regard To your reputations? Where's your judgment? 'Slight, Have yet some care of me, o' your re- public Face. Away, this brach ! *" I '11 bring thee, rogue, within The statute of sorcery, tricesimo tertio OE Harry the Eighth: aye, and perhaps thy neck Within a noose, for laund'ring gold and barbing it.*^ Dol. You '11 bring your head within a cocks-comb,'*" will you? {She catchctlv out Face his sword, and breaks Suhtle's glass.) And you, sir, with your menstrue !/•'' — Gather it up. 'Sdeath, you abominable pair of stink- ards, Leave off your barking, and grow one again, Or, by the light that shines, I '11 cut your throats. I '11 not be made a prey unto the mar- shal For ne'er a snarling dog-bolt ** o' you both. Ha' you together cozcn'd all this while. And all the world, and shall it now be said, You've made most courteous shift to • cozen yourselves? (To Face.) You will accuse him! You will bring him in Within the statute! Who shall take your word? and THE ALCHEMIST 239 A whoreson, ui^start, aijocryplial cap- tain, Whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will trust So much as for a feather: *■'* and you, too, {To Subtle.) Will liive the cause, for- sooth! You will insult, And claim a primacy in Ihe divisions! You must be chief! As if you, only, had The powder to project *" with, and the work Were not begun out of equality! The venture tripartite! All things in common ! Without priority ! 'Sdeath ! you per- petual curs, Fall to your couples again, and cozen kindly, And heartily, and lovingly, as you should. And lose not the begiiniiug of a term,*'' Or, by this hand, I shall grow factious too. And take my part, and quit you. Fare. ' 'T is his fault ; He ever murmurs, and objects his pains, And says, the weight of all lies upon him. Sub. Why, so it does, Dol. How does it? Do not we Sustain our parts? Sub. Yes,- but they are not equal. Dol. Why, if your part exceed to-day, I hope Ours may to-morrow match it. Suh. Aye, they mm/. Dol. May, murmuring mastiff ! Aye, and do. Death on me ! Help me to throttle him. {Seizes Subtle bj/ the throat.) Sub. Dorothy! Mistress Dorothy! 'Ods precious, I '11 do anything. What do you mean'? Dol. Because o' your fermentation *^ and cibation ? ^a" Sub. Not I, by heaven Dol. Your Sol and Luna {To Face.) Help me. Sub. Would I w-ere hang'd then! I'll conform myself. Dol. Will you, sir? Do so then, and quicklv: swear. Sub. What "should I swear? Dol. To leave your faction,^" sir, And labor kindly in the common work. Stib. Let me not breathe if I meant aught beside, I only us'd those speeches as a spur To him. Dol. I hope we need no spurs, sir. Do we? Face. 'Slid, prove to-day who shall shark best. Suh. Agreed. Dol. Yes, and work close and friendly. Sub. 'Slight, the" knot Shall grow the stronger for this breach, with me. {Theij shake hands.) Dol. Wliy, so, my good baboons! Shall we go make A sort -'^ of sober, scurvy, precise neigh- bors, That scarce have smil'd twice sin' the king came in,^- A feast of laughter at our follies? Ras- cals, Would run themselves from breath, to see me ride,''^ Or you t' have but a hole to thrust your heads in,'"''* For which you should pay ear-rent ? ^° No, agree. And may Don Provost ride a feasting long, In his old velvet jerkin and stain'd scarfs. My noble sovereign, and worthy gen- eral. Ere we contribute a new crewel ■'•'' garter To his most worsted woislii}i. Sub. Royal Dol! Spoken like Claridiana,^'^ and thyself. Face. For which at su])]ier, thou shalt sit in triumph. And not be styl'd Dol Common, but Dol Proper, Dol Singular: the longest cut at night. Shall draw thee for his Dol Particular. {Bell rings iiifhout.) Suh. Who's that? One rings. To llie window, Dol: {Exit Dol.) — Pray heav'n. The master do not trouble us this quarter. Face. 0, fear not him. While there dies one a week 0' tlie plague, he 's safe from thinking toward London. Beside, he's busy at his hop-yards now; I had a letter from him. If lie do, I Blaokfriavs was full of Puritans, many of whom were in the busi- ness of selling feathers. •10 rhansje one metal to another. -17 term of court. ■!•'< chemical ch.Tnce of a substance by something which worked on it like yeast. r.2 In 1603. on crewel and 4n supTilyintr with T).'? be carted for a v;orsted. fresh material to bawd. B7 The heroine of make up for evap- 54 the pillory. the "Mirror of oration. ■')-'■' have your ears Knighthood," a ^'0 factiousness. cut off. romance. Gi crew. 56 yarn ; note puns 240 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD He '11 send such word, for airing o' the house, As you shall have sufficient time to quit it: Though we break up a fortnight, 't is no matter, Be-enter Dol. Suh. Who is it, Del? Dol. A fine young quodling.^^ Face. 0, My lawyer's clerk, I lighted on last night, In Holborn, at the Dagger. He would have (I told you of him) a familiar. To rifle ^^ with at horses, and win cups. Dol. 0, let him in. Suh. Stay. Who shall do'tl Face. Get you Your robes on ; I will meet him, as going out. Dol. And what shall I do! Face. Not be seen ; away ! Exit Dol. Seem you very reserv'd. Suh. Enough. Exit. Face. {Aloud and retiring.) God be wi' you, sir, I pray you let him know that I was here : His name is Dapper. I would gladly have stay'd, but Scene 2, Enter Face. Dap. (Within.) Captain, I am here. Face. Who 's that *? — He 's come, I think, doctor. Enter Dapper. Good faith, sir, I was going away. Dap. In truth, I am very sorry, captain. Face. But 1 thought Sure I should meet you. Dap. Aye, I am very glad. I had a scurvy writ or two to make. And I had lent my watch last night to one That dines to-day at the sheriff's, and so was robb'd Of my pass-time. Be-enter Subtle in Jiis velvet cap and gown. Is this the cunning-man'? Face. This is his worship. Dap. Is he a doctor"? Face. Yes. Dap. And ha' you broke °° with him, cap- tain? Face. Aye, Dap. And how? Face. Faith, he does make the matter, sir, so dainty, I know not what to say. Dap. Not so, good captain. Face. Would I were fairly rid on 't, be- lieve me. Dap. Nay, now you grieve me, sir. Why should you wish so? I dare assure you, I '11 not be ungrateful. Face. I cannot think you will, sir. But the law Is such a thmg and then he says, Reade's '''^ matter Falling so lately Dap. Reade ! he was an ass, And dealt, sir, with a fool. Face. It was a clerk, sir. Dap. A clerk! Face. Nay, hear me, sir. You know the law Better, I think Dap. I should, sir, and the danger: You know, I show'd the statute to you. Face. You did so. Dap. And will I tell then! By this hand of flesh. Would it might never write good court- hand more. If I discover.*^- What do you think of nie, That I am a chiaus? Face. AYhat's that? Dap. The Turk was here. As one would say, do you think I am a Turk? Face. I '11 tell the doctor so. Dap. Do, good sweet captain. Face. Come, noble doctor, pray thee let 's prevail ; This is the gentleman, and he is no chiaus. Suh. Captain, I have return'd you all my answer. I would do much, sir, for your love But this I neither may, nor can. Face. Tut, do not say so. You deal now with a noble fellow, doctor. One that will thank you richly; and he's no chiaus: Let that, sir, move you. 58 codling, green apple ; hence, greenhorn. C!) raffle, gamble. 60 broached the mat- ter. 61 A man named Reade had been indicted in 1608 for dealing with evil spirits. 62 disclose. THE ALCHEMIST 241 Pray you, forbear- Pie has Sub. Face. Four angels here. Sub. You do me wrong, good sir. Face. Doctor, wherein? To tempt you with these spirits'? Sub. To tempt my art and love, sir, to my peril. 'Fore heav'n, I scarce can think you are my friend, That so would draw me to apparent dan- ger. Face. I draw you! A horse draw you, and a halter, You, and your flies *^^ together- Dap. Nay, good captain. Face. That know no difference of men. Sub. Good words, sir. Face. Good deeds, sir, doctor dogs'-meat. 'Slight, I bring you No cheating Clim o' the Cloughs or Clari- bels,6* That look as big as five-and-fifty, and flush ; 65 And spit out secrets like hot custard Dap. Captain ! Face. Nor any melancholic underscribe, Shall tell the vicar; but a special gentle, That is the heir to forty marks a year. Consorts with the small poets of the time, Is the sole hope of his old grandmother; That knows the law, and writes you six fair hands, Is a fine clerk, and has his ciph'ring per- fect. Will take his oath o' the Greek Xenophon, If need be, in his pocket ; and can court His mistress out of Ovid. Dap. Nay, dear captain Face. Did you not tell me so? Dap. Yes ; but I 'd ha' you Use master doctor with some more re- spect. Face. Hang him, proud stag, with his broad velvet head ! ^^ — But for your sake, I 'd choke ere I would change An article of breath with such a puck- fist ! " Come, let 's be gone. (Going.) Sub. Pray you le' me speak with you. Dap. His worship calls you, captain. Face. I am soi-ry I e'er embark'd myself in such a business. Dap. Nay, good sir; he did call you. Face. Sub. Face. Siib. Face. Sub. Will he take then? First, hear me Not a syllable, 'less you take. Pray ye, sir Upon no terms but an assumpsit.^^ Your humor must be law. {He takes the money.) Face. Why now, sir, talk. Now I dare hear you with mine honor. Speak. So may this gentleman too. Sub. Why, sir- — - (Offering to whisper Face.) Face. No whisp'i'ing. Sub. 'Fore heav'n, you do not apprehend the loss You do yourself in this. Face. Wlierein ? for what ? Sub. Marry, to be so importunate for one That, when be has it, will undo you all: He '11 win up all the money i' the town. Face. How? Sub. Yes, and blow up gamester after gamester. As they do crackers in a puppet-play. If I do give him a familial'. Give you him all you play for; never set '^^ him : For he will have it. Face. You 're mistaken, doctor. Why, he does ask one but for cups and horses, A rifling fly; none o' your great famil- iars. Dap. Yes, captain, I would have it for all games. Sub. I told you so. Face. (Taking Dap. aside.) 'Slight, that is a new business ! I understood you, a tame bird, to fly Twice in a term, or so, on Friday nights, When you had left the office; for a nag Of forty or fifty shillings. Dap. Aye, 't is true, sir ; But I do think, now, I shall leave the law, And therefore Face. Why, this changes quite the case. Do you think that I dare move him? Dap. If you please, sir; All 's one to him, I see. Face. What! for that money? I cannot with my conscience; nor should you Make the request, methinks. Dap. No, sir, I mean 63 familiar spirits. 64 heroes of ballad and romance. 5 that show a tell- tale face when holding fiveand- fifty and flush, the highest counts at primero. ( Schel- ling.) 66 cap. 67 close-fisted person. 68 contract. 69 bet with. 242 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD To add consideration. Face. Why, then, sir, I'll tiy. {Goes to Subtle) Say that it w(?re. for all games, doctor'? Sub. I say then, not a mouth shall eat for him At any ordinary,''^'' but o' the score ; ''^ That is a gaming mouth, conceive me. Face. Indeed ! Sub. He '11 draw you all the treasure of the realm, If it be set him. Face. Speak you this from art? Sub. Aye, sir, and reason too, the ground of art. He is o' the only best complexion, The queen of Fairy loves. Face. What! Is he? Sub. Peace. He '11 overhear you. Sir, should she but see him What? Face. Sub. Face. Sub. Do not you tell him. W^ill he win at cards too? The spirits of dead Holland, living Isaac/- You 'd swear, were in him ; such a vigor- ous luck As cannot be resisted. 'Slight, he '11 put Six o' your gallants to a cloak, ^-^ indeed. Face. A strange success, that some man shall be born to ! He hears you, man- Sub. Bap. Face. Sir, I '11 not be ingratef ul. Faith, I have a confidence in his good natui'e : You hear, he says he will not be ingrate- ful. Sub. Why, as you please ; my venture fol- lows yours. Face:. Troth, do it, doctor; think him trusty, and make him. He may make us both happy in an hour; Win some five thousand pound, and send us two on 't. Dap. Believe it, and I will, sir. Face. And you shall, sir. You have heard all? (Face takes him aside.) Dap. No, what was't? Nothing, I, sir. Face. Nothing? Dap. A little, sir. Face. Well, a rare star ReigTi'd at your birth. Dap. At mine, sir! No. Face. The doctor Swears that you are Sub. Nay, captain, you '11 tell all now. Face. Allied to the queen of Fairy. Dap. Who ! That I am ? Believe it, no such matter Face. Yes, and that You were born with a caul o' your head.'^* Dap. Who says so? Face. Come You know it well enough, though you dis- semble it. Dap. V fac,^° I do not; you are mistaken. Face. How ! Swear by your fac, and in a thing so known Unto the doctor? How shall we, sir, trust you I' the other matter? Can we ever think. When you have won five or six thousand pound. You '11 send us shares in 't, by this rate? Dap. By Jove, sir, I '11 win ton thousand pound, and send you half. I' fac 's no oath. Sub. No, no, he did but jest. Face. Go to. Go thank the doctor. He 's your friend. To take it so. Dap. I tliank his worship. Face. So ! Another angel. Dap. ^ Must I ? Face. Must you ! 'Slight, What else is thanks? Will you be trivial ? — Doctor, {Dajiper gives him the monejf.) When nmst he come for his familiar? Dap. Shall I not ha' it with me? Sub. O, good sir! There nmst a world of ceremonies pass; You must be bath'd and fumigated first : Besides, the queen of Fairy docs not rise Till it be noon. Face. Not if she danc'd to-night. (S*?*?). And she must bless it. Face. Did you never see Pier royal grace yet? Dap. Whom? Face. Your aunt of Fairy? Sub. Not since she kist him in the cradle, captain ; I can resolve you that. Face. Well, see her grace, Whate'er it cost you, for a thing tliat I know. It will be somewhat hard to compass ; bu' 70 eating house. 71 The gambh^rs (who frequcntpd ordinaries) will 72 Perhaps 73 strip to the cloak, be so impoverished through his winnings that two gam- 74 a sign of good luck, they will have to eat on credit. (Neilson.) blens of the 7.". faith. time. THE ALCHEIMIST 243 However, see her. You are made, be- lieve it, If you can see her. Her grace is a lone woman, And very rich ; and if she take a fancy. She will do strange things. See her, at any hand. 'Slid, she may hap to leave you all she has! It is the doctor's fear. Bap. How will 't be done, then? Face. Let me alone, take you no thought. Do you But say to me, "Captain, I '11 see her grace." Dap. Cajitain, I '11 see her grace. Face. Enough. {One knocks tvithout.) Sub. Who's there? Anon. — (Aside to Face.) Conduct him forth by the back way. Sir, against one o'clock prepare your- self ; Till when you must be fasting; only take Three drops of vinegar in at your nose, Two at your mouth, and one at either ear; Then bathe your fingers' ends and wash your eyes, To sharpen your five senses, and cry hum Thrice, and then buz as often ; and then come. Exit. Face. Can you remember this? Dap. I warrant you. Face. Well then, away. It is but your bestowing Some twenty nobles 'moug her grace's servants, And put on a clean shirt. You do not know What grace her grace may do you in clean linen. Exeunt Face and Dapper. Scene 3. Sub. ( Within. ) Come in ! Good wives, I pray you forbear me now; Troth, I can do you no good till after- noon. — Enter Subtle, followed by Drugger. I Sub. What is your name, say you? Abel Drugger? Drug. Yes, sir. Sub. A seller of tobacco? 76 Iselon^ing to the 77 plan. Grocers' Guild. 7S recommended. 79 to shred on. JJrug. Yes, sir. Sub. Umph ! Free of the grocers? ''^ Drug. Aye, an 't please you. Sub. Well— Your business, Abel? Drug. This, an 't please your worsliip ; I am a young beginner, and am building Of a new shoji, an 't like your worship, just At corner of a street: — Here is the plot " on 't And I would know by art, sir, of your worship, Which way I should make my door, by necromancy, And where my shelves; and which should be for boxes, And which for pots. I would be glad to thrive, sir: And I was wish'd ^•'* to your worship by a gentleman. One Captain Face, that says you know men's planets, And their good angels, and their bad. Sub. I do. If I do see 'em Enter Face. Face. What ! my honest Abel ? Tliou art well met here. Drug. Troth, sir, I was speaking. Just as your worship came here, of your worshiji. I pray you speak for me to master doc- tor. Face. He shall do anything. Doctor, do you hear? This is my friend, Abel, an honest fel- low; He lets me have good tobacco, and he does not Sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil, Nor washes it in muscadel and grains, Nor buries it in gravel, under ground, Wrapp'd up in greasy leather, or piss'd clouts: Rut keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd, Smell like conserve of roses, or French beans. He has his maple block,''^ his silver tongs, Winchester j^ipes, and fire of juniper:^" A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no goldsmith. ^1 Sub. He 's a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on. tobacco so to light pipes si usurer; gold- with smiths used to lend money. 244 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Face. Already, sir, ha' you found it? Lo thee, Abel ! Suh. And in right way toward riches Face. Sir ! Suh. This summer. He will be of the clothing ®- of his com- pany. And next spring eall'd to the scarlet, ^^ spend what he can. Face. What, and so little beard? Suh. Sir, you must think. He may have a receipt to make hair come : But he '11 be wise, preserve his youth, and fine for 't ; His fortune looks for him another way. Face. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know this so soon? I am amus'd ^^ at that. Suh. By a rule, captain. In metoposcopy,^^ which I do work by; A certain star i' the forehead, which you see not. Your chestnut or your olive-color'd face Does never fail : and your long ear doth promise. I knew 't, by certain spots, too, in his teeth, And on the nail of his mei'curial finger. Face. Which finger 's tliat '? Suh. His little finger. Look. You were born npon a Wednesday' ? Drug. Yes, indeed, sir. Suh. The thumb, in chiromancy, we give Venus ; The forefinger to Jove; the midst to Saturn ; The ring to Sol; the least to Mercury, WTio was the lord, sir, of his horoscope, His house of life being Libra ; which f or- show'd He should be a merchant, and should trade with balance. Face. Why, this is strange! Is it not, honest Nab? Suh. There is a ship now coming from Ormus, That shall yield him such a commodity Of drugs This is the west, and this the south? {Pointing to the plan.) Drug. Yes, sir. Sub. And those are your two sides? Drug. Aye, sir. Suh. Make me your door then, south ; your broad side, west : And on the east side of your shop, aloft, Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat; Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel. They are the names of those Mercurial spirits That do fright flies from boxes. Drug. Yes, sir. Suh. And Beneath your threshold, bury me a load- stone To draw in gallants that wear spurs : the rest. They 'il seem to follow. Face. That's a secret. Nab! Sub. And, on your stall, a puppet, with a vice ^'^ And a court-fueus,^'' to call city-dames: You shall deal much with minerals. Drug. Sir, I have. At home, already Suh. Aye, I know, you 've arsenic. Vitriol, sal-tartar, argaile, alkali, Cinoper. I know all. — This fellow, cap- tain. Will come, in time, to be a great distiller, And give a say ^'^ — I will not say di- rectly. But very fair — at the i:)hilosopher's stone. Face. Why, how now, Abel! is this true? Drug. {Aside to Face.) Good captain, What must I give? Face. Nay, I '11 not counsel thee. Thou hear'st what wealth (he says, spend what thou canst) Thou 'rt like to come to. Drug. I would gi' him a crown. Face. A crown ! and toward such a for- tune ? Heart, Thou shalt rather gi' him thy shop. No gold about thee? Drug. Yes, I have a portague,^^ I ha' kept this half-year. Face. Out on thee, Nab ! 'Slight, there was such an offer — Shalt keep 't no longer, I '11 gi' it him for thee. Doctor, Nab prays your worship to drink this, and swears He will api^ear more grateful, as your skill Does raise him in the world. Drug. I would entreat Another favor of his worship. Face. What is 't, Nab? Drug. But to look over, sir, my almanac. And cross out my ill-days,'"' that I may neither Bargain, nor trust upon them. R2 be a full member. 83 be made sheriff. 8-4 amazed. s.i readins; charac- ter by the face, so a mechanism to move the puppet, ss make an attempt. ■ cosmetic. so a gold coin. 90 unlucky days. THE ALCHEMIST 245 Face. That he shall, Nab : Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst after- noon. Sub. And a direction for his shelves. Face. Now, Nab, Art thou well pleas'd, Nab'? Drug. 'Thank, sir, both your worships. Face. Away. Exit Drugger. Why, now, you smoky persecutor of na- ture! Now do you see, that something's to be done Beside your beech-coal, and your cor- 'sive ^^ waters, Your crosslets,"- crucibles, and cucur- bites?»3 You must have stuff brought home to you, to work on : And yet you think, I am at no expense In searching out these veins, then follow- ing 'em. Then trying 'em out. 'Fore God, my in- telligence Costs me more money than my share oft comes to, In these rare works. Sub. You 're pleasant, sir. — How now ! Scene 4. Face, Subtle. Enter Dol. Sub. What says my dainty Dolkin *? Dol. Yonder fish-wife Will not awa5^ And there 's your giantess, The bawd of Lambeth. Sub. Heart, I cannot speak with 'em. Dol. Not afore night, I have told 'em in a voice. Thorough the trunk,"* like one of your familiars. But I have sj^ied Sir Epicvire Mam- mon Sub. Where? Dol. Coming along, at far end of the lane. Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue To one that 's with him. Sub. Face, go you and shift. Dol, you must presently make ready too. Exit Face. Dol. Wby, what's the matter "? Sub. 0, I did look for him With the sun's rising: marvel he could sleep ! 91 corrosive. 92 crucibles. 83 vessels for distilling 94 speaking tube. This is the day I am to perfect for him The magisteriuni, our great work, the stone ; And yield it, made, into his hands; of which He has, this month, talk'd as he were possess'd. And now he 's dealing pieces on 't away. Methinks I see him ent'ring ordinaries. Dispensing for the pox, and plaguy houses. Reaching his dose, walking Moorfields for lepers. And off'ring citizens' wives pomander- bracelets,"^ As his i^reservative, made of the elixir; Searching the 'spital, to make old bawds young; And the highways, for beggars to make rich. I see no end of his labors. He will make Nature asham'd of her long sleep ; when art, Wlio 's but a step-dame, shall do more than she, In her best love to mankind, ever could. If his dream last, he '11 turn the age to gold. Exeunt. ACT IL Scene 1. Enter Sir Epicure Mammon and Surly. Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon's Ophir! He was sailing to 't Three years, but Ave have reach'd it in ten months. This is the day wherein, to all my friends, I will pronounce the hapjiy word, Be rich; This day you shall be spectatissiml You shall no more deal with the hollow die, Or the frail card ; no more be at charge of keeping The livery-punk for the young heir, that must Seal, at all hours, in his shirt: no more. If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is That brings him the commodity ; no more 95 bracelets with perfume balls attached to guard against the plague. 246 THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD Shall thirst of satin, or tlie covetous hun- ger Of velvet entrails '■'^ for a rude-spun cloak, To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, make The sons of Sword and Hazard fall be- fore The golden calf, and on their knees, whole nights. Commit idolatry with wine and trum- pets : Or go a-feasting- after drum and ensign. No more of this. You shall start up young viceroys, And have your punks and punkettees, my Surly. And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich. Where is my Subtle there? Within, ho! Face. [Within.) Sir, He '11 come to you by and by. Mam. That is his fire-drake, His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals, Till he firk ^^ nature up, in her own center. You are not faithful,'-^^ sir. This night I '11 change All that is metal in my house to gold: And, early in the morning, will I send To all the plumbers and the pewterers. And buy their tin and lead up; and to Lothbui'y For all the copper. Sur. What, and turn that, too? Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, And make them perfect Indies! You admire now? Sur. No, faith. Mam. But when you see th' effects of the Great Med'cine, Of which one part projected on a hun- di'ed Of Mercury, or Venus,°" or the Moon,^ Shall tuni it to as many of the Sun; ^ Nay, to a thousand, so ad in/tnitum : You will believe me. Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I Giving 'em no occasion, sure I '11 have A whore, shall piss 'em out next day. Blam. Ha! why? Do you think I fable Avith you? I assure you. He that has once the flower of the sun. The pei'fect ruby, which we call elixir, Not only can do that, but by its virtue. Can confer honor, love, respect, long life; Give safety, vah)r, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight and twenty days, I '11 make an old man of fourscore, a child. Sur. No doubt ; he 's that already. 3Iam. Nay, I mean, Kestore his years, renew him, like an eagle. To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters. Young giants; as our philosophers have done, The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood. But taking, once a week, on a knife's point, The quantity of a grain of mustard of it ; Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pickt-hatch ^ would thank you, That keep the fire alive there. Mam. 'T is the secret Of nature naturiz'd 'gainst all infec- tions. Cures all diseases coming of all causes; A month's grief in a tlay, a year's in twelve ; And, of what age soever, in a month. Past all the doses of your drugging doc- tors. I'll undertake, withal, to fright the plague Out o' the kingdom in three months. Sur. And I'll Be bound, the players shall sing your praises then. Without their jjoets.* Mam. Sir, I'll do 't. Meantime, 1 '11 give away so much unto my man. Shall serve th' whole city with preserva- tive Weekly ; each house his ^ dose, and at the rate Sur. As he that built the Water-work does with water? Mam. You are incredulous. Sur. Faith, I have a humor, I would not willingly be gull'd." Your stone Cannot transmute me. Mam. Pertinax Surly, !)6 lining. 07 rouse. OS crertiilous. 'J'J copper. 1 silver. 2 gold. 3 a quarter in Ijon- don of evil repute. 4 Because the banish- ment of the plaRuo would mean that the theaters would never he oblijied to •> its. close on account of 6 tricked its prevalence. THE ALCHEMIST 247 Will you believe iintiquity? Records? I '11 show you a book where Moses, and his sister, And Soloinon have written of the art; Aye, and a ti'eatise i)enn'd by Adam Sur. How ! Mam. Of the philosopher's stone, and in High Dutch. Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch*? Mam. He did; Which i^roves it was the primitive tongue. Sur. What paper? Mam. On cedar board. Sur. O that, indeed, they say, Will last 'gainst worms. Mam. 'T is like your Irish wood 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's fleece too, Which was no other than a book of al- chemy, Writ in large sheepskin, a g'ood fat ram- vellum. Such was Pythagoras' thigh. Pandora's tub, And all that fable of Medea's charms. The manner of our work; the bulls, our furnace, Still breathing fire; our argent-vive,'' the dragon : The dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate. That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting; And they are gather'd into Jason's helm, Th' alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his held, And thence sublim'd so often, till they're fix'd. Both this, th' Hesperian garden, Cad- mus' story, Jove's shower,** the boon of Midas, Ar- gus' eyes, P)OCcace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract riddles of our stone. — How now ! Scene 2. Mammon, Surly. Enter Face, as a Servant. Mam. Do we succeed? Is our day come? And holds it? Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir; You have color for it, crimson : the red ferment Has done his ollice; three hours hence prepare you To see projection. Mam. Pertinax, my Surly. Again I say to thee, aloud. Be uicn. This day thou shalt have ingots; and to-morrow Give lords th' affront. — Is it, my Zephy- rus, right? Blushes the bolt's-head? » Face. Like a wench with child, sir. That were but now discover'd to her mas- ter. Mam. Excellent witty Lungs! — My only care is Where to get stuff enough now, to pro- ject on; This town Avill not half serve me. Face. No, sir? Buy The covering off o' churches. Mam. That's true. Face. Yes. Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory ; Or cap 'em new with shingles. Mam. No, good thatch : Thatch will lie light u^io' the rafters, Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace ; I will restore thee thy comj^lexion. Puff, Lost in tlie embers; and repair this brain, Plurt wi' the fume o' the metals. Face. I have blown, sir, Hard, for your worship ; thrown by many a coal, When 't was not beech ; ^** weigh'd those I put in, just To keep your heat still even. These blear'd eyes Have Avak'd to read your several colors, sir. Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow, The peacock's tail, the plumed swan. Blam. And lastly, Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis agni? ^^ Face. Yes, sir. Mam. Where's master? Face. At 's prayers, sir, he ; Good man, he 's doing his devotions For the success. Mam. Lungs, I will set a period To all thy labors ; thou shalt be the mas- ter Of my seraglio. Face. Good, sir. 7 quicksilver. 8 i. e. on Danae. 9 a flask with a lonK neck. 10 Beech was the sovereign wood in iii:ilving the al- chemist's fire. 11 red, the color of the last stage of the alchemical process. 248 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mam. But do you hear? I '11 geld you, Lungs. Face. Yes, sir. Mam. For I do mean To have a list of wives and concubines Equal with Solomon, who had the stone Alike with me; and I will make me a back With the elixir, that shall be as tough As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. — Thou 'rt sure thou saw 'st it blood? Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, not stuft; Down is too hard: and then, mine oval room Fill'd Avith such pictures as Tiberius took From Elephantis, and dull Aretine But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse And multiply the figures, as I walk Naked between my succubae.^- My mists I '11 have of perfume, vapor'd 'bout the room, To lose our selves in ; and my baths, like pits To fall into; from whence we will come forth, And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. — Is it arrived ruby? Where I spy A wealthy citizen, or a rich lawyer. Have a sublim'd ^^ pure wife, unto that fellow I '11 send a thousand pound to be my cuckold. Face. And I shall carry it? Mam. No. I '11 ha' no bawds But fathers and mothers : they will do it best, Best of all others. And my flatterers Shall be the pure and gravest of divines, That I can get for money. My mere fools, Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets The same that writ so subtly of the fart. Whom I will entertain still for that sub- ject. The few that would give out themselves to be Court and town-stallions, and, each- where, belie Ladies who are known most innocent, for them, — Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of: And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails A-piece, made in a plume to gather wind. We will be brave, Puff, now we ha' the med'cine. My meat shall all come in, in Indian shells. Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies. The tongues of carps, dormice, and cam- els' heels, Boil'd i' the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd pearl (Apicius' ^^ diet, 'gainst the epilepsy) : And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber. Headed with diamond and carbuncle. My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, cal- ver^d ^^ salmons, Ivnots,^*^ godwits,^** lampreys : ^^ I myself will have The beards of barbel ^^ serv'd, instead of salads ; Oil'd mushrooms; and the swelling unc- tuous paps Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off, Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce ; For which, I '11 say unto my cook, There 's gold; Go forth, and he a knight. ^^ Face. Sir, I'll go look A little, how it heightens. Exit. Mam. Do. — My shirts I '11 have of taffeta-sarsnet,^® soft and light As cobwebs; and for all my other rai- ment, It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, Were he to teach the world riot anew. My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, per- fum'd With gums of paradise, and Eastern air Sur. - And do you think to have the stone with this? Mam. No, I do think t' have all this with the stone. Sur. Why, I have heard he must be homo friigi,-^ 12 strumpets. particular fash- 18 An allusion to who could pay for posed to be an es- 13 surpassing. ion. James I's readi- the honor. sential character 14 a famous epicure iG hirds delicate to ness to confer 19 a fine, soft silk. istic of a success- of Tiberius' time. cat. knighthood on all 20 Piety was sup- ful alchemist. 15 dressed in some 17 fish. THE ALCHEMIST 249 A pious, holy, and religious man, One free from mortal sin, a veiy viridn. Mam. That makes it, sir; he is so. But I buy it; My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, A notable, superstitious, good soul, Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald. With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, let him Do it alone, for me, still. Here be comes. Not a pi'of ane word afore him ; 't is poison. — Scene 3. Mammon, Surly. Enter Subtle. Mam. Good morrow, father. Suh. Gentle son, good morrow. And to your friend there. What is be is with you"? Mam. An heretic, that I did bring along. In hope, sir, to convert him. Suh. Son, I doubt You 're covetous, that thus you meet your time I' the just point, prevent your day at morning. This argues something worthy of a fear Of importune and carnal appetite. Take heed you do not cause the blessing leave you. With your ungovern'd haste. I should be sorry To see my labors, now e'en at perfection, Got by long watching and large patience. Not prosper where my love and zeal hath plac'd 'em, Wliich (heaven I call to witness, with your self, To whom I have pour'd my thoughts) in all my ends. Have look'd no way, but unto public good. To pious uses, and dear charity. Now grown a prodigy with men. Wherein If you, my son, should now prevaricate, And to your own particular lusts em- ploy So great and catholic a bliss, be sure A curse will follow, yea, and overtake Your subtle and most secret ways. Mam. I know, sir; You shall not need to fear me ; I but come To ha' you confute this gentleman. Sur. _ Who is. Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief Toward your stone; would not be guU'd. Suh. Well, son, All that I can convince him in, is this, The work is done, bright Sol is in his robe. We have a med'cine of the triple soul. The glorified spirit. Thanks be to heaven. And make us worthy of it! — Ulen Spie- gel! 21 Face. {Within.) Anon, sir. Suh. Look well to the register. And let your heat still lessen by degrees. To the aludels.22 Face. {Within.) Yes, sir. Suh. Did you look 0' the bolt's head yet? Face. {Within.) Which? On D, sir? Suh. Aye; What 's the complexion ? Face. {Within.) Whitish. Suh. Infuse vinegar. To draw his volatile substance and his tincture: And let the water in glass E be filt'red, And put into the gripe's egg."^"^ Lute ^s him well; And leave him clos'd in halneor* Face. {Within.) I will, sir. Sur. What a brave language here is ! next to canting.25 Suh. 1 have another work you never saw, son. That three days since past the philoso- pher's wheel. In the lent 20 heat of Atbanor;27 and 's become Sulphur o' Nature. Mam. But 't is for me ? Suh. What need you? You have enough, in that is, perfect. Mam. 0, but Suh. Why, this is covetise! Mam. No, I assure you, I shall employ it all in pious uses, , Founding of colleges and grammar schools. Marrying young virgins, building hospi- tals, And, now and then, a church. Re-enter Face. 21 the rascally hero of a German jest- book. 22 vessels used in the alchemical process. 23 smear with clay for protection from the fire. 24 in the bath warm water. 25 thieves' slang. of 2c, slow. 27 a furnace. 250 THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD Sub. How now ! Face. Sir, please you, Sliall I not change the filter'? Sub. Marry, yes; And bring me the complexion of glass B. Exit Face. Mam. Ha' you another? Sub. Yes, son; were I assurM Your piety were firm, we would not want The means to glorify it : but I hope the best. I mean to tinet C in sand-heat to-mor- row, And give him imbibition.-^ Mam. Of white oil? Sub. No, sir, of red. F is come over the helm too, I thank my maker, in S. Maiy's bath. And shows lac virginis, Blessed be heaven ! I sent you of his fasces there calcin'd : Out of that calx, I ha' won the salt of mereuiy. Mam. By pouring on your rectified water? Sub. Yes, and reverberating -^ in Atha- nor. Re-enter Face. How now! what color says it? Face. The ground black, sii'. Mam. That's your crow's head? Sur. Your cock's comb's, is it not? Sub. No, 't is not perfect. Would it wei'e the crow ! That work wants something. Sur. (Aside.) 0, I look'd for this, The hay 's ^° a pitching. Sub. Are you sure ynu loos'd 'em. In their own menstrue? Face. Yes, sir, and then married 'em, And put 'em in a bolt's-head nipp'd to digestion, According as you bade me, when I set The liquor of Mars to circulation In the same heat. Sub. The process then was right. Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort . brake. And what was sav'd was put into the pelican,^^ And sign'd with Hermes' seal.^- Sub. I tiiink 'twas so. We should have a new amalgama. Sur. (Aside.) O, this ferret Is rank as any polecat. 2S saturation. 30 a rabbit net; i.e. 29 beating by reflec- tbe snare is being tion. laid. Sub. But I care not; Let him e'en die; we have enough be- side, In embrion. li has his white shirt on? Face. Yes, sir, He 's ripe for inceration,'"'-'^ he stands warm. In his ash-fire. I would not you should let Any die now, if I might counsel, sir. For luck's sake to the rest : it is not good. Mam. He saj^s right. Sur. (Aside.) Aye, are you bolted?^* Face. Nay, I know 't, sir, I 've seen th' ill fortune. What is some thi'ee ounces Of fresh materials? Mam. Is 't no more? Face. No more, sir, Of gold, t' amalgam with some six of mercury. Mam. Away, hei'e 's money. What will sei've ? Face. Ask him, sir. Mam. How much? Sub. Give him nine pound : you may gi' him ten. S7ir. (Aside.) Yes, tweut}^ and be cozen'd, do. Mam. Thei'e 't is. (Gives Face the moneij.) Sub. This needs not ; but that you will have it so, To see conclusions of all : for two Of our inferior works are at fixation, A third is in ascension. Go your ways. Ha' you set the oil of Luna in kemia ? "^ Face. Yes, sir. Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar? Face. Aj'e. Exit. Sur. We shall have a salad ! Mam. When do you make projection? Suh. Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med'- cine. By hanging him in bahico vaporoso, And giving him snlulion; then congeal him ; And then dissolve him ; then again con- • geal him ; For look, how oft T iterate the woi'k. So many times I add unto his virtue. As, if at first one ounce convert a hun- dred. After his second loose, he'll turn a thou- sand ; 31 alembic. 32 hermetically scaled. 33 softoninq:. 34 driven out, like a rabbit. THE ALCHEMIST 251 His third solution, ten; his fourth, a hun- dred ; After his fifth, a thousand thousand ounces Of any imj^erfect metal, into pure Silver or gold, in all examinations, As good as any of the natural mine. Get you your stuff here against after- noon, Your brass, your pewter, and your and- irons. Mam. Not those of iron ? Sub. Yes, you may bring them too ; We '11 change all metals. Sur. I believe you in that. Mam. Then I may send my spits'? Suh. Yes, and your racks. Sur. And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, and hooks'? Shall he not 1 Suh. If he please. Sur. — To be an ass. Suh. How, sir! Mam. This gent'man you must bv'^ar withal. I told you he had no faith. Sur. And. little hope, sir; But much less charity, should I gull my- self. Sub. Why, what have jon observ'd, sir, in our art. Seems so impossible? Sur. But your whole work, no more. That you should hatch gold in a furnace, sir. As they do eggs in Egypt ! Suh. Sir, do yon Believe that eggs are hatch'd so"? Sur. ' ' If I should? Sub. Wliy, I think that the greater mir- acle. No egg" but differs from a chicken more Than metals in themselves. Sur. That cannot be. The egg 's ordain'd by nature to that end. And is a chicken in potcntia. Sub. The same we say of lead and other j metals, I Which would be gold if they had time. j Mam. And tliat Our art doth further. Suh. Aye, for 't were absurd j To think that nature in the earfli bred I gold Perfect i' the instant : something went be- fore. 1 There must be remote matter. ( Sur. Aye, what is that '? Sub. Marry, we say - Mam. Aye, now it heats: stand, father, Pound him to dust. Sub. It is, of the one part, A humid exhalation, Avliich we call Materia liquida, or the unctuous water; On th' other part, a certain crass and viscous Portion of earth; both which, concor- porate, Do make the elementary matter of gold; Which is not yet propria materia, But common to all metals and all stones; For, where it is forsaken of that mois- ture. And hath more dryness, it becomes a stone : Where it retains more of the humid fatness, It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver. Who are the parents of all other metals. Nor can this remote matter suddenly Progress so from extreme unto extreme. As to grow gold, and leap o'er all the means. Nature doth first beget th' imperfect, then Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that airy And oily water, mercury is engend'rcd ; Sulplnir o' the fat and earthy part; the one. Which is the last, supplying the place of male. The other of the female, in all metals. Some do believe hermaphrodeity, That both do act and suffer. But these two Make the rest ductile, malleable, exten- sive. And even in gold they ai'e ; for we do find Seeds of them by our fire, and gold in them ; And can produce the species of each metal More perfect thence, than nature doth in earth. Beside, who doth not see in daily prac- tice Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, wasps. Out of the carcases and dung of crea- tures ; Yea, scorpions of an herb, being rightly plac'd? And these are living creatures, far more perfect And excellent than metals. Mam. Well said, father! 252 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Nay, if be take you in liand, sir, with an argument, He '11 bray you in a mortar. Stir. Pray you, sir, stay. Rather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll be- lieve That Alchemy is a pretty kind of game, Somewhat like tricks o' the carets, to cheat a man With charming. Sub. Sir? Sur. What else are all your terms. Whereon no one o' your writers 'grees with other? Of your elixir, your lac virginis, Your stone, your med'cine, and your chrysosperm. Your sal, your sulphur, and your mer- cury, ^ Your oil of height, your tree of life, your blood. Your marchesite, your tutie, your mag- nesia. Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther; Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop, Your lato, azoch, zeniich, chibrit, heau- tarit, And then your red man, and your white woman, With all your broths, your menstrues, and materials Of piss and egg-shells, women's terms, man's blood, Hair o' the head, burnt clouts, chalk, merds, and clay. Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass, And worlds of other strange ingredients. Would burst a man to name? Suh. And all these, nam'd. Intending but one thing; which art our writers Us'd to obscure their art. Mam. Sir, so I told him— Because the simple idiot should not learn it. And make it vulgar. Sub. Was not all the knowledge Of the Egyptians writ in mystic sym- bols? ^ Speak not the scriptures oft in par- ables? Are not the choicest fables of the poets. That were the fountains and first springs of wisdom. Wrapt in perplexed allegories? Mam. I urg'd that. And clear'd to him, that Sisyphus was damn'd To roll the ceaseless stone, only because He would have made ours common. {Dol is seen at the door.) — Who is this? Sub. God's precious! — What do you mean? Go in, good lady. Let me entreat you. {Dol retires.) — Where's this varlet? Re-enter Face. Face. Sir. Suh. You very knave! do you use me thus? Face. Wherein, sir? Sub. Go in and see, you traitor. Go ! Exit Face. Mam. Who is it, sir? Suh. Nothing, sir; nothing. Mam. What's the matter, good sir? I have not seen you thus distemp'red : who is't? Sub. All arts have still had, sir, their ad- versaries ; But ours the most ignorant. — Face returns. What now? Face. 'T was not my fault, sir; she would speak with you. Sub. Would she, sir ! Follow me. Exit. Mam. {Stopping him.) Stay, Lungs. Face. I dare not, sir. Mam. How ! pray thee, stay. Face. She 's mad, sir, and sent hither — Mam. Stay, man; what is she? Face. A lord's sister, sir. He 'II be mad too. — Mam. I warrant thee. — Why sent hither? Face. Sir, to be eur'd. Sub. {Within.) Why, rascal! Face. Lo you ! — Here, sir ! Exit. Mam. 'Fore God, a Bradamante,^^ a brave piece. Sur. Heart, this is a bawdy-house! I'll be burnt else. Mam. 0, by this light, no: do not wrong him. He 's Too scrupulous that way : it is his vice. No, he 's a rare physician, do him right. An excellent Paracelsian, and has done Strange cures with mineral physic. He deals all With spirits, he ; he will not hear a word Of Galen; or his tedious recipes. — Face again. 35 a female warrior in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. THE ALCHEMIST 253 How now, Lungs! Face. Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant To ha' told your worship all. This must not hear. Mam. No, he will not be gull'cl ; let him alone. Face. You 're very right, sir ; she is a most rare scholar. And is gone mad with studying Brough- ton's ^^ works. If you but name a word touching the Hebrew, She falls into her fit, and will discourse So learnedly of genealogies. As you would run mad too, to hear her, sir. Mam. How might one do t' have confer- ence with her, Lungs'? Face. 0, divers have run mad upon the conference. I do not know, sir: I am sent in haste To fetch a vial, Sur. Be not guU'd, Sir Mammon. Mayn. Wherein? Pray ye, be patient. Sur. Yes, as you are. And trust confederate knaves and bawds and whores. Mcrni. You are too foul, believe it. — Come here, Ulen, One word. Face. I dare not, in good faith. {Going.) Mam. Stay, knave. Face. He 's extreme angry that you saw her, sir. Mam. Drink that. (Gives him money.) What is she when she 's out of her lit? Face. 0, the most affablest creature, sir! so merry! So pleasant ! She '11 mount you up, like quicksilver, Over the helm ; and circulate like oil, A very vegetal : discourse of state. Of mathematics, bawdry, anything Mam. Is she no way accessible? no means, No trick to give a man a taste of her wit Or so? Suh. {Within.) Ulen! Face. I '11 come to you again, sir. Exit. Mam. Surly, T did not think one o' your breeding Would traduce personages of worth. Sur. Sir Epicure, Your friend to use; yet still loth to be guU'd : I do not like your philosophical bawds. Their stone is lechery enough to pay for. Without this bait. Mam. Heart, you abuse yourself. I know the lady, and her friends, and means, The original of this disaster. Her brother Has told me all. Sur. And yet you ne'er saw her Till now! Mam. O yes, but I forgot. I have, be- lieve it, One o' the treacherous'st memories, I do think, Of all mankind. Sur. What call you her brother? Mam. My lord He wi' not have his name known, now I think on 't. Sur. A very treacherous memory ! Mam. 0' my faith Stir. Tilt, if you ha' it not about you, pass it Till we meet nest. Mam. Nay, by this hand, 't is true. He 's one I honor, and my noble friend ; And I respect his house. Sur. Heart! can it be That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need, A wise sir, too, at other times, should thus. With his own oaths, and .arguments, make hard means To gull himself? An this be your elixir, Your lapis mineralis, and your lunaiy,^'^ Give me your honest trick yet at primero,^^ Or gleek,^^ and take your lutum sapien- tis, Your menstruum simplex! I'll have gold before you. And with less danger of the quicksilver. Or the hot sulphur. Re-enter Face. Face. (To Surly.) Here's one from Captain Face, sir. Desires you meet him i' the Temple- church, Some half-hour hence, and upon earnest business. Sir (Whispers Mammon) , if you please to cjuit us now, and come 36 Hugh Broue:hton (1549-1612), a rabbinical scholar. 37 The herb moon wort. 38 games at cards. 254 THE ELIZABETHAN PElflOD Again within two hours, you shall have My master busy examining' o' the works; And 1 will steal you m unto the party, That you may see her converse. — Sir, shall I say You'll meet the captain's worshii)*? Sur. Sir, I will.— {Walks asUtc.) But, by attorney, and to a second pur- pose. Now, I am sure it is a bawdy-house; I'll swear it, were the marshal here to thank me : The naming this connnander doth con- firm it. Don Face ! why, he 's the most authentic dealer I' these commodities, the superintendent To all the quainter trallickers in town! He is the visilur, and does ai)point Who lies with whom, and at what hour; what price; Which gown, and in what smock; what fall,^'' what tire.*° Him will 1 prove, by a third person, to find The subtleties of this dark laljyrinth : Which if I do discover, dear Sir Mam- mon, You '11 give your poor friend leave, though no pliilosoi)lier. To laugh ; for you that are, 't is thought, shall weep. Face. Sir, he does pray you '11 not forget. Sur. I will not, sir. Sir Epicure, I shall leave you. Exit. Mam. I follow you straight. Face. But do so, good sir, to avoid sus- picion. This gent'man has a jiarlous head. Mam, I3ut wilt thou, Ulcn, Be constant to thy promise "I Face. As my life, sir. Mam. And wilt thou insinuate what I am, and ]iraise me. And say I am a noble fellow"? Face. O, what else, sir"? And that you '11 make her royal with the stone. An empress; and yourself King of Ban- tam. Mam. Wilt thou do this? Face. Wnil, sir! Mam. Lungs, my Lungs ! I love thee. Face. Send your stuff, sir, that my master 39 a collar, or a veil. 40 a head-dress. 41 a machine for turning a spit. May busy himself about projection. Mam. Thou 'st witch'd me, rogue : take, go. {Gives him money.) Face. Your jack,'*^ and all, sir. Mam. Thou art a villain — I will send my jack. And the weights too. Slave, I could bite thine ear. Away, thou dost not care for me. Face. Not I, sir! Mam. Come, I was born to make thee, my good weasel, Set thee on a bench, and ha' thee twirl a chain With the best lord's vermin of 'em all. Face. Away, sir. Mam. A count, nay, a count palatine Face, Good sir, go. Mam. Shall not advance thee better: no, nor faster. Exit, Scene 4. Face. Re-enter Subtle and Dol. Sub. Has he bit"? has he bit? Face. And swallow'd, too, my Subtle. I ha' given him line, and now he plays, i' faith. Sub. And shall we twitch himf Face. Thorough both the gills. A Avench is a rare bait, with which a man No sooner 's taken, but he straight tirks mad. Sub. Dol, my Loi'd What's-hum's sister, you nuist now Bear yourself statelicli. Dol. O, let me alone, I '11 not forget my race, I warrant you. I '11 keep my distance, laugh and talk aloud ; Have all the tricks of a proud scurvy lady, And be as I'ude 's her woman. Face. Well said, sanguine ! *~ Sub. But will he send his andirons'? Face. His jack too, And 's iron shoeing-horn ; I ha' spoke to " him. Well, I must not lose my wary gamester yon- der. Sub, 0, Monsieur Caution, that will not be gull'd? Face, Aye, If I can strike a fine hook into him, now ! — •i;; with li;,'ht hair and ruddy complexion. THE ALCHEMIST 255 The Temple-cliiu'ch, there I have cast mine anyle. Well, pray fur nie. I 'II about it. (One knocks.) Sub. What, more gudgeons ! ^^ Dol, soout, scout! {Dol (joes to the uin- dow.) Stay, Face, you must go to the door; 'Pray God it be my anabaptist — Who is't, Dol? Dol. I know him not: he hmks like a gold-end-man.** Sub. (jods so! 'tis he, he said he would send — what call you him'? The sanctified elder, that shtmld deal For JMammon's jack and andirons. Let him in. Stay, help me off, first, with my gxiwn. {Exit Face witJi the goun.) Away, Madam, to your withdraAving chamber. Now, Exit Dol. In a new tune, new gesture, but old lan- guage.- — This fellow is sent from one negotiates with me About the stone too, for the holy breth- ren Of Amsterdam, the exil'd saints, that hope To raise their discipline '^ by it. I must use him In some strange fashion now, to make him admire me. Scene 5. Subtle. Enter Ananias. Where is my drudge*? Enter Face. Face. Sir ! Sub. Take away the recipient, And rectify your menstrue from the phlegma. Then pour it on the Sol. in the cucurbile. And let 'em macerate together. i Face. Yes, sir. j And save the gi'ound'? Sub. No : terra damnata Must not have entrance in the work. — Who are you"? Ana. A faithful brother, if it please you. Sub. What's that? A Lullianist '? a Ripley'?*" Filius artis? ("an you sublime and dulcify"? Calcine? Know you the sapor pontic? Sapor stiptic? Or what is homogene, or heler«)gene? ^ina. 1 understand no heathen language, truly. Sub. Heathen! You Knipperdoling? ■"^ Is Ars sacra. Or chrysopoeia, or s})agyrica. Or the pamphysic, or i)anarchic knowl- edge, A heathen language? Ana. Heathen Greek, I take it. Sub. How! Heatlien Greek? Ana. All 's heathen but the Hebrew. Sub. Sirrah my varlet, stand you fortii and speak to him Like a pliilosopher : answer i' the lan- guage. Name llie vexations, and the martyriza- tions Of melals in the work. Face. Sir, putrefaction. Solution, ablution, sublimation, Cohubation, calcination, ceration, and Fixation. Sab. This is heathen Greek, to you, now ! — And when comes vivilication? Face. After mortification. Sub. What 's cohobatiou? Face. 'T is the pouring on Your aqua regis, and then drawing him off. To the trine circle of the seven spheres. Sub. What 's the i)roper passion of metals ? Face. Malleation. Sub. What's your itUimum supplicium uurif Face. Antimoniuni. Sub. This 's heathen Greek to you! — And what's your mercury? Face. A very fugitive, he will be gone, sir. Sub. How know you him? Face. By his viscosity, His oleosity, and his suscit ability. Sub. How do you sublime him? Face. With the calee of egg-shells, White marble, talc. Sub. Your magisterium now, What's that? Face. Shifting, sir, your elements, Dry into cold, cold into moist, moist into hot. \ 43 fools. 44 a buyer of brok- en pieces of gold. 45 Puritan form of church sovprn- ment. (Neilsou.) 46 Lully and Ripley vvei'L' writers on alehemv. 47 A German Ana- baptist. 256 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Hot into dry. Sub. This is heathen Greek to you still ! Your lajiis philosopliicus? Face. 'T is a stone, And not a stone; a spirit, a soul, and a body: Which if you do dissolve, it is dissolv'd ; If you coagulate, it is coagulated; If you make it to fly, it flieth. Sub. Enough. Exit Face. This 's heathen Greek to you ! What are you, sir? Aria. Please you, a servant of the exil'd brethren. That deal with widows' and with orphans' goods, And make a just account unto the saints : A deacon. Sub. 0, you are sent from Master Whole- some, Your teacher? Ana. From Tribulation Wholesome, Our very zealous pastor. Sub. Good ! I have Some orphans' goods to come hei'e. Ana. Of what kind, sir? Sub. Pewter and brass, andirons and kitchenware. Metals, that we must use our med'cine on: Wherein the brethren may have a penn'orth For ready money. Ana. Were the orphans' parents Sincere professors? Sub. Why do you ask? Ana. Because We then are to deal justly, and give, in truth. Their utmost value. Sub. 'Slid, you 'd cozen else, An if their parents were not of the faith- ful !— I will not trust you, now I think on it, Till I ha' talk'd Avith your pastor. Ha' you brought money To buy more coals ? Ana. No, surely. Sub. No? How so? Ana. The brethren bid me say unto you, sir. Surely, they will not venture any more Till they may see projection. Sub. How ! Ana. You 've had For the instruments, as bricks, and loam, and glasses. Already thirty pound; and for materials, They say, some ninety more : and they have heard since, That one, at Heidelberg, made it of an egg, And a small paper of pin-dust. Sub. What 's your name? Ana. My name is Ananias. Sub. Out! the varlet That cozen'd the apostles ! Hence, away ! Flee, mischief! had your holy consistory No name to send me, of another sound Than wicked Ananias? Send your el- ders Hither, to make atonement for you, quickly. And gi' me satisfaction ; or out goes The fire; and down th' alembics, and the furnace, Piger Henricus, or what not. Thou wretch ! Both sericon and bufo shall be lost. Tell 'em. All hope of rooting out the bishops. Or th' anti- Christian hierarchy shall per- ish. If they stay threescore minutes : the aqueity, Terreity, and sulphureity Shall run together again, and all be an- null'd, Thou wicked Ananias! {Exit Ananias.) This will fetch 'em. And make 'em haste towards their gull- ing more. A man must deal like a rough nurse, and fright Those that are froward, to an appetite. Scene 6. Subtle. Enter Face in his uniform, fol- lowed by Drugger. Face. He 's busy with his spirits, but we '11 upon him. Sub. How now ! What mates, what Bay- ards *^ ha' we here? Face. I told you he would be furious. — Sir, here 's Nab Has brought you another piece of gold to look on ; — We must appease him. Give it me, — and prays you. 48 "Bayard, the type of chivalry and soldierly bearing, in allusion to Face's uniform and Drugger's smart bearing." (Schelling.) THE ALCHEMIST 257 You would devise — what is it, Nab"? Drug. A sign, sir. Face. Aye, a good lucky one, a thriving sign, doctor. Suh. I was devising now. Face. {Aside to Subtle.) 'Slight, do not say so, ' He Avill repent he ga' you any more. — What say you to his constellation, doc- tor, The Balanced Sub. No, that way is stale and common. A townsman born in Taurus, gives the bull, Or the bull's head : in Aries, the ram. — A poor device ! No, I will have his name Form'd in some mystic character; whose radii, Striking the senses of the passers-by, Shall, by a virtual influence, breed affec- tions. That may result upon the party owns il : As thus Face. Nab ! Sub. He first shall have a bell, that 's Abel; And by it standing one whose name is In a rug gown, there 's D, and Rug, that 's drug; And right anenst him a dog snarling er; There 's Drugger, Abel Drugger. That 's his sign. And here 's now mystery and hiero- glyphic ! Face. Abel, thou art made. Drug. Sir, I do thank his worship. Face. Six o' thy legs ^° more will not do it. Nab. He has brought you a pipe of tobacco, doctor. Drug. Yes, sir; I have another thing I would impart Face. Out with it, Nab. Drug. Sir, there is lodg'd, hard by me, A rich young widow Face. Good ! a bona roba *? ^^ Drug. But nineteen at the most. Face. Very good, Abel. Drug. Many, she 's not in fashion yet ; she wears A hood, but 't stands a-cop.^^ Face. No matter, Abel. Drug. And I do now and then give her a fucus Face. What! dost thou deal, Nab"? Sub. I did tell you, captain. Drug. And physic too, sometime, sir; for which she trusts me With all her mind. She 's come up here of purjDose To learn the fashion. Face. Good (his match too!) — On, Nab. Drug. And she does strangely long to know her fortune. Face. God's lid, Nab, send her to the doc- tor, hither. Drug. Yes, I have spoke to her of his worship already ; But she 's afraid it will be blown abroad, And hurt her marriage. Face. Hurt it ! 't is the way To heal it, if 't were hurt ; to make it more FolloAv'd and sought. Nab, thou shalt tell her this. She'll be more known, more talk'd of; and your widows Are ne'er of any price till they be fa- mous ; Their honor is their multitude of suit- ors. Send her, it may be thy good fortune. What! Thou dost not know? Drug. No, sir, she 'II never many Under a knight : her bi'other has made a vow. Face. What ! and dost thou despair, my little Nab, Knowing what the doctor has set down for thee, And seeing so many o' the city dubb'd? One glass o' thy water, with a madam I know, Will have it done, Nab. What 's her brother? a knight? Drug. No, sir, a gentleman newly warm in 's land, sir. Scarce cold in his one and twenty, that does govern His sister here; and is a man himself Of some three thousand a year, and is come up To learn to quarrel, and to live by his wits, And will go down again, and die i' the country. Face. How ! to quarrel ? Drug. Yes, sir, to carry quarrels. As gallants do; to manage 'em by line. Face. 'Slid, Nab, the doctor is the only man 49 Dr. John Dee (1527-1608), an astrologer of great repute. 60 bows. 51 handsome wench. 52 on the top of the head. 258 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD In Christendom for him. He has made a table, With mathematical demonstrations, Tonehing- the art of quarrels : he will give him An instrument to quarrel by. Go, bring 'em both, Him and his sister. And, for thee, with her The doctor happ'ly may persuade. Go to: 'Shalt give his worship a new damask suit Upon the premises. Sub. 0, good captain ! Face. He shall ; He is the honestest fellow, doctor. Stay not, No offers; bring the damask, and the parties. Drug. I '11 try my power, sir. Face. And thy will too. Nab. Suh. 'T is good tobacco, this ! What is 't an ounce"? Face. He'll send you a pound, doctor. Suh. no. Face. He will do 't. It is the goodest soul ! — Abel, about it. Thou shalt know more anon. Away, be gone. Ej:it Abel. A miserable rogue, and lives with cheese, And has the worms. That was the cause, indeed. Why he came now: he dealt with me in private. To get a med'cine for 'em. Sub. And shall, sir. This works. Face. A wife, a wife for one on 's, my dear Subtle! We '11 e'en draw lots, and he that fails, shall have The more in goods, the other has in tail. Sub. Rather the less; for she may be so light She may want grains. Face. Aye; or be such a burden, A man would scarce endure her for the whole. Sub. Faith, best let 's see her first, and then determine. Face. Content : but Dol must ha' no breath on 't. Sub. Mum. Away you, to your Surly yonder, catch him. Face, Pray God I ha' not stay'd too long. Sub. I fear it. Exeunt. ACT III. Scene 1. The lane before Lovewit's house. Enter Tribulation Wholesome and Ananias. Tri. These chastisements are common to the saints. And such rebukes we of the separation Must bear with willing shoulders, as the trials Sent forth to tempt our frailties. Ana. In pure zeal I do not like the man; he is a heathen, And speaks the language of Canaan, truly. Tri. I think him a profane person indeed. Ana. He bears The visible mark of the beast in his fore- head. And for his stone, it is a work of dark- ness. And with philosophy blinds the eyes of man. Tri. Good brother, we must bend unto all means That may give furtherance to the holy cause. Ana. Which his cannot: the sanctified cause Should have a sanctified course. Tri. Not always necessary: The children of perdition are oft times Made instruments even of the greatest works. Beside, we should give somewhat to man's nature. The place he lives in, still about the fire, And fume of metals, that intoxicate The brain of man, and make him prone to passion. Where have you greater atheists than your cooks'? Or more profane or choleric, than your glassmen *? More anti-Christian than your bell- founders "? What makes the devil so devilish, I would ask you, Satan, our common enemy, but his being Perpetually about the fire, and boiling Brimstone and arsenic*? We must give, I say. Unto the motives, and the stirrers up Of humors in the blood. It may be so, When as the work is done, the stone is made. This heat of his may turn into a zeal. THE ALCHEMIST 259 And stand up for the beauteous disci- pline Against the menstrous ^^ cloth and rag of Rome. We must await his calling, and the com- ing Of the good spirit. You did fault, t' uj?-, braid Inm f With the brethren's blessing of Heidel- berg, weighing What need we have to hasten on the work, For the restonng of the silene'd saints,^'^ Which ne'er will be but by the philoso- pher's stone. And so a learned elder, one of Scotland, Assur'd me J auriim potabile being The only med'cine for the civil magis- trate, T' incline him to a feeling of the cause; And must be daily us'd in the disease. Ana. I have not edified more, truly, by man; Not since the beautiful light first shone on me : And I am sad my zeal hath so offended. Tri. Let us call on him then. Ana. The motion 's good. And of the spirit ; I will knock first. (Knocks.) Peace be within! The door is opened, and they enter. Scene 2. A room in Lovewit's house. Enter Subtle, followed by Tribulation and Ananias. Suh. time. 0, are you come ? 'T was Your threescore minutes Were at last thread, you see ; and down had gone Furnus acediae, turris circiilatorius : Lembic, bolt's-head, retort, and pelican Had all been cinders. Wicked Ananias ! Art thou returu'd"? Nay, then it goes down yet. Tri. Sir, be appeased ; he is come to hum- ble Himself in spirit, and to ask your pa- tience. If too much zeal hath carried him aside From the due path. Sub. Why, this doth qualify! Tri. The brethi'en had no purpose, verily. To give you the least grievance ; but are ready To lend their willing hands to any proj- ect The spirit and you direct. Sub. This qualifies more ! Tri. And for the orphans' goods, let them be valu'd, Or what is needful else to the holy work, It shall be numb'red; here, by me, the saints Throw down their purse before you. Sub. This qualifies most ! Why, thus it should be, now you under- stand. Have I discours'd so unto you of our stone, And of the good that it shall bring your cause? Show'd you (beside the main of hiring forces Abroad, drawing the Hollanders, your friends. From th' Indies, to serve you, with all their fleet) That even the med'cinal use shall make you a faction And party in the realm? As, put the case, That some great man in state, he have the gout. Why, you but send three drops of your elixir. You help him straight : there you have made a friend. Another has the palsy or the dropsy. He takes of your incombustible stuff, He 's young again : there you have made a friend. A lady that is past the feat of body, Though not of mind, and hath her face decay'd Beyond all cure of paintings, you restore With the oil of talc : there you have made a friend ; And all her friends. A lord that is a leper, A knight that has the bone-ache, or a squire That hath both these, you make 'em smooth and sound With a bare f ricace ^^ of your med'cine ; still You increase your friends. Tri. Aye, 't is very pregnant. Sub. And then the turning of this law- yer's pewter To plate at Christmas Ana. Christ-tide,^^ I pray you. 53 polluted. 54 Non-conformist ministers not al- lowed to preach. (Neilson.) 55 rubbing. 56 because the Puritans objected to the use of the word mass in Christmas. 260 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Suh. Yet, Ananias! Ana. I have done. Sub. Or changing His parcel •''' gilt to massy gold. You cannot But raise you friends. Withal, to be of power To pay an array in the field, to buy The King of France out of his realms, or Spain Out of his Indies. What can you not do Against lords spiritual or temporal, That shall oppone ^^ you"? Tri. Verily, 't is true. We may be temporal lords ourselves, I take it. Suh. You may be anything, and leave off to make Long-winded exercises; or suck up Your ha! and hum! in a tune. I not deny, But such as are not graced in a state, May, for their ends, be adverse in reli- gion. And get a tune to call the flock together : For, to say sooth, a tune does much with women And other phlegmatic people; it is your bell. Ana. Bells are profane; a tune may be religious. Suh. No warning with you"? Then fare- well my patience. 'Slight, it shall down ; I will not be thus tortur'd. Tri. I pray you, sir. Sub. All shall perish. I have spoke it. Tri. Let me find grace, sir, in your eyes; the man. He stands corrected ; neither did his zeal. But as your self, allow a tune some- where. Which now, being tow'rd the stone, we shall not need. Sub. No, nor your holy vizard, to win widows To give you legacies; or make zealous wives To rob their husbands for the common cause : Nor take the start of bonds broke but one day, And say they were forfeited by provi- dence. Nor shall you need o'er night to eat huge meals. To celebrate your next day's fast the better ; The whilst the brethren and the sisters humbled, Abate the stiffness of the flesh. Nor cast Before your hungry hearers scrupulous bones ; As whether a Christian may hawk or hunt, Or whether matrons of the holy assem- bly May lay their hair out, or wear doublets, Or have that idol, starch, about their linen. Ana. It is indeed an idol. Tri. Mind him not, sir. I do command thee, spirit (of zeal, but trouble ) , To peace within him ! Pray you, sir, go on. Suh. Nor shall you need to libel 'gainst the prelates, And shorten so your ears ^^ against the hearing Of the next wire-drawn grace. Nor of necessity Rail against plays, to please the alder- man Whose daily custard you devour; nor lie With zealous rage till you are hoarse. Not one Of these so singular arts. Nor call your- selves By names of Tribulation, Persecution, Restraint, Long-patience, and such like, affected By the whole family or wood ^° of you. Only for glory, and to catch the ear Of the disciple. Tri. Truly, sir, they are Ways that the godly brethren have in- vented, For propagation of the glorious cause, As very notable means, and whereby also Themseh'es grow soon, and profitably, fa- mous. Sub. 0, but the stone, all's idle to't! Nothing ! The art of angels, nature's miracle. The divine secret that doth fly in clouds From east to west : and whose tradition Is not from men, but spirits. Ana. I hate traditions; I do not trust them Tri. Peace ! 57 partly. 58 oppose. 59 in the pillory. 60 crowd. THE ALCHEMIST 261 Ana. They are popish all. I will not peace: I will not Tri. Ananias ! Ana. Please the profane, to grieve the godly; I may not. Sub. Well, Ananias, thou shalt overcome. Tri. It is an ignorant zeal that haunts him, sir: But truly else a very faithful brother, A botcher,^^ and a man by revelation That hath a competent knowledge of the truth. Sub. Has he a eomiDetent sum there i' the bag To buy the goods within? I am made guardian, And must, for charity and conscience' sake, Now see the most be made for my poor oi'phan ; Though I desire the brethren, too, good gainers : There they are within. When you have view'd and bought 'em, And ta'en the inventory of what they are, They are ready for projection; there's no more To do : cast on the med'cine, so much silver As there is tin there, so much gold as brass, I '11 gi' it you in by weight. Tri. But how long time, Sir, must the saints expect yet"? Sub. Let me see, How 's the moon now '? Eight, nine, ten days hence. He will be silver potate ; then three days Before he citronise.'^- Some fifteen days. The magisterium will be perfected. Anu. About the second day of the third week, In the ninth month? Sub, Yes, my good Ananias. Tri, What will the orphans' goods arise to, think you? Sub. Some hundred marks, as much as fill'd three cars. Unladed noAv: you'll make six millions of 'em But I must ha' more coals laid in. Tri. How? Sub. Another load, And then we ha' finish'd. We must now increase Our fire to ignis ardens; we are past. Fimus equinus, balnei, cineris, 61 a mender of clothes or shoes. 62 turn And all those lenter '^^ heats. If the holy l^urse Should with this draught fall low, and that the saints Do need a present sum, I have a trick To melt the pewter you shall buy now instantly. And with a tincture make you as good Dutch dollars As any are in Holland. Tri. Can you so? Sub. Aye, and shall bide the third exami- nation. Ana, It will be joyful tidings to the brethren. Sub, But you must carry it secret. Tri. Aye ; but stay. This act of coining, is it lawful? Ana. Lawful! We know no magistrate : or, if we did, This 's foreign coin. Sub. It is no coining, sir. It is but easting. Tri. Ha ! you distinguish well : Casting of money may be lawful. Ana, 'T is, sir. Tri. Truly, I take it so. Suh. There is no scrui^le, Sir, to be made of it ; believe Ananias ; This case of conscience he is studied in. Tri. I '11 make a question of it to the brethren. Ana. The brethren shall approve it law- ful, doubt not. Where shall 't be done? Sub. For that we'll talk anon. {Knock icithout.) There 's some to speak with me. Go in, I pray you. And view the parcels. That 's the inven- tor^'. I '11 come to you straight. {Exeunt Tri. and Ana.) Who is it? — Face! ap- pear. Scene 3. Subtle. Enter Face in Ms uniform. Sub. How now! good prize? Face. Good pox ! Yond' costive cheater Never came on. Sub, How then? Face. I ha' walk'd the round Till now, and no such thing. Sub. And ha' you quit him? yellow. 63 gentler. 262 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Face. Quit him ! An hell would quit him too, he were happy. 'Slight! would you have me stalk like a mill- jade, All day, for one that will not yield us gi'ains ? I know him of old. Suh. 0, but to ha' guU'd him, Had been a mastery. Face. Let him go, black boy ! ^^ And turn thee, that some fresh news may possess thee. A noble count, a don of Spain (my dear Delicious compeer, and my party-bawd), Who is come hither private for his con- science And brought munition Avith him, six great slops,^^ Bigger than three Dutch hoys,'^'' beside round trunks, Furnish'd with pistolets,^^ and pieces of eight, Will straight be here, my rogue, to have thy bath, (That is the eolor,*^**) and to make his batt'ry Upon our Dol, our castle, our cinqueport, Our Dover pier, our what thou wilt. Where is she"? She must prepare perfumes, delicate Imen, The bath in chief, a banquet, and her wit, For she must milk his epididimis. ^Wliere is the dosyl Sub. I '11 send her to thee : And but despatch my brace of little John Leydens ^^ And come again myself. Face. Are they within then*? Suh. Numb'ring the sun. Face. How much'? Suh. A hundred marks, boy. Exit. Face. Why, this is a lucky day. Ten pounds of Mannnon ! Three o' my clerk! A portague o' my grocer ! This o' the brethren ! Beside reversions And states to come, i' the widow, and my count ! My share to-day will not be bought for forty Dol. 64 knave. C5 large breeches. Enter Dol. What^ 60 small sloops, or Spanish coins. Face. Pounds, dainty Dorothy ! Art thou so near'? Dol. Yes; say, lord general, how fares our camp*? Face. As with the few that had entrench'd themselves Safe, by their discipline, against a world, Dol, And laugh'd within those trenches, and grew fat With thinking on the booties, Dol, bronglit in Daily by their small parties. This dear hour, A doughty don is taken with my Dol ; And thou mayst make his ransom what thou wilt. My Dousabel; he shall be brought here, fetter'd With thy fair looks, before he sees thee ; and thrown In a down-bed, as dark as any dungeon ; Where thou shalt keep him waking with thy drum ; Thy drum, my Dol, thy drum ; till he be tame As the poor blackbirds were i' the great frost, Or bees are with a basin ; and so hive him P the swan-skin coverlid and cambric sheets. Till he work honey and wax, my little God's-gift.^° Dol. What is he, general? Face. An adalantado,"^ A gTandee, girl. Was not my Dapper here yet "? Dol. No. Face. Nor my Drugger'? Dol. " Neither. Face. A pox on 'em. They are so long a-f umisliing ! such stinkards Would not be seen upon these festival days. — Ee-enter Suhtle. How now ! ha' you done *? Suh.. Done. They are gone: the sum Is here in bank, my Face. I Avould we knew Another chapman now who would buy 'em outright. Face. 'Slid, Nab shall do 't against he ha' the widow. To furnish household. G8 pretext. 69 Leyden was an Anabaptist leader. 70 the literal mean- ing of Dorothy. 71 governor of a province. THE ALCHEMIST 263 I Sub. Excellent, well thought on : Pray God he come. Face. I pray he keep away Till our new business be o'erpast. b'ub. But, Face, How camst thou by this secret don f Face. A spirit Brought me th' intelligence in a paper here, As I was conjuring yonder in my cir- cle For Surly; I ha' my flies abroad. Your bath Is famous. Subtle, by my means. Sweet Dol, You must go tune your virginal, no losing 0' the least time. And — do you hear?— good action ! Firk like a flounder; kiss like a scallop, close ; And tickle him with thy mother-tongue. His gTeat Verdugoship has not a jot of lan- guage ; So much the easier to be eozen'd, my Dolly. He will come here in a hir'd coach, ob- scure. And our own coachman, whom I have sent as guide. No creature else. {One knocks.) Who's that? Exit Dol. Sub. It is not hel Face. no, not yet this hour. Re-enter Dol. Sub. Who is 't? Dol. Dapper, Your clerk. Face. God's will then. Queen of Fairy, On with your tire; {Exit Dol.) and, doc- tor, with your robes. Let 's despatch him for God's sake. Sub. 'T will be long. Face. I warrant you, take but the cues I give you, It shall be brief enough. {Goes to the window.) 'Slight, here are more! Abel, and I think the angry boy, the heir. That fain would quarrel. Sub. And the widow"? Face. No, Not that I see. Away ! Exit Sub. Scene 4. Face. Enter Dapper^ Face. 0, sir, you are welcome. The doctor is within a moving for you; I have had the most ado to win him to it !— He swears you '11 be the darling o' the dice: He never heard her highness dote till now. Your aunt has giv'n you the most gra- cious words That can be thought on. Dap. Shall I see her grace 9 Face. See her, and kiss her too. — Enter Abel, followed by Kastril. What, honest Nab! Hast brought the damask? Drug. No, sir; here's tobacco. Face. 'T is well done. Nab ; thou 'It bring the damask too? Drug. Yes. Here 's the gentleman, cap- tain, Master Kastril, I have brought to see the doctor. Face. Where 's the widow ? Drug. Sir, as he likes, his sister, he says, shall come. Face. 0, is it so? Good time. Is your name Kastril, sir? Kas. Aye, and the best o' the Kastrils, I 'd be sorry else. By hfteen hundred a year. Where is this doctor? My mad tobacco-boy here tells me of one That can do things. Has he any skill? Face. Wherein, sir? Kas. To carry a business, manage a quar- rel fairly, Upon fit terms. Face. It seems, sir, you 're but young About the town, that can make that a question. Kas. Sir, not so young but I have heard some speech Of the angry boys,^- and seen 'em take tobacco ; And in his shop ; and I can take it too. And I would fain be one of 'em, and go down And practise' i' the country. Face. Sir, for the duello, The doctor, I assure you, shall inform you. To tiie least shadow of a hair; and show you 72 "roaring boys," bravadoes. 264 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD An instrument he has of his own mak- Wherewith, no sooner shall you make report Of any quarrel, but he will take the height on 't Most instantly, and tell in what degree Of safety it lies in, or mortality. And how it may be borne, whether in a right line, Or a half circle; or may else be cast Into an angle blunt, if not acute : And this he will demonstrate. And then, rules To give and take the lie by. Kas. How ! to take it 1 Face. Yes, in oblique he '11 show you, or in circle ; '^^ But ne'er m diameter.'^* The whole town Study his theorems, and dispute them ordinarily At the eating academies. Kas. , But does he teach Living by the wits tool Face. Anything whatever. You cannot think that subtlety but he reads it. He made me a captain. I was a stark pimp. Just o' your standing, 'fore I met with him ; It 's not two months since. I '11 tell you his method : First, he will enter you at some ordi- nary. Kas. No, I '11 not come there : you shall pardon me. Face. For why, sir? Kas. There 's gaming there, and tricks. Face. Why, would you be A gallant, and not game? Kas. Aye, 't will spend a man. Face. Spend you ! It will repair you when you are spent. How do they live by their wits there, that have vented Six times your fortunes'? Kas. What, three thousand a year! Face. Aye, forty thousand. Kas. Are there such? Face. Aye, sir, And gallants yet. Here 's a young gen- tleman Is born to nothing. — (Points to Dapper.) forty marks a year Which I count nothing : — he 's to be in- itiated. 73 the lie circum- Etuntial. 71 the lie direct. charse of 7ri an official having gaming at And have a fly o' the doctor. He will win you By unresistible luck, within this fort night. Enough to buy a barony. They will set him Upmost, at the groom porter's,^^ all the Christmas : And for the whole year through at every place Where there is play, present him with the chair. The best attendance, the best drink, some- times Two glasses of Canary, and pay noth- ing; The iDurest linen and the sharpest knife, The partridge next his trencher: and somewhere The dainty bed, in private, with the dainty. You shall ha' your ordinaries bid for him, As playhouses for a poet ; and the mas- ter Pray him aloud to name what dish he af- fects, Which must be butter'd shrimps : and those that drink To no mouth else, will drink to his, as being The goodly president mouth of all the board. Kas. Do you not gull one? Face. 'Odsmylife! Do you think it? You shall have a cast ''^ commander, (can but get In credit with a glover, or a spurrier. For some two pair of cither's ware afore- hand,) Will, by most swift posts, dealing [but] with him, Arrive at comioetent means to keep him- self. His punk, and naked boy, in excellent fashion. And be admir'd for 't. Kas. Will the doctor teach this? Face. He will do more, sir : when your land is gone, (As men of spirit hate to keep earth long), In a vacation,''^ Avhen small money is stir- ring, And ordinaries suspended till the term. He '11 show a perspective,^^ wliere on one side the 76 discharged. the law-courts, court. 77 between terms of 78 conjuror's glass. THE ALCHEMIST 265 I You shall behold the faces and the per- Face. As he was fain to be brought home. sons The doctor told me : and then a good old Of all sufficient young heirs in town, woman Whose bonds are current for com- Drug. Yes, faith, she dwells in Seacoal- modity; ■'^ lane, — did cure me On th' other side, the merchants' forms, With sodden ale, and pellitory o' the and others, wall; 81 That without help of any second broker, Cost me but twopence. I had another Who would expect a share, will trust sickness such parcels : Was worse than that. In the third square, the very street and Face. Aye, that was with the grief sign Thou took'st for being cess'd *' at eight- Where the commodity dwells, and does een-pence, but wait For the waterwork. To be deliver'd, be it pepper, soap. Drug. In truth, and it was like Hops, or tobacco, oatmeal, woad,^° or T' have cost me almost ray life. cheeses. Face. Thy hair went off? All which you may so handle, to enjoy Drug. Yes, sir; 'twas done for spite. To your own use, and never stand Face. Nay, so says the doctor. oblig'd. Kas. Pray thee, tobacco-boy, go fetch my Kas. V faith ! is he such a fellow ? suster ; Face. Why, Nab here knows him. I '11 see this learned boy before I go ; And then for making matches for rich And so shall she. widows. Face. Sir, he is busy now: Young gentlewomen, heirs, the fortu- But if you have a sister to fetch hither. nat'st man ! Perhaps your own pains may command He 's sent to, far and near, all over Eng- her sooner; land, And he by that time will be free. To have his counsel, and to know their Kas. I go. fortunes. Exit. Kas. God 's will, my suster shall see him. Face. Drugger, she 's thine : the damask ! Face. I '11 tell you, sir. — {Exit Abel.) Subtle and I What he did tell me of Nab. It's a Must wrastle for her. {Aside.) Come strange thing — on. Master Dapper, (By the way, you must eat no cheese. You see how I turn clients here away. Nab, it breeds melancholy, To give your cause dispatch; ha' you And that same melancholy breeds worms) perform'd but pass it :^- The eetemonies were enjoin'd you? He told me, honest Nab here was ne'er at Dap. Yes, o' the vinegar, tavern And the clean shirt. But once in 's life. Face. 'T is well : that shirt may do you Drug. Truth, and no more I was not. More worship than you think. Your Face. And then he was so sick aunt's afire, Drug. Could he tell you that too 1 But that she will not show it, t' have a Face. How should I know it ? sight of you. Drug. In troth, we had been a shoot- Ha' you provided for her grace's serv- ing; ants? And had a piece of fat ram-mutton to Dup. YeSt here are six score Edward shil- supper, lings. That lay so heavy o' my stomach Face. Good I Face. And he has no head Dap. And an old Harry's sovereign. To bear any wine; for what with the Face. Very good F noise o' the fiddlers, Dap. And three James shillings, and an And care of his shop, for he dares keep Elizabeth groat. no servants Just twenty nobles. Drug. My head did so ache Face. 0, you are too just. 79 The reference is to the "commodity" fraud, in which a borrower was obliged to take part of a loan in merchan- dise, which the lender frequently bought back by agents for much, less than it represented in the loan. (Neilson.) 80 used for blue dye. 81 wall pellitory, a plant growing in old walls. 82 assessed. 266 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD I would you had had the other noble in Maries. Dap. I have some Philip and Maries. Face. Aye, those same Are best of all: where are they? Hark, the doctor. Scene 5. Face, Dapper. Enter Subtle, disguised like a priest of Fairy with a strip of cloth. Sub. {In a feigned voice.) Is yet her grace's cousin come? Face. He is come. Sub. And is he fasting? Face. Yes. Sub. And hath cried "hum"? Face. Thrice, you must answer. Dap. Thrice. Sub. And as oft "buz"? Face. If you have, say. Dap. I have. Sub. Then, to her coz, Hoping that he hath vinegar'd his senses, As he was bid, the Fairy queen dis- penses, By me, this robe, the petticoat of For- tune; Which that he straight put on, she doth importune. And though to Fortune near be her petti- coat, Yet nearer is her smock, the queen doth note: And therefore, even of that a piece she hath sent. Which, being a child, to wrap him in was rent ; And prays him for a scarf he now will wear it, With as much love as then her grace did tear it, About his eyes (They blind him with the rag.) to show he is fortunate. And, trusting unto her to make his state. He '11 throw away all worldly pelf about him ; Which that he will perform, she doth not doubt him. Face. She need not doubt him, sir. Alas, he has nothing But what he will part withal as willingly, Upon her grace's word — throw away your purse — 83 honestly. As she would ask it : — handkerchiefs and all- She cannot bid that thing but he'll obey. — If you have a ring about you, cast it off, Or a silver seal at your wrist; her grace will send {He throws away, as they bid him.) Her fairies here to search you, therefore deal Directly ^^ with her highness : if they find That you conceal a mite, you are undone. Dap. Truly, there 's all. Face. All what? Dap. My money; truly. Face. Keep nothing that is transitory about you. {Aside to Subtle.) Bid Dol play music, — Look, the elves are come {Dol enters with a cittern.) To pinch you, if you tell not the truth. Advise you. {They pinch him.) Dap. ! I have a paper with a spur- ryal ^'^ in 't. Face. Ti, ti. They knew 't, they say. Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti. He has more yet. Face. Ti, ti-ti-ti. I' the other pocket? Sub'. Titi, titi, titi, titi, titi. They must pinch him or he will never confess, they say. {They pinch him again.) Dap. 0, ! ■ Face. Nay, pray you, hold: he is her grace's nephew. Ti, ti, ti? What care you? Good faith, you shall care. — Deal plainly, sir, and shame the fairies. Show You are innocent. Dap. By this good light, I ha' nothing. Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti, to, ta. He does equivo- cate she says : Ti, ti do ti, ti ti do, ti da; and swears by the light when he is blinded. Dap. By this good dark, I ha' nothing but a half-crown Of gold about my wrist, that my love gave me ; And a leaden heart I wore sin' she for- sook me. Face. I thought 't was something. And would you incur Your aunt's displeasui'e for these trifles? I Come, 84 a gold coin worth 15s. THE ALCHEMIST 267 I had rather you had thrown away twenty half-crowns. (Takes it off.) You may wear your leaden heart still. — How now ! Suh. What news, Dol? Dol. Yonder 's your knight, Sir Mammon. Face. God's lid, we never thought of him till now ! Where is he^ Dol. Here hard by. He 's at the door. Suh. And you are not ready now ! Dol, get his suit. Exit Dol. He must not be sent back. Face. 0, by no means. What shall we do with this same puffin ^^ here, Now he 's o' the spif? Suh. Why, lay him back awhile, With some device. Ee-enter Dol icith Face's clothes. — Ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, ti. Would her grace speak with me? I come. — Help, Dol ! (Knocking without.) Face. (Speaks through the keyhole.) — Who 's there ? Sir Epicure, My master 's i' the way. Please you to walk Three or four turns, but till his back be turn'd, And I am for you. — Quickly, Dol ! Sub. Her grace Commends her kindly to you, Master Dapper. Dap. I long to see her grace. Sub. She now is set At dinner in her bed, and she has sent you From her own private trencher, a dead mouse. And a piece of gingerbread, to be meri-y withal, And stay your stomach, lest you faint with fasting: Yet if you could hold out till she saw you, she says. It would be better for you. Face. Sir, he shall Hold out, an 't were this two hours, for her highness; I can assure you that. We will not lose All we ha' done. Suh. He must not see, nor speak 85 fool. S6 To anybody, till then. Face. For that we '11 put, sir, A stay in 's mouth. Sub. Of what? Face. Of gingerbread. Make you it fit. He that hath pleas'd her grace Thus far, shall not now crinkle ^"^ for a little. Gape, sir, and let him fit you. (They thrust a gag of gingerbread into his mouth.) Sub. Where shall we now Bestow him? Dol. I' the privy. Suh. Come along, sir, I must now show you Fortune's privy lodgings. Face. Are they perfum'd, and his bath ready? Suh. All : Only the fumigation 's somewhat strong. Face. (Speaking through the keyhole.) Sir Epicui'e, I am vours, sir, bv and by." Exeunt with Dapper. ACT IV. Scene 1. Enter Face and Mammon. Face. 0, sir, you 're come i' the only finest time. Mam. Where's master? Face. Now preparing for projection, sir. Your stuff will be all ehang'd shortly. Mam. " Into gold? Face. To gold and silver, sir. Mam. Silver I care not for. Face. Yes, sir, a little to give beggars. Mam. Wliere's the lady? Face. At hand here. I ha' told her such brave things o' you, Touching your bounty and your noble spirit Mam. Hast thou? Face. As she is almost in her fit to see you. But, good sir, no divinity i' your con- ference. For fear of putting her in rage. Mam. I warrant thee. Face. Six men will not hold her down. And then, aver. 87 immediately. 268 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD If the old man should hear or see you Mam. Fear not. Face. The very house, sir, would run mad. You know it, How scrupulous he is, and violent, 'Gainst the least act of Gin. Physic or mathematics. Poetry, state,*** or bawdry, as I told you, She will endure, and ncAe'r startle; but No word of controversy. Mam. I am school'd, cood Ulen. Face. And you must praise her house, re- member that, And her nobility. Mam. Let me alone: No herald, no, nor antiquaiy, Lungs, Shall do it better. Go. Face. (Aside.) ^Vhy, this is yet A kind of modern happiness,''^ to have Dol Common for a great lady. Exit. Mam. Now, Epicure, Heighten thyself, talk to her all in gold: Rain her as many showers as Jove did drops Unto his Danae; show the god a miser, Compar'd with Mammon. What ! the stone will do 't. She shall feel gold, taste gold, hear gold, sleep srold ; Nay, we will concumhere gold: I will be puissant, And mighty in my talk to her. — He-enter Face with Dol richly dressed. Here she comes. Face. To him, Dol. suckle him. This is the noble knight I told your ladyship Mam. Madam, with your pardon, I kiss your vesture. Dol. Sir, I were uncivil If I would suffer that ; my lip to you, sir. Mam. I hope my lord your brother be in health, lady. Dol. My lord my brother is, though I no lady, sir. Face. (Aside.) Well said, my Guinea bird. Mam. Right noble madam Face. (Aside.) 0, we shall have most fierce idolatry. Mam. 'T is your prerogative. Dol. Rather your courtesy. Mam. Were there nought else t' enlarge your virtues to me, 88 politics. These answers speak your breeding and your blood. Dol. Blood we boast none, sir; a poor baron's daughter. Mam. Poor! and gat you? Profane not. Had your father Slept all the happy remnant of his life After that act, lain but there still, and panted. He 'd done enough to make himself, his issue, And his posterity noble. Dol. Sir, although We may be said to want the gilt and trappings. The dress of honor, yet we strive to keep The seeds and the materials. Mam. I do see The old ingredient, virtue, was not lost, Nor the drug money us'd to make your compound. There is a strange nobility i' your eye, This lip, that chin ! Methinks you do re- f emble One o' the Austriac princes. Face. (Aside.) Very like! Her father was an Irish costeraionger. Mam. The house of Valois just had such a nose, And such a forehead yet the Medici Of Florence boast. Dol. Troth, and I have been lik'ned To all these princes. Face. (Aside.) I'll be sworn, I heard it. Mam. I know not how ! it is not any one, But e'en the very choice of all their fea- tures. Face. (Aside.) I'll in, and laugh. Exit. Mam. A certain touch, or air, That sparkles a divinity beyond An earthly beauty ! Dol. O, you play the courtier. Mam. Good lady, gi' me leave Dol. In faith, I may not, To mock me, sir. Mam. To burn i' this sweet flame ; The phoenix never knew a nobler death. Dol. Nay, now you court the courtier, and destroy What you would build. This art, sir, i' your words. Calls your whole faith in question. Mam. By my soul Dol. Nay, oaths are made o' the same air, sir. Mam. Nature Never bestow'd upon mortality 89 up-to-date fitness. THE ALCHEMIST 269 A more unblam'd, a more harmonious feature ; She play'd the step-dame in all faces else: Sweet madam, le' me be particular Dol. Particular, sir! I pray you, know your distance. Mam. In no ill sense, sweet lady : but to ask How your fair g'races pass the hours'? I see You 're lodg'd here, i' the house of a rare man. An excellent artist : but what 's that to you? Dol. Yes, sir; I study here the mathe- matics and distillation. Mam. 0, I cry your pardon. He's a divine instructor! can extract The souls of all thins^s by his art ; call all The virtues, and the miracles of the sun, Into a temperate furnace ; teach dull na- ture What her own forces are. A man, the emp'ror Has courted above Kelly ; ^° sent his medals And chains, t' invite him. Dol. Aye, and for his physic, sir Mam. Above the art of .L^sculapius, That drew the envy of the Thunderer! I know all this, and more. Dol. Troth, I am taken, sir. Whole with these studies that contem- plate nature. Mam. It is a noble humor; but this form Was not intended to so dark a use. Had you been crooked, foul, of some coarse mould, A cloister had done well; but such a feature, That might stand up the glory of a king- dom, To live recluse is a mere solecism. Though in a nunnery. It nuist not be. I muse, my lord your brother will per- mit it : You should spend half my land first, were I he. Does not this diamond better on my fin- ger Than i' the quarry? Dol. Yes. Mam. Why, you are like it. You were created, lady, for the light. Here, you shall wear it; take it, the first pledge 90 An astrologer, and associate of John Dee Of what I speak, to bind you to believe me. Dol. In chains of adamant? Mam. Yes, the strongest bands. And take a secret too. — Here, by your side. Doth stand this hour the happiest man in Europe. Dol. You are contented, sir? Mam. Nay, in true being. The envy of princes and the fear of states. Dol. Say you so, Sir Epicure? Mam. Yes, and thou shalt prove it, Daughter of honor. I have cast mine eye Upon thy form, and I will rear this beauty Above all styles. Dol. You mean no treason, sir? Mam. No, I will take away that jealousy. I am the lord of the philosopher's stone, And thou the lady. Dol. How, sir! ha' you that? Mam. I am the master of the mastery. This day the good old wretch here o' the house Has made it for us : now he 's at projec- tion. Think therefore thy first wish now, let me hear it ; And it shall rain into thy lap, no shower, But floods of gold, whole cataracts, a del- uge. To get a nation on thee. Dol. You are pleas'd, sir. To work on the ambition of our sex. Mam. I am pleas'd the gloiy of her sex should know, This nook here of the Friars is no cli- mate For her to live obscurely in, to learn Physic and surgery, for the constable's wife Of some odd hundred in Essex; but come forth, And taste the air of palaces ; eat, drink The toils of empirics, and their boasted practice ; Tincture of pearl, and coral, gold, and amber ; Be seen at feasts and triumphs; have it ask'd, What miracle she is ; set all the eyes Of court a-fire, like a burning glass. And work 'em into cinders, when the jewels the emperor is Rudolph II of Germany. 270 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Of twenty states adorn thee, and the Mam. Excellent ! Lungs, There 's for light thee.. Strikes out the stars thai, when thy name (Gives him money.) is mention'd, Face. But do you hearf Queens may look pale; and, we but show- Good sir, beware, no mention of the rab- ing our love, bins. Nero's Poppsea may be lost in story ! Mam. We think not on 'em. Thus will we have it. Exeunt Mam. and Dol. Dol. I could well consent, sir. Face. 0, it is well, sir. — Subtle ! But in a monarchy, how will this be"? The prince will soon take notice, and both seize Scene 2. You and your stone, it being a wealth unfit Face. Enter Subtle. For any private subject. Mam. If he knew it. Dost thou not laugh 1 Dol. Yourself do boast it, sir. Sub. Yes; are they gone'? Mam. To thee, my life. Face. All 's clear. Dol. 0, but beware, sir! You may come Sub. The widow is come. to end Face. And your quarreling disciple? The remnant of your days in a loath'd Sub. Aye. prison, Face. I must to my captainship again By speaking of it. then. Mam. 'T is no idle fear. Sub. Stay, bring 'em in first. We '11 therefore go with all, my girl, and Face. So I meant. What is she? live A bonnibel? In a free state, Avhere we will eat our Sub. I know not. mullets, Face. We '11 draw lots : Sous'd in high-country wines, sup pheas- You'll stand to that? ants' eggs, Sub. What else? And have our cockles boil'd in silver Face. 0, for a suit. shells ; To fall now like a curtain, flap ! Our shrimps to swim again, as when they Sub. To th' door, man. liv'd, Face. You '11 ha' the first kiss, 'cause I am In a rare butter made of dolphins' milk, not ready. Whose cream does look like opals; and Exit. with these Siib. Yes, and perhaps hit you through Delicate meats set ourselves high for both the nostrils. pleasure, Face. (Within.) Who w^ould you speak And take us down again, and then renew with ? Our youth and strength with drinking the Kas. (Within.) Where 's the captain ? elixir. Face. (Within.) Gone, sir, And so enjoy a perpetuity About some business. Of life and lust! And thou shall ha' Kas. (Within.) Gone! thy wardrobe Face. (Within.) He '11 return straight. Richer than Nature's, still to change thy- But, master doctor, his lieutenant, is self. here. And vary oft'ner, for thy pride, than she, Enter Kastril, followed by Dame Pliant. Or Art, her wise and almost-equal serv- ant. Sub. Come near, my worshipful boy, 7ny terrae ftli, Ee-enter Face.' That is, my boy of land; make thy ap- proaches : Welcome; I know thy lusts and thy de- Face. Sir, you are too loud. I hear you every word sires, Into the laboratory. Some fitter place; And I will serve and satisfy 'em. Begin, The garden, or great chamber above. Charge me from thence, or thence, or in How like you her? this line; THE ALCHEMIST 271 Here is iny eenti'e : ground thy quarrel. Kas. You lie. Suh. How, child of wrath and anser ! the loud lid For what, my sudden boy? Kas. ^^ay? that look you to, I am aforeband. Suh. 0, this is no true grammar, And as ill logic ! You must render causes, child, Your first and second intentions, know your canons And your divisions, moods, degrees, and differences, Your jiredicaments, substance, and acci- dent. Series extern and intern, with their causes. Efficient, material, formal, final. And ha' your elements perfect? Kas. AYhat is this? The angry tongue he talks in? Suh. That false precept, Of being aforeband, has deeeiv'd a num- ber, And made 'em enter quarrels oftentimes Before they were aware ; and afterward, Against their wills. Kas. How must I do then, sir? Sub. I cry this lady mercy ; she should first Have been saluted. {Kisses her.) I do call you lady. Because you are to be one ere 't be long, My soft and buxom widow. Kas. Is she, i' faith ? Suh. Yes, or my art is an egregious liar. Kas. How know you? Suh. By inspection on her forehead, And subtlety of her lip, which must be tasted Often to make a judgment. (Kisses Tier again.) 'Slight, she melts Like a myrobolane.'*^ Here is yet a line, In rivo frontis, tells me he is no knight. Dame P. What is he then, sir? Sub. Let me see your hand. O, your Unea fortunae makes it plain ; And Stella here in monte "generis. But, most of all, junctura annularis. He is a soldier, or a man of art, lady. But shall have some great honor shortly. Dame P. Brother, He 's a rare man, believe me ! Re-enter Face, in his uniform. Kas. Hold your peace. 91 a dried plum, a sweetmeat. Here comes t' other rare man. — 'Save you, captain. Face. Good Master Kastril I Is this your sister? Kas. Aye, sir. Please you to kuss her, and be proud to know her. Face. I shall be proud to know you, lady. {Kisses her.) Dame P. Brother, He calls me lady, too. Kas. Aye, peace : I heard it. {Takes her aside.) Face. The count is come. Suh. Where is he? Face. At the door. Suh. Why, you must entertain him. Face. What will you do With these the while? Sub. Why, have 'em up, and show 'em Some fustian ^^ book, or the dark glass. Face. 'Fore God, She is a delicate dabehick ! I must have her. Exit. Sub. (Aside.) Must you! Aye, if your foi'tune will, you must. — Come, sir, the captain will come to us presently : I '11 ha' you to my chamber of demonstra- tions, Where I '11 show you both the grammar and logic. And rhetoric of quarreling; my whole method Drawn out in tables; and my instrument. That hath the several scales upon 't shall make you Able to quarrel at a straw's-breadth by moonlight. And, lady, I '11 have you look in a glass, Some half an hour, but to clear your eye- sight. Against you see your fortune; which is greater Than I may judge upon the sudden, trust m.e. Exeunt. Scene 3. Enter Face. Face. Where are you, doctor? Suh. (Within.) I'll come to you pres- ently. Face. I will ha' this same widow, now I ha' seen her, 02 full of incomprehensible jargon. 272 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD On any composition.^^ Enter Subtle. Sub. Face. Sub. Face. What do you say? Ha' you dispos'd of them"? I ha' sent 'em up. Subtle, in troth, I needs must have tliis widow. Sub. Is that the matter? Face. Nay, but hear me. Sub. Go to. If you rebel once, Dol shall know it all : Therefore be quiet, and obey your chance. Face. Nay, thou art so violent now. Do but conceive, Thou art old, and canst not serve Sub. Who cannot? I? 'Slight, I will serve her with thee, for a Face. Nay, But understand : I '11 gi' you composition. Sub. I will not treat with thee. What ! sell my fortune? 'T is better than my birthright. Do not murnuir : Win her, and cany her. If you gTum- ble, Dol Knows it directly. Face. Well, sir, I am silent. Will you go help to fetch in Don in state? Exit. Sub. I follow you, sir. We must keep Face in awe. Or he will overlook us like a tyrant. Re-enter Face, introducing Surly like a Spaniard. Brain of a tailor! who comes here? Don John ! Sur. Senores, beso las manos a vuestras mercedes.^^ Sub. Would you had stoop'd a little, and kist our anos. Face. Peace, Subtle ! Sub. Stab me; I shall never hold, man. He looks in that deep ruff like a head in a platter, Serv'd in by a short cloak upon two tres- tles. Face. Or what do you say to a collar of brawn ,^^ cut down Beneath the souse,^^ and wriggled ^'^ with a knife? 93 on any terms. !>G nnder the ears. 94 "Sirs, I kiss your 07 slashed (so that it hands." looks like a ruff). 95 a rolled-up piece os The Duke of of boar's flesh. Alva, pcovernor of Sub. 'Slud, he does look too fat to be a Spaniard. Face. Perhaps some Fleming or some Hollander got him In d' Alva's '•'8 time; Count Egmont's '^^ bastard. Sub. Don, Your scurvy, yellow, Madrid face is wel- come. Sur. Gratia. Sub. He speaks out of a fortification. Pray God he ha' no squibs in those deep sets.^ Sur. For dios, senores, muy linda casa!- Sub. What says he? Face. Praises the house, I think; I know no more but 's action. Sub. Yes, the casa, My precious Diego, will prove fair enough To cozen you in. Do you mark? You shall Be cozened, Diego. Face. Cozened, do you see. My Avorthy Donzel,^ cozened. Sur. Entiendo.^ Sub. Do you intend it? So do we, dear Don. Have you brought pistolets or portagues. My solemn Don? {To Face.) Dost thou feel any? Face. {Feels his pockets.) Full. Sub. You shall be emptied, Don, pumped and drawn Dry, as they say. Face. Milked, in troth, sweet Don. Sub. See all the monsters; the great lion of all, Don. Sur. Con Ucencia, se puede ver a esta se- nora f ^ Sub. What talks he now? Face. Of the senora. Sub. 0, Don, This is the lioness, which you shall see Also, my Don. Face. 'Slid, Subtle, how shall we do? Sub. For what? Face. Why, Dol 's employ'd, you know. Sub. That's true. 'Foi'e heav'n I know not : he must stay, that 's all. Face. Stay ! that he must not by no means. S%ib. No! why? Face. Unless you '11 mar all. 'Slight. he '11 suspect it ; the Nethei'lands, i folds. 4 "T understand." l.'>67-73 2 "Gad, sirs, a very 5 "If you please, 90 .\ Flemish leader. pretty house." may I see the e.xecuted by Alva. 3 squire. lady ?" THE ALCHEMIST 273 And then be will not pay, not half so well. This is a travell'd jjunk-niaster, and does know All the delays ; a notable hot rascal, And looks already rampant. Suh. 'Sdeath, and Mammon Must not be troubled. Face. Mammon ! in no ease. Suh. What shall we do then"? Face. Think : you must be sudden. Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan hermosa, que codicio tan a verla como la hien aventiiranza de mi vida.^ Face. Mi vida! 'Slid, Subtle, he puts me in mind o' the widow.' What dost thou say to draw her to 't, ha! And tell her 'tis her fortune? All our venture Now lies upon 't. It is but one man more, Which on 's chance to have her : and be- side. There is no maidenhead to be fear'd or lost. What dost thou think on 't. Subtle? Sub. \Ylio, U why Face. The credit of our house too is en- gag-'d. Suh. You made me an offer for my share ere-while. What wilt thou gi' me, i' faith f Face. 0, by that light I '11 not buy now. You know your doom ''' to me. E'en take your lot, obey your chance, sir; win her. And wear her out, for me. Sub. 'Slight, I '11 not work her then. Face. It is the common cause; therefore bethink you. Dol else must know it, as you said. Suh. I care not. Sur. Senores, porque se tarda tanto? ^ Suh. Faith, I am not tit, I am old. Face. That 's now no reason, sir. Sur. Puede ser de hazer hurla de mi amorf ° Face. You hear the Don too? By this air I call. And loose the hinges. Dol ! Sub. A plague of hell Face. Will you then do? Suh. You 're a terrible rogue ! I 'II think of this. Will you, sir, call the widow ? Face. Yes, and I '11 take her too with all her faults. Now I do think on 't better. Sub. With all my heart, sir; Am I discharg'd o' the lot? Face. As you please. Suh. Hands. {They sliake hands.) Face. Remember now, that upon any change You never claim her. Suh. Much good joy and health to you, sir, MaiTy a whore! Fate, let me wed a witch first. Sur. For estas honradus harhas ^° Sub. He swears by his beard. Dispatch, and call the brother too. Exit Face. Sur. Tengo duda, senores, que no me ha- gan alguna traycion.'^^ Sub. How, issue on? Yes, praesto, senor. Please you Enthratha the chamhratha, worthy don: Where if you please the fates, in your hatha da, You shall be soak'd, and strok'd, and tubb'd, and rubb'd, And scrubb'd, and fubb'd,^- dear Don, before you go. You shall in faith, my scurvy baboon Don, Be curried, claw'd, and flaw'd,^^ and taw'd,^* indeed. I will the heartlier go about it now. And make the widow a punk so much the sooner, To be reveng'd on this impetuous Face : The quickly doing of it is the grace. Exeunt Subtle and Surly. Scene 4. Enter Face, Kastril, and Dame Pliant. Face. Come, ladj^ : I knew the doctor would not leave Till he had found the very nick of her fortune. Kas. To be a countess, say yon ? Face. A Spanish countess, sir. 6 "I understanil that fortune of my "Can it be that H "I fear, sirs, that 14 soaked. like the lady is so life " you make sport of you are playing hide in tanning handsome that I 7 pledge. ray love?" me some trick." am as eager to see 8 "Sirs, why so long lo "By this honored 12 gulled. her as the good delay?" beard " 1 3 cracked. 274 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Dame P. Why, is that better than an English countess*? Face. Belter! 'Slight, make you that a question, lady? Kas. Nay, she is a fool, captain, you must pardon her. Face. Ask from your courtier to your inns-of-court-man, To your mere milliner; they will tell you all, Your Spanish jennet is the best horse; your Spanish Stoop ^^ is the best garb; ^^ your Spanish beard Is the best cut; your Spanish ruffs are the best Wear; your Spanish pavin ^'^ the best dance ; Your Spanish titillation in a giove The best perfume : and for your Spanish pike. And Spanish blade, let your poor cap- tain speak. — Here comes the doctor. Enter Subtle with a paper. Sub. My most honor'd lady. For so I am now to style you, having found By this my scheme,^^ you are to undergo An honorable fortune very shortly, What will you say now, if some Face. I ha' told her all, sir, And her right worshipful brother here, that she shall be A countess; do not delay 'em, sir; a Spanish countess. Sub. Still, my scarce-worshipful captain, you can keep No secret! Well, since he has told you, madam. Do you forgive him, and I do. Kas. She shall do that, sir; I '11 look to it ; 't is my charge. Sub. Well then : nought rests But that she fit her love now to her for- tune. Dame P. Truly I shall never brook a Spaniard. Sub. Nol Dame P. Never sin' eighty-eight ^'^^ could I abide 'em, And that was some three years afore I was born, in truth. Sub. Come, you must love him, or be miserable ; Choose which you will. Face. By this good rush, persuade her, She will cry ^° strawberries else within this twelve month. Sub. Nay, shads and mackerel, which is worse. Face. Indeed, sir! Kas. God's lid, you shall love him, or I '11 kick you. Dame P. Why, I '11 do as you will ha' me, brother. Kas. Do, Or by this hand I '11 maul you. Face. Nay, good sir, Be not so fierce. Sub. No, my enraged child ; She will be rul'd. What, when she comes to taste The pleasures of a countess ! to be courted Face. And kiss'd and ruffled ! Sub. Aye, behind the hangings. Face. And then come forth in pomp ! Sub. And know her state ! Face. Of keeping all th' idolators o' the chamber Barer to her, than at their prayers ! Sub. Is serv'd Upon the knee! Face. And has her pages, ushers. Footmen, and coaches Sub. Her six mares Face. Nay, eight! Sub. To hun-y her through London, to th' Exchange,-^ Bet'lem,'- the China-houses ^^ Face. Yes, and have The citizens gape at her, and praise her tires. And my lord's goose-turd ^^ bands, that rides with her! Kas. Most brave! By this hand, you are not my suster If you refuse. Dame P. I will not refuse, brother. Enter Surly. Sur. Que es esto, senores, que non se venga ? Esta tardanza me mata!-^ Face. It is the count come: The doctor knew he would be here, by his art. IT) stooping posture. 16 fashion. 17 a stately dance. 18 horoscope. 10 1588, the year of the Armada. shops. 23 where oriental 20 hawk about town. 22 It was a fashion- wares were sold. 21 The Roval Ex able amusement to 2t preen. change had ar visit Bedlam, the 25 "Why does n't she cades of small lunatic asylum. come, sirs? This delay is killing me," THE ALCHEMIST 275 Sub. gal- En gallanta, madama, Don! lantissima! Sur. Por todos las dioses, la mas acahada Hermosura, que he visto en ma vida!^^ Face. Is 't not a gallant language that they speak? Kas. An admirable language ! Is 't not French 1 Face. No, Spanish, sir. Kas. It goes like law French, And that, they say, is the court-liest lan- guage. Face. List, sir. Sur. El sol ha perdito su lumbre, con el Resplandor que trae esta dana! Valga me dios! ^'' Face. H' admires your sister. Kas. Must not she make curt'sy. Sub. 'Ods will, she must go to him, man, and kiss him ! It is the Spanish fashion, for the women To make first court. Face. 'T is true he tells you, sir : His art knovv'S all. Sur. Porque no se acude? ^^ Kas. He speaks to her, I think. Face. That he does, sir. Sur. Por el amor de dios, que es esto que se tarda? ^^ Kas. Nay, see: she will not understand him! Gull, noddy! Dame P. What say you, brother"? Kas. Ass, my suster, Go kuss him, as the cunning man would ha' you ; I '11 thrust a pin i' your buttocks else. Face. no, sir. Sur. Senora mia, mi persona muy indigna esta Allegar a tanta hermosura.^^ Face. Does he not use her bravely"? Kas. Bravely, i' faith ! Face. Nay, he will use her better. Kas. Do you think so*? Sur. Senora, si sera servida, entremos.^'^ Exit with Dame Pliant. Kas. "Where does he carry her"? Face. Into the garden, sir; Take you no thought : I must interpret for her. Sub. Give Dol the word. {Aside to Face, who goes out.) — Come, my fierce child, advance. We '11 to our quarreling lesson again. Kas. Agreed. 26 "By .all the gods, 27 "The sun has 'ost the most perfect his light with the beauty I have splendor this lady seen in my life " brings, so help me God." I love a Spanish boy with all my heart. Sub. Nay, and by this means, sir, you shall be brother To a great count. Kas. Aye, I knew that at first. This match will advance the house of the Kastrils. Sub. 'Pray God your sister prove but pliant ! Kas. Why, Her name is so, by her other husband. Sub. How! Kas. The Widow Pliant. Knew you not thaf? Sub. No, faith, sir; Yet, by the erection of her figure,^- I guess'd it. Come, let 's go practise. Kas. Yes, but do you think, doctor, I e'er shall quarrel well*? Sub. I warrant you. Exeunt. Scene 5. Enter Dol followed by Mammon. Dol. {In her fit of talking.) For after Alexander's death Mam. Good lady Dol. That Perdiccas and Antigonus were slain, The two that stood, Seleuc' and Ptol- emy Mam. Madam — Dol. Made up the two legs, and the fourth beast. That tvas Gog-north and Egypt-south: which after Was called Gog-iron-leg and South-iron- leg Mam. Lady Dol. And then Gog-horned. So was Egypt, too: Then Egypt-clay-leg, and Gog-clay- leg Mam. Sweet madam Dol. And last Gog-dust, and Egypt-dust, which fall In the last link of the fourth chain. And these Be stars in story, which none see, or look at Mam. What shall I do? Dol. For, as he says, except 31 "Madam, at your service, let lis go 28 "Why don't you 30 "Madam, my per- draw near?" son is unworthy 29 "For the love of to approach such God. why this de- beauty." lay?" 32 by her horoscope. 276 THE ELIZABETHAN PEHIOD We call the rabbins, and the heathen Greeks Mam. Dear lady Dol. To come from Salem, and from Athens, And teach the people of Great Brit- ain Enter Face hastily, in his servant's dress. Face. What's the matter, sir? Dol. To speak the tongue of Eber and Javan Mam. Oh, She 's in her fit. Dol. We shall know nothing Face. Death, sir. We are undone ! Dol. Where then a learned linguist Shall see the ancient us'd communion Of vowels and consonants Face. My master will hear ! Dol. A wisdom, which Pythagoras held most high Mam. Sweet honorable lady ! Dol. To comprise All sounds of voices, in few marks of letters. Face. Nay, you must never hope to lay her now. {They all speak together.) Dol. And so we may arrive by Talmud skill,^^ And profane Greek, to raise the building up Of Helen's house against the Ismaelite, King of Thogarma, and his habergions Brimstony , blue, and fiery; and the force Of king Abaddon, and the beast of Cit- tim : Which rabbi David Kimchi, Onkelos, And Aben Ezra do interpret Rome. Face. How did you put her into 'f? Mam. Alas, I talk'd Of a fifth monarchy I would erect With the philosopher's stone, by chance, and she Falls on the other four straight. Face. Out of Broughton ! ^* T told you so. 'Slid, stop her mouth. Mam. Is 't best-? Face. She '11 never leave else. If the old man hear her, We are but faeces, ashes. Sub. {Within.) What 's to do there? 33 In the earlv editions this speech is printed in par- allel columns with the dialogue immediately follow- ing, to indicate simultaneous utterance. (Neilson.) Face. 0, we are lost ! Now she hears him, she is quiet. Enter Subtle; upon Subtle's entry they disperse. Mam. Where shall I hide me! Sub. How! What sight is here? Close deeds of darkness, and that shun the light! Bring him again. Who is he? What, my son ! 0, I have liv'd too long. Mam. Nay, good, dear father. There was no unchaste purpose. Sub. Not? and flee me When I come in? Mam. That was my error. Sub. Error? Guilt, guilt, my son; give it the right name. No marvel If I found check in oitr great work within, When such affairs as these were man- aging ! Mam. Why, have you so? Sub. It has stood still this half hour: And all the rest of our less works gone back. "\'\liere is the instrument of wickedness, My lewd false drudge? Mam. Nay, good sir, blame not him ; Believe me, 't was against his will or knowledge : I saw her by chance. Sub. Will you commit more sin, T' excuse a varlet? Mam. By my hope, 't is true, sir. Sub. Nay, then I wonder less, if you, for whom The blessing was prepar'd, would so tempt heaven. And lose your fortunes. Mam. Why, sir? Sub. This will retard The work a month at least. Mam. Why, if it do. What remedy? But think it not, good father : Our purposes were honest. Sub. ' As they were, . So the reward will prove. {A great crack and noise within.) — How now! ay me ! God and all saints be good to us. "Re-enter Face. 34 cf. p. 254, n. 36, Dol's iargon is taken from a book of Broughton'6, The Concent of Scripture. THE ALCHEMIST 277 What 's that ? Face. 0, sir, we are defeated ! All the works Are flown in fumo, every glass is burst; Furnace and all rent down, as if a bolt Of thunder had been driven through the house. Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt heads, All struck in shivers ! {Subtle falls down as in a swoon.) Help, good sir ! alas. Coldness and death invades him. Nay, Sir Mammon, Do the fair offices of a man ! You stand, As you were readier to depart than he. (One knocks.) Who 's there ? My lord her brother is come. Mam. Ha, Lungs! Face. His coach is at the door. Avoid his sight. For he 's as furious as his sister 's mad. 3Iam. Alas ! Face. My brain is quite undone with the fume, sir, I ne'er must hope to be mine own man again. Mam. Is all lost. Lung's'? Will nothing be preserv'd Of all our cost? Face. Faith, very little, sir; A peck of coals or so, which is cold com- fort, sir. Mam. 0, my voluptuous mind ! I am justly punish'd. Face. And so am I, sir. Mam. Cast from all my hopes Face. Nay, certainties, sir. Mam. By mine own base affections. Sub. (Seeming to come to himself.) 0, the curst fruits of vice and lust ! Mam. Good father, It was my sin. Forgive it. Sub. Hangs my roof Over us still, and will not fall, justice, Upon us, for this Avicked man ! Face. Nay, look, sir, You grieve him now with staying in his sight. Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and take you. And that may breed a tragedy. Mam. I '11 go. Face. Aye, and repent at home, sir. It may be, For some good penance you may ha' it yet ; A hundred pound to the box at Bet'- lem 35 change your clothes. Mam. Yes. Face. For the restoring such as — ha' their wits. Mam. I 'II do 't. Face. I '11 send one to you to receive it. Mam. Do. Is no projection left *? Face. All flown, or stinks, sir. Mam. Will nought be sav'd that 's good for med'eine, think'st thou? Face. I cannot tell, sir. There will be perhaps Something about the scraping of the shards. Will cure the itch, — though not your itch of mind, sir. (Aside.) It shall be sav'd for you, and sent home. Good sir. This way, for fear the lord shall meet you. Exit Mammon. Sub. (Raising his head.) Face! Face. Aye. Sub. Is he gone? Face. Yes, and as heavily As all the gold he hop'd for were in 's blood. Let us be light though. Sub. (Leaping up.) Aye, as balls, and bound And hit our heads against the roof for joy: There 's so much of our care now east away. Face. Now to our don. Siib. Yes, your young widow by this time Is made a countess. Face ; she 's been in travail Of a young heir for yon. Face. Good, sir. Sub. Off with your ease,^^ And greet her kindly, as a bridegroom should. After these common hazards. Face. Very well, sir. Will you go fetch Don Diego off the while? Sub. And fetch him over too, if you '11 be pleas'd, sir. Would Dol were in her place, to pick his pockets now! Face. Why, you can do 't as well, if you would set to 't. I pray you prove your virtue.^® Sub. For your sake, sir. Exeunt. 36 ability. 278 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Scene G. Enter Surly and Dame Pliant. Sur. Lady, you see into what hands you are fall'n; 'Mongst what a nest of villains ! and how near Your honor was t' have cateh'd a certain clap, Through your credulity, had I but been So punctually forward, as place, time, And other circumstance would ha' made a man ; For you 're a handsome woman : would you were wise too ! I am a gentleman come here disguis'd. Only to find the knaveries of this cita- del; And where I might have wrong'd your honor, and have not, I claim some interest in your love. You are. They say, a widow, rich ; and I 'm a bachelor. Worth nought : your fortunes may make me a man, As mine ha' preserv'd you a woman. Think upon it, And whether I have deserv'd you or no. Dame P. I will, sir. Sur. And for these household-rogues, let me alone To treat with them. Enter Subtle. Sub. How doth my noble Diego, And my dear madam countess? Hath the count Been courteous, lady"? libei'al and open? Donzel, methinks you look melancholic, I do not like the dulness of your eye; It hath a heavy cast, 't is upsee Dutch,^'' And says you are a lumpish whore-mas- ter. Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. (He falls to picking of them.) Sur. (Throws open his cloak.) Will you, Don bawd and pick-purse? (Strikes him down. ) How now ! Reel you? Stand up, sir, you shall find, since I am so heavy, I '11 gi' you equal weight. Sub. Help! murder! 3T as if you were drunk as a Dutchman. 38 Bawds 40 astrologer' Sur. No, sir, There 's no such thing intended. A good cart ^^ And a clean whip shall ease you of that fear. I am the Spanish Don that should be cozened. Do you see ? Cozened ? Where 's your Captain Face, That parcel-broker,^'' and whole-bawd, all rascal? Enter Face in liis uniform. Face. How, Surly ! Sur. 0, make your approach, good captain. I 've found from whence your copper rings and spoons Come now, wherewith you cheat abroad in taverns. 'T was here you learn'd t' anoint your boot with brimstone, Then rub men's gold on 't for a kind of touch. And say, 't was naught, when you had chang'd the color, That you might ha't for nothing. And this doctor, Your sooty, smoky-bearded compeer, he Will close you so much gold, in a bolt's- head. And, on a turn, convey i' the stead an- other With sublim'd mercury, that shall burst i' the heat, And fly out all in fumo! Then weeps Mammon ; Then SAvoons his worship. Or (Face slips out.) he is the Faustus, That casteth figures and can conjure, cures Plagues, piles, and pox, by the ephemeri- ^des.^o And holds intelligence with all the bawds And midwivos of three shires: while you send in Captain! — what! is he gone? — damsels - with child, Wives that are barren, or the waiting' maid With the groon sickness. (Seizes Subtle as he is retiring.) — Nay, sir, you must tany. Though he be scap'd ; and answer by the ears, sir. were carted through the streets. 39 part pawnbroker. s almanac. THE ALCHEMIST 279 Scene 7. Be-enter Face with Kastril to Surly and Subtle. Face. Why, now 's the time, if ever you will quarrel Well, as they say, and be a true-born child : The doctor and your sister both are abus'd.^i Kas. Where is he? Which is he? He is a slave. Whatever he is, and the son of a whore. — Are you The man, sir, I would know? Sur. I should be loth, sir. To confess so much. Kas. Then you lie i' your throat. Sur. How ! Face. (To Kastril.) A very arrant rogiie, sir, and a cheater, Employ'd here by another conjurer That does not love the doctor, and would cross him If he knew how. Sur. Sir, you are abus'd. Kas. You lie : And 't is no matter. Face. Well said, sir! He is The impudent'st rascal Sur. You are indeed. Will you hear me, sir? Face. By no means: bid him be gone. Kas. Begone, sir, quickly. Sur. This is strange ! — Lady, do you in- form your brother. Face. There is not such a foist *- in all the town. The doctor had him presently; and finds yet The Spanish count will come hei'e. — (Aside.) Bear up. Subtle. Sub. Yes, sir, he must appear within this I hour. Face. And yet this rogue would come in a disguise, By the temptation of another spirit. To trouble our art, though he could not I hurt it ! Kas. Aye, I I know — Away, (To his sister.) you talk like a foolish mauther.^^ r Sur. Sir, all is truth she says. Face. Do not believe him, sir. ; He is the lying' st swabber! Come your I ways, sir. I Sur. You are valiant out of company! I 41 deceived. 42 rogue. 43 country girl. Kas. Yes, how then, sir? Enter Drugger with a piece of damask. Face. Nay, here 's an honest fellow too that knows him, And all his tricks. (Make good what I say, Abel. This cheater would ha' eozen'd thee o' the widow. ) He owes this honest Drugger here seven pound. He has had on him in twopenny'orths of tobacco. Drug. Yes, sir. And he has damn'd him- self three terms to pay me. Face. And what does he owe for lo- tium?44 Drug. Thirty shillings, sir; And for six syringes. Sur. Hydra of villainy ! Face. Nay, sir, you must quarrel him out o' the house. Kas. I will : — Sir, if you get not out o' doors, you lie; And you are a pimp. Sur. Why, this is madness, sir, Not valor in you ; I must laugh at this. Kas. It is my humor; you are a pimp and a trig.-^s And an Amadis de Gaul, or a Don Quix- ote. Drug. Or a knight o' the curious coxcomb, do you see? Enter Ananias. Ana. Peace to the household ! Kas. I 'II keep peace for no man. Ana. Casting of dollars is concluded law- ful. Kas. Is he the constable? Sub. Peace, Ananias. Face. No, sir. Kas. Then you are an otter, and a shad, a whit, A very tim. Sur. You '11 hear me, sir? Kas. I will not. Ana. What is the motive? Sub. Zeal in the young gentleman. Against his Spanish slops. Ana. They are profane, Lewd, superstitious, and idolatrous breeches. Sur. New rascals ! Kas. Will you be gone, sir? 44 a lotion. 45 coxcomb. 280 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Ana, Avoid, Satan ! Thou art not of the light ! That ruff of pride About thy neck, betrays thee; and is the same With that which the unclean birds, in seventy-seven, Were seen to prank it with on divers coasts : Thou look'st like antichrist, in that lewd hat. Sur. I must give way. Kas. Be gone, sir. Sur. '' But I '11 take A course with you. Ana. Depart, proud Spanish fiend ! Sur. Captain and doctor. Ana. Child of perdition ! Kas. Hence, sir! — Exit Surly. Did I not quarrel bravely? Face. Yes, indeed, sir. Kas. Nay, an I give my mind to 't, I shall do 't. Face. 0, you must folloAv, sir, and thi'eaten him tame : He '11 turn again else. Kas. I '11 re-turn him then. Exit. Face. Drugger, this rogue prevented *^ us, for thee : We had determin'd that thou should'.st ha' come In a Spanish suit, and ha' carried her so ; and he, A brokerly slave, goes, puts it on him- self. Hast brought the damask f Drug. Yes, sir. Face. Thou must borrow A Spanish suit. Hast thou no credit with the players'? Drug. Yes, sir; did you never see me play the fool? Face. I know not, Nab; — thou shall, if I can help it. — {Aside.) Hieronimo's *'' old cloak, ruff, and hat will serve ; I '11 tell thee more when thou bring'st 'em. Exit Drugger. Subtle hath ivhisper^d with Ana. this while. Ana. Sir, I know. The Spaniard hates the brethren, and hath spies Upon their actions : and that this was one I make no scruple., — But the holy sjmod Have been in prayer and meditation for And 't is reveal'd no less to them than me, That casting of money is most lawful. Sub. True. But here I cannot do it : if the house Should chance to be suspected, all would out, And we be lock'd up in the Tower for ever. To make gold there for th' state, never come out ; And then are you defeated. Ana. I will tell This to the elders and the weaker breth- ren, That the whole company of the sepa- ration May join in humble prayer again. Sub. And fasting. Ana. Yea, for some fitter place. The peace of mind Rest with these walls! Exit. Sub. Thanks, courteous Ananias. Face. What did he come for? Sub. About casting dollars, Presently out of hand. And so I told him, A Spanish minister came here to spy, Against the faithful Face. I conceive. Come, Subtle, Thou art so down upon the least disaster! HoAV wouldst thou ha' done, if I had not helpt thee out? Sub. I thank thee, Face, for the angry boy. i' faith. Face. Who would ha' look'd *^ it should ha' been that rascal Surly? He had dv'd his beard and all Well, sir. Here 's damask come to make you a suit. Sub. Where's Drugger? Face. He is gone to borrow me a Spanish habit ; I '11 be the count now. Sub. But where 's the widow's' Face. Within, with my lord's sister; - Madam Dol Is entertaining her.. Sub. By your favor. Face. Now she is honest, I will stand again. Face. You will not offer it? Stib.. Why? Face. Stand to your word, Or — here comes Dol. She knows Sub. You 're tyrannous still.. 40 anticipated. 47 The hero of Kyd's Spanish Traijedy. 4s expected. THE ALCHEMIST 281 Enter Dol hastily. You'll do it? Suh. Yes, I '11 shave you as well as I can. Face. — Strict for my right. — How now, Face. And not cut my throat, but trim Dol! Hast told her me? The Spanish count will come? Sub. You shall see, sir. Dol. Yes; but another is come, Exeunt. You little look'd for ! Face. Who's that? Dol. Your master; ACT V. The master of the house. Suh. How, Dol ! ScEKE 1. Before Lovewit's door. Face. She lies! This is some trick. Come, leave your Enter Lovewit, xvith several of the quiblms,*^ Dorothy. Neighbors. Dol. Look out and see. {Face goes to the window.) Love. Has there been such resort, say you? Sub. Art thou in earnest? 1 Nei. Daily, Sir. Dol. 'Slight, 2 Nei. And nightly, too. Forty o' the neighbors are about him. 3 Nei. Aye, some as brave as lords. talking. 4 Nei. Ladies and gentlewomen. Face. 'T is he, by this good day. 5 Nei. Citizens' wives. Dol. 'T will prove ill day 1 Nei. And knights. For some on us. 6 Nei. In coaches. Face. We are undone, and taken. 2 Nei. Yes, and oyster-women. Dol. Lost, I 'm afraid. 1 Nei. Beside other gallants. Sub. You said he would not come. 3 Nei. Sailors' wives. While there died one a week within the 4 Nei. Tobacco men. liberties.^" o Nei. Another Pimlico.^' Face. No : 't was within the walls. Loiie. What should my knave advance. Sub. Was 't so? Cry you mercy. To draw this company? He hung out I thought the liberties. What shall we no banners do now. Face? Of a strange calf with five legs to be Face. Be silent : not a word, if he call or seen. knock. Or a huge lobster with six claws? I '11 into mine old shape again and meet 6 Nei. No, sir. him, 3 Nei. We had gone in then, sir. Of Jeremy, the butler. I' the meantime, Love. He has no gift Do you two pack up all the goods and Of teaching i' the nose ^^ that e'er I knew purchase ^^ of. That we can carry i' the two trunks. You saw no bills set up that promis'd I '11 keep him cure Off for to-day, if I cannot longer: and Of agues or the tooth-ache? then 2 Nei. No such thing, sir! At night, I '11 ship you both away to Love. Nor heard a drum struck for Ratcliff, baboons or puppets? Where we will meet to-morrow, and there 5 Nei. Neithei-, sir. we '11 share. Love. What device should he bring Let Mammon's brass and pewter keep the forth now? cellar ; I love a teeming wit as I love my nourish- We '11 have another time for that. But, ment : Dol, 'Pray God he ha' not kept such open Prithee go heat a little water quickly; house. Subtle must shave me. All my captain's That he hath sold my hangings, and my beard bedding ! Must oif, to make me appear smooth I left him nothing else. If he have eat Jeremy. 'em. 49 quibbling. 50 as long as there was one dead a week from the plague in the 52 a summer resort, parts of the city famous for cakes outside the walls. and ale. 51 booty. 53 preaching through the nose like a Puritan ; or "perhaps ventrilo- quism." (Scliel- ling. ) 282 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD A plague o' the moth, say I! Sure he 1 Nei. Sir, best to knock again afore you has got break it. Some bawdy pictures to call all this The Friar and the Nun; or the new Scene 2. motion ^^ Of the knight's courser covering the par- Lovewit, Neighbors. son's mare; The boy of six year old, with the great Love. (Knocks again.) I will. thing : Or 't may be, he has the fleas that run at tilt Upon a table, or some dog to dance. Enter Face in his huiler's livery. Face. What mean you, sir? When saw you him? 1, 2,4 Nei. 0, here 's Jeremy ! 1 Nei. Who, sir, Jeremy"? Face. Good sir, come from the door. 2 Nei. Jeremy butler? Love. Why, what 's the matter ? We saw him not this month. Face. Yet farther, you are too near yet. Love. How ! Love. V the name of wonder. 4 Nei. Not these five weeks, sir. What means the fellow ! 6" Nei. These six weeks, at the least. Face. The house, sir, has been visited. Love. You amaze me, neighbors! Love. What, with the plague? Stand 5 Nei. Sure, if your worship know not thou then farther. where he is. Face. No, sir. He 's slipt away. I had it not. 6 Nei. Pray God he be not made away. Love. Who had it then? I left (He knocks.) None else but thee i' the house. Love. Ha! it's no time to question. Face. Yes, sir, my fellow. then. The cat that kept the buttery, had it on 6 Nei. About her Some three weeks since I heard a doleful A week before I spied it; but I got her cry, Convey'd away i' the night: and so I As I sat up a-mending my wife's stock- shut ings. The house for a month Love. This 's strange that none will an- Love. How ! swer! Did'st thou hear Face. Purposing then, sir. A eiy, sayst thou? To have burnt rose-vinegar, treacle, and 6 Nei. Yes, sir, like unto a man tar. That had been strangled an hour, and And ha' made it sweet, that you should could not speak. ne'er ha' known it; 2 Nei. I heard it, too, just this day three Because I knew the news would but af- weeks, at two o'clock flict you, sir. Next morning. Love. Breathe less, and farther off! Love. These be miracles, or you make 'em Why this is stranger: so! The neighbors tell me all here that the A man an hour strangled, and could not doors speak. Have still been open And both you heard him crj'? Face. How, sir! 3 Nei. Yes, downward, sir. Love. Gallants, men and women, Love. Thou art a wise fellow. Give me And of all sorts, tag-rag, been seen to thy hand, I pray thee. flock here What trade art thou on? In threaves,'^'' these ten weeks, as to a 3 Nei. A smith, an 't please your second Hogsden, worship. In days of Pimlico and Eye-bright.^^ Love. A smitli ! Then lend me thy help Face. Sir, to get this door open. Their wisdoms will not say so. 3 Nei. That I will presently, sir, but Love. To-day they speak fetch my tools — Of coaches and gallants; one in a French Exit. hood 54 Kang. 55 puppet show. 56 droves. possibly the name of a tavern. THE ALCHEMIST 283 P Went in, they tell me; and another was seen In a velvet gown at the window : divers more Pass in and out. Face. They did pass through the doors then, Or walls, I assure their eye-sights, and their spectacles; v For here, sir, are the keys, and here have been, In this my pocket, now above twenty days ! And for before, I kept the fort alone thei'e. But that 'tis yet not deep i' the after- noon, I should believe my neighbors had seen double Through the black pot, and made these apparitions ! For, on my faith to your worship, for these three weeks And upwards, the door has not been open'd. Love. Strange ! 1 Nei. Good faith, I think I saw a coach. 2 Nei. And I too, I 'd ha' been sw^orn. Love. Do you but think it now f And but one coach? 4 Nei. We cannot tell, sir: Jeremy Is a very honest fellow. Face. Did you see me at allf 1 Nei. No; that we are sure on. 2 Nei. I'll be sworn o' that. Love. Fine rogues to have your testi- monies built on ! Ee-enter third Neiglibor, with his tools, 3 Nei. Is Jeremy come ! 1 Nei. yes ; you may leave your tools ; We were deceiv'd, he says. 2 Nei. He 's had the keys ; And the door has been shut these three weeks. 3 Nei. Like enough. Love. Peace, and get hence, you change- lings. Enter Surh/ and Mammon, Face. (Aside.) Surly come. And Mammon made acquainted ! They '11 tell all. How shall I beat them off? What shall I do"? Nothing 's more wretched than a guilty conscience. Scene 3. Surly, Mammon, Lovewit, Face, Neighbors. Sur. No, sii% he was a great physician. This, It was no bawdy-house, but a mere chan- cel ! You knew the lord and his sister. Mam. Nay, good Surly. Sur. The happy word, Be rich Mam. Play not the tyrant. — Sur. Should be to-day pronounc'd to all your friends. And where be your andirons now? And your brass pots, That should ha' been golden flagons, and great wedges? Mam. Let me but breathe. What, they ha' shut their doors, Methinks ! {He and Snrli/ knock.) Sur. Aye, now 't is holiday with them. Mam,. Rogues, Cozeners, impostors, bawds ! Face. What mean you, sir? Mam. To enter if we can. Face. Another man's house ! Here is the owner, sir; turn you to him, And speak your business. Mam. Are you, sir, the owner? Love. Yes, sir. Mam. And are those knaves w^ithin, your cheaters ! Love. What knaves, what cheaters? Mam. Subtle and his Lungs. Face. The gentleman is distracted, sir! No lungs Nor lights ^^ ha' been seen here these three weeks, sir. Within these doors upon my word. Sur. Your word, Groom arrogant ! Face. Yes, sir, I am the housekeeper. And know the keys ha' not been out o' my hands. Sur. This 's a new Face. Face. You do mistake the house, sir: What sign was 't at ? ^^ Sur. You rascal ! This is one Of the confederacy. Come, let 's get officers. And force the door. 58 lungs, punningly. 59 Even private houses were sometimes distinguished by signs, like taverns or shops. 284 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Love. Pray you stay, gentlemen. Sur. No, sir, we '11 come with warrant. Mam. Aye, and then We shall ha' your doors open. Exeunt Mam. and Sur. Love. What means this? Face. I cannot tell, sir. 1 Nei. These are two o' the gallants That we do think we saw. Face. Two o' the fools ! You talk as idly as they. Good faith, sir, I think the moon has craz'd 'em all. — (Aside.) me, Enter Kastril. The angry boy come too ! He '11 make a noise, And ne'er away till he have betray'd us all. Kas. (Knocking.) What, rogues, bawds, slaves, you '11 open the door anon ! Punk, cockatrice, my suster! By this light I '11 fetch the marshal to you. You are a whore To keep your castle Face. Who would you speak with, sir? Kas. The bawdy doctor, and the cozening captain. And puss my suster. Love. This is something, sure. Face. Upon my trust, the doors were never open, sir. Kas. I have heard all their tricks told me twice over, By the fat knight and the lean gentle- man. Love. Here comes another. Enter Ananias and Trihidation. Face. Ananias too ! And his pastor! Tri. The doors are shut against us. (They beat too, at the door.) Ana. Come forth, you seed of sulphur, sons of fire ! Your stench it is broke forth ; abomina- tion Is in the house. Kas. Aye, my suster 's there. Ana. The place. It is become a cage of unclean birds. Kas. Yes, I will fetch the scavenger, and the constable. Tri. You shall do well. Ana. We '11 join to weed them out. Kas. You will not come then, punk de- vice,''° my suster ! 60 complete. Ana. Call her not sister; she's a harlot verily. Kas. I '11 raise the street. Love. Good gentleman, a word. Ana. Satan, avoid, and hinder not our zeal! Exeunt Ana., Trib., and Kas. Love. The world 's turn'd Bet'lem. Face. These are all broke loose, Out of St. Katherine's, where they use to keep The better sort of mad-folks. 1 Nei. All these persons We saw go in and out here. 2 Nei. Yes, indeed, sir. 3 Nei. These were the parties. Face. Peace, you drunkards! Sir, I wonder at it. Please you to give me leave To touch the door ; I '11 try an the lock be chang'd. Love. It mazes me ! Face. (Goes to the door.) Good faith, sir, I believe There 's no such thing : 't is all deceptio visus.^^ — (Aside.) Would I could get him away. Dap. (Within.) Master captain! Mas- ter doctor! Love. Who's that? Face. (Aside.) Our clerk within, that I forgot ! — I know not, sir. Dap. (Within.) For God's sake, when will her grace be at leisure? Face. " Ha ! Illusions, some spirit o' the air! — (Aside.) His gag is melted. And now he sets out the throat. Dap. (Within.) I am almost stifled Face. (Aside.) Would you were alto- gether ! Love. 'T is i' the house. Ha! list! Face. Believe it, sir, i' the air. Love. Peace, you. Dap. (Within.) Mine aunt's grace does not use me well. Sub. (Within.) You fool, Peace, you '11 mar all. Face. (Speaks through the keyhole, while Loveivit advances to the door unob- served.) Or you will else, you rogue. Love. 0, is it so? Then you converse with spirits ! — Come, sir. No more o' your tricks, good Jeremy. The truth, the shortest way. 61 optical illusion. I THE ALCHEMIST 285 IPace. Dismiss this rabble, sir. — {Aside.) What shall I do"? I am catch'd. Love. Good neighbors, I thank you all. You may depart. {Ex- eunt Neiglibors.) — Come, sir, You know that I am an indulgent mas- ter; And therefore conceal nothing. What 's your medicine, To draw so many several sorts of wild fowl? Face. Sir, you were wont to affect mirth and wit — But here 's no place to talk on 't i' the street. Give me but leave to make the best of my fortune, And only pardon me th' abuse of your house : It 's all I beg. I '11 help you to a widow, In recompense, that you shall gi' me thanks for. Will make you seven years younger, and a rich one. 'T is but your putting on a Spanish cloak : I have her within. You need not fear the house; It was not visited. Love. But by me, who came Sooner than you expected. Face. It is true, sir. Pray you forgive me. Love. Well : let 's see your widow. Exeunt. Scene 4. A room in the house. Enter Subtle leading in Dapper, with his eyes hound as before. Sub. How! ha' you eaten your gag? Dap. Yes, faith, it crumbled Away i' my mouth. Sub. You ha' spoil'd all then. Dap. No ! I hope my aunt of Fairy will forgive me. l Sub. Your aunt's a gracious lady; but in troth You were to blame. Dap. The fume did overcome me, And I did do 't to stay my stomach. Pray you, I So satisfy her grace. \ Enter Face in his uniform. Here comes the captain. Face. How now! Is his mouth downf Sub. Aye, he has spoken ! Face. A pox, I heard him, and you too. He 's undone then. — {Aside to Subtle.) I have been fain to say, the house is haunted With spirits, to keep churl back. Sub. And hast thou done if? Face. Sure, for this night. Sub. Why, then triumph and sing Of Face so famous, the precious king Of present wits. Face. Did you not hear the coil ^^ About the door? Sub. Yes, and I dwindled with it. Face. Show him his aunt, and let him be dispatch'd : I '11 send her to you. Exit Face. Sub. Well, sir, your aunt her grace Will give you an audience presently, on my suit. And the captain's word that you did not eat your gag In any contempt of her highness. {Unbinds his eyes.) Dap. Not I, in troth, sii-. Enter Dol like the Queen of Fairy. Sub. Here she is come. Down o' your knees and wriggle : She has a stately presence. {Dapper kneels and shuffles towards her.) Good ! Yet nearer. And bid, God save you ! Dap. Madam ! Suh. And your aunt. Dap. And my most gracious aunt, God save your grace. Dol. Nephew, we thought to have been angry with you ; But that sweet face of yours hath tum'd the tide, And made it flow with joy, that ebb'd of love. Arise, and touch our velvet gown. Suh. The skirts, And kiss 'em. So! Dol. Let me now stroke that head. Much, nephew, shalt thou win, much shall thou spend; Much shalt thou give away, much shalt thou lend. Suh. {Aside.) Aye, much! indeed. — Why do you not thank her grace ? Dap. I cannot speak for joy. 02 hutbub. 286 THE. ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Sub. See, the kind wretch ! Your grace's kinsman right. Dol. Give me the bird. Here is your fly in a purse, about your neck, cousin ; Wear it, and feed it about this day sev'n- night, On your right wrist Sub. Open a vein with a pin And let it suck but once a week ; till then, You must not look on 't. Dol. No : and, kinsman, Bear yourself worthy of the blood you came on. Sub. Her grace would ha' you eat no more Woolsack *^^ pies Nor Dagger ®^ f rumety.'^^ Dol. Nor break his fast In Heaven ^^ and Hell.*^^ Sub. She 's with you eveiy where ! Nor play with costermongers, at mum- chance,'^^ traytrip,*^^ God-make-you-rich "^ (when as your aunt has done it) ; but keep The gallant'st company, and the best games Dap. Yes, sii. Sub. Gleek ®^ and primero ; ^^ and what you get, be true to us. Dap. By this hand, I will. Sub. You may bring 's a thousand pound Before to-morrow night, if but three thousand Be stirring, an you will. Dap. I swear I will then. Sub. Your fly will learn you all games. Face. {Within.) Ha' you done there? Sub. Your grace will command him no more duties? Dol. No : But come and see nie often. I may chance To leave him three or four hundred chests of treasure. And some twelve thousand acres of fairy land. If he game well and comely with good gamesters. Suh. There 's a kind aunt : kiss her de- parting part. — But you must sell your forty mark a year now. Dap. Aye, sir, I mean. Sub. Or, give 't away; pox on't! Dap. I '11 gi' 't mine aunt. I '11 go and fetch the writings. Exit. Sub. 'T is well; away. Re-enter Face. Face. Where's Subtle? Sub. Here: what news? Face, Drugger is at the door; go take his suit. And bid him fetch a parson presently. Say he shall mai'ry the widow. Thou shalt spend A hundred pound by the service ! Exit Siihtlc. Now, Queen Dol, Have you pack'd up all? Dol. Yes. Face. And how do you like The Lady Pliant? Dol. A good dull innocent. Ee-enter Subtle. Stib. Here 's your Hieronimo's cloak and hat. Face. Give me 'em. Sub. And the ruff too? Face. Yes ; I '11 come to you presently. Exit. Sub. Now he is gone about his project, Dol, I told you of, for the widow. Dol. 'Tis direct Against our articles. Sub. Well, we will fit him, wench. Hast thou gull'd her of her jewels or her bracelets ? Dol. No; but I will do 't. Sub. Soon at night, my Dolly, When we are shipt, and all our goods aboard, Eastward for Ratcliff, we will turn our course To Brainford, westward, if thou sayst the word. And take our leaves of this o'erweening rascal. This peremptory Face. Dol. Content ; I 'm weary of him. Sub. Thou 'st cause, when the slave will run a-wiving, Dol, Against the instrument that was drawn between us. Dol. I '11 pluck his bird as bare as I can. Sttb. Yes, tell her She must by any means address some present To th' cunning man, make him amends for wronging His art with her suspicion ; send a ring. Or chain of pearl; she will be tortur'd else 63 names of taverns. 64 wheat boiled in milk. 65 games of chance. THE ALCHEMIST 287 Extremely in her sleep, say, and ha' strange thing's Come to her. Wilt thoul Dol. Yes. Sub. My fine flitter-mouse,''® My bird o' the uisht".' AVe '11 tickle it at the Pigeons,*'^ When we have all, and may unlock the trunks. And say, this 's mine, and thine; and thine, and mine. (They kiss.) Ee-enter Face. Face. What now! a-billing'? Sub. Yes, a little exalted In the good passage of our stock-affairs. Face. Drugger has brought his parson; take him in, Subtle, And send Nab back again to wash his face. Sub. I will: and shave himself"? Exit. Face. If you can get him. Dol. You are hot upon it. Face, whate'er it is! Face. A trick that Dol shall spend ten pound a month by. Ee-enter Subtle. Is he gone? Sub. The chaplain waits you i' the hall, sir. Face. I '11 go bestow him. Exit. Dol. He '11 now marry her instantly. Sub. He cannot yet, he is not ready. Dear Dol, Cozen her of all thou canst. To deceive him Is no deceit, but justice, that would break Such an inextricable tie as ours was. Dol. Let me alone to fit him. Ee-enter Face. Face. Come, my venturers. You ha' pack'd up all? Where be the trunks? Bring forth. Sub. Here. Face. Let us see 'em. Where 's the money? Sub. Here, In this. Face. Mammon's ten pound ; eight score before : The brethren's money this. Drugger's and Dapper's. What paper's that? 66 bat. 68 small change. 67 an inn at Brentford. Dol. The jewel of the waiting maid's, That stole it from her lady, to know cer- tain Face. If she should have precedence of her mistress? Dol Yes. Face. What box is that? Sub. The fish-wives' rings, I think. And th' ale-wives' single money.®^ Is 't not, Dol? Dol. Yes ; and the whistle that the sailor's wife Brought you to know an her husband were with Ward.*^*^ Face. We '11 wet it to-morrow ; and our silver beakers And tavern cups. Where be the French petticoats And girdles and hangers? Sub. Here, i' the trunk, And the bolts of lawn. Face. Is Drugger's damask there, And the tobacco? Sub. Yes. Face. Give me the keys. Dol. Why you the keys? Sub. No matter, Dol; because We shall not open 'em before he comes. Face. 'T is true, you shall not open them, indeed ; Nor have 'em forth, do you see? Not forth, Dol. Dol. No ! Face. No, my smock-rampant. The right is, my master Knows all, has pardon'd me, and he will keep 'em. Doctor, 't is true — you look — for all your figures : I sent for him, indeed. '^^ Wherefore, good partners, Both he and she, be satisfied : for here Determines '^'^ the indenture tripartite 'Twixt Subtle, Dol, and Face. All I can do Is to help you over the wall, o' the back- side, Or lend you a sheet to save your velvet gown, Dol. Here will be officers presently, bethink you Of some course suddenly to scape the dock ; For thither you '11 come else. (Some knock.) Hark you, thunder. Sub. You are a precious fiend! Offi. (Without.) Open the door. 69 a notorious pirate. 7o Pace's crowning lie. 71 comes to an end. 288 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Face. Dol, I am sorry for thee i' faith; but bear'st thou'? It shall go hard but I will place thee somewhere : Thou shalt ha' my letter to Mistress A mo TDol. Hang- you ! Face. Or Madam Ca;sarean. Dol. Pox upon you, rogue! Would I had but time to beat thee! Face. Subtle, Let 's know where you '11 set up next ; I will send you A customer now and then, for old ac- quaintance. What new course have you ? Sub. Rogue, I '11 hang myself. That I may walk a greater devil than thou, And haunt thee i' the flock-bed ^^ and the buttery. Exeunt., Scene 5. Enter Lovewit in the Spanish dress, with the Parson. Loud knocking at the door. Love. What do you mean, my masters'? Mam. {Without.) Open your door, Cheaters, bawds, conjurers. Offi. (Without.) Or we '11 break it open. Love. What warrant have you*? Offi. (Without.) Warrant enough, sir, doubt not, If you '11 not open it. Love."^ Is there an officer there'? Offi. (Without.) Yes, two or three for failing.'^^ Love. Have but patience. And I will open it straight. Enter Face, as hutler. Face. Sir, ha' you done? Is it a marriage? Perfect? Love. Yes, my brain. Face. Off with your ruff and cloak then; be yourself, sir. Sur. (Without.) Down with the door. Kas. (Without.) 'Slight, ding ^Mt open. Love. (Opening the door.) Hold, Hold, gentlemen, what means this vio- lence? Mammon, Surly, Kastril, Ananias, Trib- ulation and Officers rush in. 72 mattress. 73 to prevent failure Mam. Where is this collier? Sur. And my Captain Face? Mam. These day-owls. Sur. They are birding in men's purses. Mam. Madam Suppository. Kas. Doxy, my suster. Ana. Locusts Of the foul pit. Tri. Profane as Bel and the Dragon. Ana. Worse than the grasshoppers, or the lice of Egypt. Love. Good gentlemen, hear me. Are you officers. And cannot stay this violence? 1 Offi. Keep the peace. Love. Gentlemen, what is the matter? Whom do you seek? Mam. The chemical cozener. Sur. And the captain pander. Kas. The nun my suster. Mam. Madam Rabbi. Ana. Scorpions, And caterpillars. Love. Fewer at once, I pray yoji. 1 Offi. One after another, gentlemen, I charge you, By virtue of my staff. Ana. They are the vessels Of pride, lust, and the cart. Love. Good zeal, lie still A little while. Tri. Peace, Deacon Ananias. Love. The house is mine here, and the doors are open ; If there be any such persons as you seek for, Use your authority, search on o' God's name, I am but newly come to town, and finding This tumult 'bout my door, to tell you true. It somewhat maz'd me ; till my man here, fearing My more displeasure, told me he had done Somewhat an insolent part, let out my house (Belike presuming on my known aver- sion From any air o' the town while there was sickness), To a doctor and a captain : who, what they are Or where they be, he knows not. Mam. Are they gone? Love. You may go in and search, sir. (Mammon, Ana., and Trib. go in.) Here, I find 74 smash. THE ALCHEMIST 2g9 The empty walls worse than I left 'em, smok'd, A few crack'd pots, and glasses, and a furnace ; The ceiling fill'd with i^oesies of the can- dle, And "Madam with a dildo" ^^ writ o' the walls. Only one gentleAvoman I met here That is within, that said she was a widow Kas. Aye, that 's my suster; I '11 go thump her. Where is she*? (Goes in.) Love. And should ha' married a Spanish count, but he, When he came to 't, neglected her so grossly. That I, a Avidower, am gone through with her. Sur. How ! have I lost her then *? Love. Were you the don, sir'? Good faith, now she does blame you ex- tremely, and says You swore, and told her you had ta'en the pains To dye your beard, and umber o'er your face, Borrowed a suit, and ruff, all for her love : And then did nothing. What an over- sight And want of putting forward, sir, was this! ^ ■ Well fare an old harquebusier '^•^ yet, Could prime his powder, and give fire, and hit, All in a twinkling ! (Mammon comes forth.) Mam. The whole nest are tied ! Love. What sort of birds were they? Mam. A kind of choughs, Or thievish daws, sir, that have pick'd my purse, Of eight score and ten pounds within these five weeks. Beside my first materials ; and my goods. That lie i' the cellar, which I am glad they ha' left, I may have home yet. Love. Think you so, sir? Mam. Aye. Love. By order of law, sir, but not other- wise. Mam. Not mine own stuff! Love. Sir, I can take no knowledge That they are yours, but by public means. If you can bring certificate that you were guU'd of 'em. Or any formal writ out of a court, That you did cozen yourself, I will not hold them. Blam. I '11 rather lose 'em. Love. ^ That you shall not, sir, By me, in troth; upon these terms, they 're yours. What, should they ha' been, sir, turn'd into gold, all ? Mam. No. I cannot tell. — It may be they should. — What then? Love. What a great loss in hope have you sustain'd ! Mam. Not I; the commonwealth has. Face. Aye, he would ha' built The city new; and made a ditch about it Of silver, should have run with cream from Hogsden ; That every Sunday in Moorfields the younkers. And tits ^^ and tom-boys should have fed on, gratis. Mam. I will go mount a turnip-cart, and preach The end o' the world within these two months. Surly, What! in a dream? Sur. Must I needs cheat myself With that same foolish vice of honesty ! Come, let us go and hearken out the rogues : That Face I '11 mark for mine, if e'er I meet him. Face. If I can hear of him, sir, I '11 bring you word Unto your lodging; for in troth, they were strangers To me; I thought 'em honest as myself, sir. (TJiey com'e forth.) Re-enter Ananias and Tribulation. Tri. 'T is well, the saints shall not lose all yet. Go And get some carts Love. Tor what, my zealous friends? Ana. To bear away the portion of the righteous Out of this den of thieves. Love. What is that portion? Ana. The goods sometimes the orphans', that the brethren Bought with their silver pence. 75 perhaps a ballad refrain. 76 musketeer. 77 strumpets. 290 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Love. What, those i' the cellar, The knight Sir Mammon claims'? Ana. I do defy The wicked Mammon, so do all the brethren, Thou profane man ! I ask thee with what conscience Thou canst advance that idol against us, That have the seal?'^^ Were not the shillings numb'red That made the pounds; were not the pounds told out Upon the second day of the fourth week, In the eighth month, upon the table dor- mant, The year of the last patience of the saints, Six hundred and ten *? Love. Mine earnest vehement botcher, And deacon also, I cannot dispute with you: But if you get you not away the sooner, I shall confute you with a cudgel. Ana. Sir ! Tri. Be patient, Ananias. Ana. I am strong, And will stand up, well girt, against an host That thi'eatens Gad in exile. Love. I shall send you To Amsterdam, to your cellar. Ana. I will pray there, Against thy house. May dogs defile thy walls. And wasps and hornets breed beneath thy roof. This seat of falsehood, and this cave of coz'nage Love. Drug Love. Face Exeunt Ana. and Tri. Enter Drugger. Another tool Not I, sir, I am no brother. (Beats him.) Away, you Harry Nicholas !7» do you talk? Exit Drug. No, this was Abel Drugger. Good sir, go, (To the Parson.) And satisfy him ; tell him all is done : He stay'd too long a washing of his face. The doetoi', he shall hear of him at West- chester ; And of the captain, tell him, at Yar- mouth, or Some good port-town else, lying for a wind. Exit Parson. If you can get off the angry child now, sir Enter Kastril, dragging in his sister. Kas. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd most sweetly, ha' you not? Did not I say, I would never ha' you tupt But by a dubb'd boy,^" to make you a lady-tom ? 'Slight, you are a mammet!®^ 0, I could touse you now. Death, mun ^- you mari-y with a pox ! Love. You lie, boy; As somid as you ; and I 'm af oi'ehand with you. Kas. Anon ! Love. Come, will you quan-el"? I will feeze ®^ you, sirrah ; Why do you not buckle to your tools? Kas. God's light. This is a fine old boy as e'er I saw ! Love. What, do you change your copy now ? Proceed ; Here stands my dove : stoop ^* at her if you dare. Kas. 'Slight, I must love him ! I cannot choose, i' faith, An I should be hang-'d for 't ! Suster, I protest, I honor thee for this match. Love. 0, do you so, sir? Kas. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and di'ink, old boy, I '11 give her five hundred pound more to her marriage. Than her own state. Love. Fill a pipe full, Jeremy. Face. Yes; but go in and take it, sir. Love. We will. I will be rul'd by thee in anything, Jeremy. Kas. 'Slight, thou art not hide-bound, thou art a jovy ^^ boy! Come, let us in, I pray thee, and take our whiffs. Love. Whiff in with your sister, brother boy. Exeunt Kas. and Dame Pliant. That master That hath receiv'd such happiness by a servant, In si;cli a widow, and with so much wealth, Were very ungrateful, if he would not be A little induls'ent to that servant's wit. 78 sealed as God's people. 79 a German reli- gious fanatic, who founded a sect called "The Fam- ily of Love." 80 knight. 81 puppet. 82 must. 83 settle your busi- ness. 84 swoop, like a hawk on its prey. 85 jovial. THE ALCHEMIST 291 And help his fortune, though with some small strain Of his own candor.^*^ {Advancing.) Therefore, gentlemen. And kind spectators, if I have outstrijot An old man's gravity, or strict canon, think What a young wife and a good brain may do; Stretch age's truth sometimes, and crack it too. Speak for thyself, knave. Face. So I will, sir. {Advancing to the front of the stage.) Gentlemen, My part a little fell in this last scene. Yet 't was decorum." And though I am clean Got off from Subtle, Surly, Mammon, Dol, Hot Ananias, Dapper, Drugger, all With whom I traded; yet I put myself On you, that are my country : ^^ and this pelf Which I have got, if you do quit me, rests. To feast you often, and invite new guests. Exeunt. 87 dramatic proprietj'. 88 jury. JOHN WEBSTER THE DUCHESS OF MALFI Of the life of John Webster ( 1580T-1625?) , probably the son of a London tailor, almost nothing is known. He began writing for the stage as early as 1602, at tirst as a collabo- rator, more especially with Dekker, who strongly influenced his dramatic beginnings. Plays known to be by him alone number only four, all dating between 1607 and 1619. Writing slowly and carefully, compared with his contemporaries he apparently lacked pro- ductiveness and therefore prominence, but was thought highly of by good judges. Webster's reputation depends mainly on The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona (1607-12) and The Duchess of Malfi (1609- 14), both romantic tragedies, the kind of play which most people are apt to think of, per- haps, as most typical of the Elizabethan drama, because the most intense of its plays are of this class. In the last hundred years and more they have been the chief models for writers of poetic drama (as in Shelley's Cenci). Both of Webster's plays mentioned belong to a subdivision of the type, the tragedy of blood. The most celebrated and influential early example is Thomas Kyd's Spanish Tragedy (1585-7) and the great- est is Shakespeare's Hamlet (1600-1604?), though its original elements are so reflned and ennobled as to gain a new character. The tragedy of blood abounds in crime, vio- lence, madness, and bloodshed; ghosts glide through its scenes, much is made of physical horror, revenge is a frequent motive of its personages. Its obvious appeal was some- what crude and popular ; but the great strength of the Elizabethan drama was that while its roots ran deep into popular belief, taste and life, it was formed by the great geniuses of the age. A particular develop- ment of the tragedy of blood is seen in these two plays of Webster and some others. Here the horror is both intensified and refined ; mere bloodshed is not enough, other and more elaborate physical horrors are added, and especially mental and moral horrors, in- human wickedness, long-drawn and ingenious agonies, the subleties of the sinner's inmost thought. The intensity is heightened by a more realistic setting; the ghosts are some- times absent, as in The Dtichess of Malfi, and we find ourselves in an almost contemporary age, often in Italy — which was regarded by the English, who had heard lurid tales of its corruption and had misunderstood Machi 292 avelli, as the home of dire and subtle evil. In The Duchess of Malfi there is no lack of murder and sudden death. All the chief characters die violently, four men, three women, two children. As often in Elizabethan tragedy, the play is closed by a groujj of lofty personages, unimportant for the play, with solemn and regretful comments on the gen- eral ruin. Strange and elaborate are the vehicles of dread and torment — the dancing and singing of lunatics, the feigned corpses of her husband and children which wring the Duchess' soul, the cold dead hand grasped in the dark, the coffin and bell, the dolorous echo, the poisoned book which slays by a kiss. The struggling and screaming of Cariola at her death not only serve as a foil to the Duchess' composure, but bring a new shock. The moral horror is not in the mere wicked- ness, common enough in all tragedy. Bosola is not a highly impressive villain, but an in- different counterpart to lago, with his pre- tense of frank honesty and success at dis- simulation; with also, it is true, some indi- vidual traits, melancholy, railing and a medi- tative and scholarly turn. He has a con- science and a heart at bottom; he serves as a contrast to the more depraved brothers, and rebels against them; the gods are just, and of their own creature make an instrument to destroy them. Their motives are revenge and covetousness ; botli brothers resent the sup- posed dishonor brought by the Duchess on their royal blood, and Ferdinand hoped Had she continued widow, to have gained An infinite mass of treasure by her death (IV. ii; cf. I. i). But their wickedness is so out of proportion to any advantage which it might produce that we feel it is the very air in which they live. We see it in the cold calculation with which they have planned all the accompaniments of "their sister's murder. Ferdinand is the weaker and less abnormal of the two. Violent and impulsive as he is, when he sees his sister lying dead his shell of callousness is finally broken by resurgent family feeling and remembrances of their youth, and re- morse invades his reason. As to the Car- dinal, he is more discerning, abler, firmer than his brother, and it is he who claims re- sponsibility for the strangling of the Ducliess and her children. His frigid calm can be dis- turbed only by the fear of political dis- grace, and by the briei moment when he per- JOHN WEBSTER 293 mits himself to peer into the gulf of eternity which lies before him. One of the most ab- horrent passages in Elizabethan tragedy is at the beginning of the final scene, where the Cardinal shudders over one of his theological books describing the fire of hell. He is a devil who half-believes and trembles. He re- calls the political cardinal of two or three centuries earlier who is reported to have said that if he had a soul he had lost it for the Ghibellines. Like Shakespeare, Webster is not borne down bj' the distressing, the negative, the de- structive; he is strong enough to battle his way above them. We do not almost forget them, as in Hamlet — he has taken good care that we should not. But we concern our- selves more with the normal and benign per- sonages who are finally engulfed in the murky, tempestuous ending. As usual with Webster, the most interesting person is a woman ; in- deed, for Julia too, as for Vittoria Corom- bona, he shows sympathy — for a bad woman who has heroic traits, a type always popular on the stage. The Duchess we fancy in the full ripeness of womanhood (though possibly meant to be younger ) , between youth and middle age, woman rather than sovereign, but both. Nothing covild be more perfect than the scene where she reveals to Antonio her resolve to marry him ; here is all the charm we feel when circumstances make it proper and necessary for a woman to do the woo- ing; the Duchess is mature enough to do it withovit embarrassment, but with the beam- ing eyes and roguish humor she always shows in talking with Antonio, as in the wonderfully human and dramatic scene (III. ii) where Ferdinand siirprises them to- gether. Yet she is almost more mother than wife, the sort of woman, the hope of the human race, who takes a husband to be the father of her children. Almost her last words are a domestic order (for a syrup for her boy's cold), which the situation raises to the highest poetry, but which turns to pain- ful irony when we see the children strangled instantly after her. Antonio, though less fascinating and lifelike, is more elaborately studied than she, doubtless in order to rec- oncile an aristocratic age to seeing a sov- ereign marry beneath her ; a soldier, diplo- mat, statesman, penetrating and with a re- markable knowledge of human nature, yet modest, honest, charitable, praised even by Bosola, and with a touch of modern-seeming cultivation in his love of ruins and history. He lacks interest a little through being pas- sive and acted on throughout, for his status, in the drama as in his life, is that of a prince consort. Another curious modern trait is in both, a certain emancipation and liberalism as to religion, partly a reflection of the usual English prejudice against popery. The Duchess rebukes her woman as " a superstitious fool " because she objects to feigning a pilgrimage, and it is doubtless not only the unconsciously ironical Cardinal who would say that Antonio did " account religion but a school-name " ( V. ii, and cf. 111. iii). Both seem satisfied, as in the original source of the play, with a marriage certainly informal and barely legal. Julia too in her noble dying words "goes she knows not whither." A certain skepticism seems to have excited Webster's sympathy. In truly Elizabethan manner, the construc- tion and style of the play are ample and broad, not compact and minutely careful, like the work of such a man as Jonson. The verse is lax and irregular, sometimes unpar- donably so, approaching mere rhythmical prose, as in some of the latest of the drama- tists. Slurred and tumbling syllables often give a dramatic, easy, natural effect; but Webster's lines are sometimes difficult to read in any way which leaves the metrical norm still recognizable. In structure and incident he is at times a trifle careless. An- tonio draws up an unnatural and dangerous memorandum for his son's horoscope, and drops it inditTerently just when he' should have been most careful; and at the end of the play this child who had been condemned by the stars to an early death is the only one of his family who survives! The play takes a sudden emotional turn toward the middle. The cloud in the sunny sky which beams over the first part is no bigger than a man's hand. The storm rolls up with speed, and nothing breaks the gloom of the last part. Webster daringly allows the interest to drop after the death of the Duchess, but towards the mid- dle of the last act it revives, with new uncer- tainties and with the ingenious and appalling disasters which crush the sinners. The source of the play is the story of the Duchess of Amalfi, perhaps partly historical, which forms the twenty-third novel in the second volume of Painter's Palace of Pleas- ure (1567), and which came through the French of Belle-Forest from the Novelle of Bandello. Painter's interest, like that of all contemporary novelists, is in sensational events, in rhetorical talk, and in drawing forced moral lessons; he censures the Duchess for her uncontrolled desire for marriage, and Antonio for his ambitious folly in marrying above him. Tlie characterization is ex- tremely simple and obvious; Bosola is in- conspicuous, and Julia not present at all, nor most of the matter of Webster's fifth act. A near kinship between Webster and Shakespeare has long been felt by both readers and spectators (the play was acted long and successfully, even as lately as 1851, with overwhelming effect, it is said). There are signs of Shakespeare's influence on it, as of the death of Desdemona in that of the Duchess: if a strangled person revived, as they both do, well enough to be able to speak, there is no reason why she should not re- cover. But it is doubtful whether Webster should be called a pupil of Shakespeare; if so 294 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD he was not ready to admit it, for in the pref- ace to The White Devil, after analyzing the merits of Chapman, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, he dismisses Shakespeare, Dekker, and Heywood in one breath. He approaches Shakespeare on only one of his many dram- atic sides, in his deeply human tragedy. His two best plays put us more nearly in the frame of mind produced by Hamlet, Lear, and Othello than those of any other Eliza- bethan dramatist. The two men are alike in giving us more than we have any right to demand in a play. Without enlarging on ab- stract subjects, without mere talk, they give us glimpses into deep musings over human nature, life, and destiny. Both had wide in- tellectual interests. Both, in their greatest plays, though not ]:)essimists, are somber. Their people are more than carefully drawn and individual pictures; they have the con- trasting sides and the suggestions of strange possibilities, of the hidden and unknown, which we feel in the rare individual in real life. They give us the utterly unexpected, which we instantly accept. Webster knows what strangely commonplace, what terse and significant things, people will say at supreme moments, as in the staccato dialogue between Ferdinand and Bosola after the Duchess' murder (IV. ii). He makes us feel the mo- ment of tense silence which divides the chat- ter of affectionate intimacy from the queenly acceptance of doom : I '11 assure you, You shall get no more children till my brothers Consent to be your gossips. — Have you lost your tongue I 'T is welcome : For know, whether I am doomed to live or die, I can do both like a prince. W'e are aware, in both poets, of mental power and acuteness combined with warmth of heart and a living soul. In Swinburne's words, there is no poet morally nobler than Webster. Such likeness was not due to study, it was innate. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI By JOHN WEBSTER NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS Ferdinand, Duke of Calahria. Cardinal, his brother. Antonio Bologna, Steicard of the House- hold to the Duchess. Delio, his friend. Daniel de Bosola, Gentleman of the Horse to the Duchess. Castruccio, an old lord. Marquis of Pescara. Count Maxateste. Roderigo, "j Silvio, i- Lords. Grisolan, J ACT I. Scene 1. Amalfi. The presence-chamber in the Duchess's palace. Enter Antonio and Delio. Del. You are welcome to your country, dear Antonio ; You have been long in France, and you return A very formal Frenchman in your habit. How do you like the French court? Ant. I admire it. In seeking to reduce both state and peo- ple To a tix'd order, their judicious king Begins at home; quits first his royal pal- ace Doctor. Several Madmen. Duchess of Malfi. Cariola, her uoman. JUT.IA, vnfe to Castruccio, and mistress to the Cardinal. Old Lady. Ladies, three young children, two pilgrims, executioners, court officers, and attendants. Scene. — Amalfi, Rome, Loretto, Milan. Of flatt'ring sycophants, of dissolute And infamous persons, — which he sweetly terms His master's master-piece, the work of heaven ; Considering duly that a prince's court Is like a common fountain, whence should flow Pure silver drops in general, but if 't chance Some curs'd example poison 't near the head. Death and diseases through the whole land spread. And what is 't makes this blessed govern- ment But a most provident council, who dare freely THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 295 Inform him the eoriiiption of the times'? Though some o' th' court hold it pre- sumption To instruct princes what they ought to do, It is a noble duty to inform them What they ought to foresee.^ — Here comes Bosola, The only court-gall; yet I observe his railing Is not for simple love of piety : Indeed, he rails at those things which he wants ; Would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud. Bloody, or envious, as any man, If he had means to be so. — Here 's the cardinal. Enter Cardinal and Bosola. Bos. I do haunt you still. Card. So. Bos. I have done you better service than to be slighted thus. IVIiserable age, where only the reward of doing well is the doing of it ! Card. You enforce your merit too much. Bos. I fell into the galleys in your serv- ice; where, for two years together, I wore two towels instead of a shirt, with a knot on the shoulder, after the fashion of a Roman mantle. Slighted thus ! I will thrive some way. Blackbirds fatten best in hard weather; why not I in these dog days^ Card. Would you cov;ld become honest ! Bos. With all your divinity do but direct me the way to it. I have known many travel far for it, and yet return as arrant knaves as they went forth, because they carried themselves always along with them. {Exit Cardinal.) Are you gone? Some fellows, they say, are possessed with the devil, but this great fellow were able to possess the greatest devil, and make him worse. Ant. He hath denied thee some suif? Bos. He and his brother are like plum- trees that grow crooked over standing - pools ; they are rich and o'erladen with fruit, but none but crows, pies,^ and caterpillars feed on them. Could I be one of their flatt'ring panders, I would hang on their ears like a horse-leech till I were full, and then drop off. I pray, leave me. Who would rely upon these miserable dependencies, in expectation to be advanc'd to-morrow? What crea- ture ever fed worse than hoping Tan- talus"? Nor ever died any man more fearfully than he that hop'd for a par- don. There are rewards for hawks and dogs when they have done us service ; but for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a battle, nothing but a kind of geometry is his last supportation. Delio. Geometry "? Bos. Aye, to hang in a fair pair of slings, take his latter swing in the world upon an honorable pair of crutches, from hos- pital to hospital. Fare ye well, sir : and yet do not j'ou scorn us ; for places in the court are but like beds in the hospital, where this man's head lies at that man's foot, and so lower and lower. Exit. Del. I knew this fellow seven years in the galleys For a notorious murder; and 'twas thought The eai'dinal suborn'd it : he was releas'd By the French general, Gaston de Foix, When he recover'd Naples. Ant. 'T is great pity He should be thus neglected : I have heard He's very valiant. This foul melan- choly Will poison all his goodness ; for, I '11 tell you, If too immoderate sleep be truly said To be an inward rust unto the soul, It then doth folloAA^ want of action Breeds all black malcontents; and their close rearing, Like moths in cloth, do hurt for want of wearing. Scene 2. The same. Antonio, Delio. Enter Silvio, Castruccio, Julia, Roderigo, and Grisolan. Delio. The presence 'gins to fill: you promis'd me To make me the pai'taker of the natures Of some of your great courtiers. Ant. The lord cardinal's And other strangers' that are now in court ? I shall. — Here comes the great Calabrian duke. Enter Ferdinand and Attendants. Ferd. Who took the ring of t'nest ? * 1 provide against. 2 stagnant. 3 magpies. 4 A sport in which a horseman tried to carry off on the point of his spear an iron ring* hanging from the cross-piece of a post. 296 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Sil. Antonio Bologna, my lord. Ferd. Our sister duchess' great master of her household? Give him the jewel. — When shall we leave this sportive action, and fall to action indeed? Cast. Methinks, my lord, you should not desire to go to war in person. Ferd. Now for some gravity. — Why, my lord? Cast. It is fitting a soldier arise to be a prince, but not necessaiy a prince de- scend to be a captain. Ferd. No? Cast. No, my lord; he were far better do it by a deputy. Ferd. Why should he not as well sleep or eat by a deputy? This might take idle, offensive, and base office from him, whereas the other deprives him of honor. Cast. Believe my experience, that realm is never long in quiet w^here the ruler is a soldier. Ferd. Thou told'st me thy wife could not endure fighting. Cast. True, my lord. Ferd. And of a jest she broke of ^ a cap- tain she met full of wounds : I have for- got it. Cast. She told him, my lord, he was a piti- ful fellow, to lie,^ like the children of Ishmael, all in tentsJ Ferd. Why, there 's a wit were able to undo all the chirurgeons ^ o' the city ; for although gallants should quarrel, and had drawn their weapons, and were ready to go to it, yet her persuasions would make them put up. Cast. That she would, my lord. — How do you like my Spanish gennet? ^ Rod. He is all fire. Ferd. I am of Pliny's opinion, I think he was begot by the wind ; he runs as if he were ballas'd ^° with quicksilver. Sil. True, my lord, he reels from the tilt often. Rod. Oris. Ha, ha, ha! Ferd. Why do you laugh? Methinks you that are courtiers should be my touch- wood, take fire when I give fire; that is, laugh when I laugh, were the subject never so witty. Cast. True, my lord : I myself have heard a veiy good jest, and have seorn'd to seem to have so silly a wit as to under- stand it. Ferd. But I can laugh at your fool, my lord. Cast. He cannot speak, you know, but he makes faces; my lady cannot abide him. Ferd. No? Cast. Nor endure to be in merry com- pany; for she says too full laughing, and too much company, fills her too full of the wrinkle. Ferd. I would, then, have a mathematical instrument made for her face, that she might not laugh out of comi^ass. — I shall shortly visit you at Milan, Lord Silvio. Sil. Your grace shall arrive most wel- come. Ferd. You are a good horseman, Antonio : you have excellent riders in France ; what do you think of good horsemanship? Ant. Nobly, my lord : as out of the Gre- » cian horse issued many famous princes, so out of brave horsemanship arise the first sparks of growing resolution, that raise the mind to noble action. Ferd. You have bespoke it worthily. Sil. Your brother, the lord cardinal, and sister duchess. Enter Cardinal, Duchess, and Cariola. Card. Are the galleys come about? Oris. They are, my lord. Ferd. Here 's the Lord Silvio is come to take his leave. Delio. Now, sir, your promise : what 's that cardinal? I mean his temper. They say he 's a brave fellow, Will play his five thousand ci'owns at tennis, dance. Court ladies, and one that hath fought single combats. Ant. Some such flashes superficially hang on him for form ; but observe his inward character: he is a melancholy church- man. The spring in his face is nothing but the engend'ring of toads; where he is jealous of any man, he lays worse plots for them than ever was impos'd on Hercules, for he strews in his way flat- terers, panders, intelligencers, atheists, and a thousand such political ^^ monsters. He should have been Pope; but instead of coming to it by the primitive decency of the church, he did bestow bribes so largely and so impudently as if he would have carried it away without heaven's knowledge. Some good he hath done— — Belio. You have given too much of him. What's his brother? Ant. The duke there? A most perverse and turbulent nature. 5 at the expense of. e lodge. 7 rolls of lint used for bandages. 8 surgeons. 9 a small horse. 10 ballasted. 11 intriguing. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 297 What appears in bim mirth is merely out- side; If he laug'ht heartily, it is to laugh All houestj^ out of fashion. Delio. Twins? Ant. In qualitj^ He speaks with others' tongues, and hears men's suits With others' ears; will seem to sleep o' th' bench Only to entrap offenders in their an- swers ; Dooms men to death by information; Rewards by hearsay. Delio. Then the law to him Is like a foul, black cobweb to a spider, — He makes it his dwelling and a prison To entangle those shall feed him. Ant. Most true : He never pays debts unless they be shrewd turns. And those he will confess that he doth owe. Last, for his brother there, the cardinal. They that do flatter him most say ora- cles Hang at his lips; and verily I believe them. For the devil speaks in them. But for their sistei', the right noble duchess. You never fix'd your eye on three fair medals Cast in one fig'ure, of so different temper. For her discourse, it is so full of rapture, You only will begin then to be sorry When she doth end her speech, and wish, in wonder. She held it less vain-glory to talk much, Than your penance to hear her. W^hilst she speaks. She throws upon a man so sweet a look That it were able to raise one to a gal- liard ^^ That lay in a dead palsy, and to dote On that sweet countenance ; but in that look There speaketh so divine a continence As cuts off all lascivious and vain hope. Her days are practis'd in such noble vir- tue. That sure her nights, nay, more, her very sleeps, Are more in heaven than other ladies' shrifts. Let all sweet ladies break their flatt'ring glasses. And dress themselves in her. 12 a lively dance. 13 throws into the shade. 14 about to part. Delio. Fie, Antonio, You play the wire-drawer with her com- mendations. Ant. I '11 case the picture up ; only thus much : All her particular worth grows to this sum, — She stains ^^ the time past, lights the time to come. Cari. You must attend my lady in the gal- lery, Some half an hour hence. Ant. I shall. Exeunt Antonio and Delio. Ferd. Sister, I have a suit to you. Duch. To me, sir? Ferd. A gentleman here, Daniel de Bosola, One that was in the galleys Duch. Yes, I know him. Ferd. A worth};- fellow he 's : pray, let me entreat for The provisorship of your horse. Duch. Your knowledge of him Commends him and prefers him. Ferd. Call him hither. Exeunt Attendants. We [are] now upon parting. '^^ Good Lord Silvio, Do us commend to all our noble friends At the leag-uer.^^ Sil. Sir, I shall. Duch. You are for Milan ? Sil. I am. Duch. Bring the caroches.^^ — We '11 bring you down To the haven. Exeunt all hut Cardinal and Ferdinand. Card. Be sure you entertain that Bosola For your intelligence.^''^ I would not be seen in 't ; And therefore many times I have slighted him Wlien he did court our furtherance, as this morning. Ferd. Antonio, the great master of her household. Had been far fitter. Card. You are deceiv'd in him. His nature is too honest for such busi- ness. — He comes : I '11 leave you. Exit. Re-enter Bosola. Bos. I was lur'd to you. Ferd. My brother, here, the cardinal could never Abide you. 15 camp. 16 coaches. 17 to give you a spy's information. 298 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Bos. Never since he was in my debt. Ferd. May be some oblique character in your face Made him suspect you. Bos. Doth he study physiognomy? There 's no more credit to be given to th' face Than to a sick man's urine, which some call The physician's whore, because she cozens ^^ him. He did suspect me wrongfully. Ferd. For that You must give great men leave to take their times. . Distrust doth cause us seldom be de- ceiv'd. You see the oft shaking of the cedar- tree Fastens it more at root. Bos. Yet take heed; For to suspect a friend unworthily Instructs him the next way to suspect you, And prompts him to deceive you. Ferd. There's gold. Bos. So : What follows? — (Aside.) Never rain'd such showers as these Without thunderbolts i' th' tail of them. — Wn.iose thi^oat must I cut? Ferd. Your inclination to shed blood rides post ^^ Before my occasion to use you. I give you that To live i' th' court here, and observe the duchess ; To note all the particulars of her be- havior, What suitors do solicit her for marriage, And whom she best affects.-" She 's a young widow: I would not have her many again. Bos. No, sir? Ferd. Do not you ask the reason ; but be satisfied. I say I would not. Bos. It seems you would create me One of your familiars. Ferd. ' Familiar! What's that? Bos. Why, a very quaint invisible devil in flesii,— An intelligencer.^^ Ferd. Such a kind of thriving thing I would wish thee; and ere long thou mayst arrive At a higher place by 't. Bos. Take your devils. Which hell calls angels ! -- These curs'd gifts would make You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor; And should I take these, they 'd take me [to] hell. Ferd. Sir, I '11 take nothing from you that I have given. There is a place that I i^rocur'd for you This morning, the provisorship o' th' horse ; Have you heard on 't ? Bos. No. Ferd. 'T is yours: is 't not worth thanks? Bos. I would have you curse yourself now, that your bounty (Which makes men truly noble) e'er should make me A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingi'atitude For the good deed you have done me, I must do All the ill man can invent ! Thus the devil Candies all sins o'er: and what heaven terms vile. That names he complimental. Ferd. Be yourself; Keep your old garb of melancholy ; 't will express You envy those that stand above your reach. Yet strive not to come near 'em. This Avill gain Access to private lodgings, where your- self May, like a politic dormouse Bos. As I have seen some Feed in a lord's dish, half asleep, not seeming To listen to any talk; and yet these rogues Have cut his throat in a dream. What 's my place? The provisorship o' th' horse? Say, then, my corruption Grew out of horse-dung: I am your crea- ture. Ferd. Away ! Exit. Bos. Let good men, for good deeds, covet good fame, Since place and riches oft are bribes of shame. Sometimes the devil doth preach. Exit. Scene 3. AmoWi. Galleri/ in the Duch- ess's palace. Enter Ferdinand. Dvchess, Cardinal, and Cariola. 18 cheats. 10 runs ahead of. 20 likes. 21 spy. 22 gold coins worth ten shillings. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 299 Card. We are to part from you; -and your own discretion Must now be your director. Ferd. You are a widow : You know already what man is; and therefore Let not youth, high promotion, elo- quence Card. No, Nor anything without the addition, honor. Sway your high blood. Ferd. Marry! They are most luxuri- ous ^^ Will wed twice. Card. 0, fie! Ferd. Their livers are more spotted Than Laban's sheep.-* Duch. Diamonds are of most value, They say, that have past through most jewelers' hands. Ferd. Whores by that rule are precious. Duch. Will you hear me*? I '11 never many. Card. So most widows say; But commonly that motion ^^ lasts no longer Than the turning of an hour-glass : the funeral sermon And it end both together. Ferd. Now hear me : You live in a rank pasture, here, i' th' court ; There is a kind of honey-dew that 's deadly; 'T will poison your fame ; look to 't. Be not cunning; For they whose faces do belie their hearts Are witches ere they arrive at twenty years. Aye, and give the devil suck. Duch. This is terrible good counsel. Ferd. Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small thi-ead. Subtler than Vulcan's engine : "^ yet, be- lieve 't, Your darkest actions, nay, your privat'st thoughts. Will come to light. Card. You may flatter yourself, And take your own choice ; privately be married Under the eaves of night Ferd. Think 't the best voyage That e'er you made; like the irregular crab. Which, though 't goes backward, thinks that it goes right Because it goes its own way : but observe, Such weddings may more properly be said To be executed than celebrated. Card. The marriage night Is the entrance into some prison. Ferd. And those joys, Those lustful pleasures, are like heavy sleeps Which do fore-run man's mischief. Card. Fare you well. Wisdom begins at the end : remember it. Exit. Duch. I think this speech between you both was studied, It came so roundly off. Ferd. You are my sister; This was my father's poniard, do you see? I 'd be loth to see 't look rusty, 'cause 't was his. I would have you give o'er these charge- able - '' revels : A visor and a mask are whispering- rooms That were ne'er built for goodness, — fare ye well — And women like that part which, like the lamprey, Hath ne'er a bone in 't. Duch. Fie, sir! Ferd. Nay, I mean the tongue; variety of courtship. What cannot a neat knave with a smooth tale Make a woman believe? Farewell, lusty widow. Exit. Duch. Shall this move me? If all my royal kindred Lay in my way unto this marriage, I 'd make them my low footsteps. And even now, Even in this hate, as men in some great battles, By apprehending danger, have achiev'd Almost impossible actions (I have heard soldiers say so), So I through frights and threat'nings will assay This dangerous venture. Let old wives report I wink'd -^ and chose a husband. — Cari- ola, To thy known secrecy I have given up 23 lustful. 25 resolve. 24 Genesis xxx. 31—42. 26 the net in which he caught Venus and Mars. 27 costly. 28 shut my eyes. 300 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD More thau my life, — my fame. Cari. Both shall be safe; For I'll conceal this secret from the world As warily as those that trade in poison Keep poison from their children. Duch. Thy protestation Is ingenious and hearty ; I believe it. Is Antonio come? Cari. He attends you. Duch. Good dear soul, Leave me; but place thyself behind the arras, "Where thou may'st overhear us. Wish me good speed ; For I am going into a wilderness. Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue To be my guide. Cariola goes heJiind the arras. Enter Antonio. I sent for you: sit down; Take pen and ink, and write: are you ready? Ant. Yes. Duch. What did I say? Ant. That I should write somewhat. Duch. 0, I remember. After these triumphs and this large ex- pense It's fit, like thrifty husbands,"^ we in- quire What 's laid up for to-morrow. Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. • Duch. Beauteous ! Indeed, I thank you. I look young for your sake; You have ta'en my cares upon you. A nt. I '11 fetch your grace The particulars of your revenue and ex- pense. Duch. 0, you are An upright treasurer, but you mistook; For when I said I meant to make inquiry What's laid vip for to-morrow, I did mean Wliat 's laid up yonder for me. Ant. Where? Duch. In heaven. I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes should, In perfect memory), and, I pray, sir, tell me, Were not one better make it smiling, thus. Than in deep groans and ternble ghastly looks, As if the gifts we parted with proeur'd ^^ That violent distraction? Ant. 0, much better. Duch. If I had a husband now, this care v^ere quit : But I intend to make you overseer. What good deed shall we first remember? Say. Ant. Begin with that first good deed be- gan i' th' world After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage. I 'd have you first provide for a good husband; Give him all. Duch. Ant. Duch Ant. Duch All! Yes, your excellent self. In a winding sheet? In a couple.^"^ Saint Winifred, that were a strange will! Ant. 'T were stranger if there were no will in you To marry again. Duch. What do you thmk of marriage? Ant. I take't, as those that deny purga- tory. It locally contains or heaven or hell ; There 's no third place in 't. Duch. How do you affect it ? Ant. My banishment, feeding my melan- choly, Would often reason thus: — Duch. Pi'ay, let's bear it. Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children. What takes that from him? Only the bare name Of being a father, or the weak delight To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse Upon a painted stick, or hear him chat- ter Like a taught starling. Duch. " Fie,^fie, what 's all this? One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to 't. They say 't is very sovereign. 'T was my wedding-ring, And I did vow never to part with it But to my second husband. Ant. You have parted with it now. Duch. Yes. to help your eye-sight. Ant. You have made me stark blind. Duch. How? Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil Is dancing in this circle. Duch. Ant. Remove him. How? 20 housekeepers. 30 produced. 31 in marriage. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 301 Dueh. There needs small conjuratiou, when your finger May do it : thus. Is it fit? (SJie puts the ring upon his finger: he kneels.) Ant. What said you? Duch. Sir, This goodly roof of yours is too low built ; I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse. Without I raise it higher. Raise your- self; Or, if you please, my hand to help you : so. (Raises him.) Ant. Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness, That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms, But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt With the wild noise of prattling visitants. Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure. Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim ^- Whereto your favors tend : but he 's a fool ■ That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands i' th' fire To warm them. Duch. So, now the ground 's broke, You may discover what a wealthy mine I make you lord of. Ant. my unworthiness ! Duch. You were ill to sell yourself : ^^ This dark'ning of your worth is not like that Which tradesmen use i' th' city; their false lights ^* Are to rid bad wares off : and I must tell you, If you will know where breathes a com- plete man (I speak it without flattery), turn your eyes, And progress through yourself. Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, I should be honest: I have long serv'd virtue, And ne'er ta'en wages of her. Duch. Now she pays it. The misery of us that are bom great ! We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us; And as a tyrant doubles with his words And fearfully equivocates, so we Are forc'd to express our violent pas- sions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom: I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble : Make not your heart so 'dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confident. What is 't distracts you ? This is flesh and blood, sir; 'T is not the figure cut in alabaster Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man ! I do here put off all vain ceremony, And only do appear to you a young widow That claims you for her husband, and, like a widow, I use but half a blush in 't. Ant. Truth speak for me; I will remain the constant sanctuary Of your good name. Duch. I thank you, gentle love : And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt, Being now my steward, here upon your lips I sign your Quietus est.^^ This you should have begg'd now. I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus, As fearful to devour them too soon. Ant. But for your brothers'? Duch. Do not think of them : All discord without this circumference Is only to be pitied, and not feai-'d: Yet, should they know it, time will easily Scatter the tempest. Ant. These words should be mine, And all the parts you have spoken, if some part of it Would not have savoi*'d flattery. Duch. Kneel. (Cariola comes from behind the arras.) Ant. Ha ! Duch. Be not amaz'd : this woman 's of my counsel. I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber Per verba presenti ^^ is absolute marriage. Bless, heaven, this sacred gordian,^^ which let violence Never untwine. 32 guess. 34 the darkening of 35 The phrase used 33 you would be a poor their shops. to indicate settle- salesman of yourself. ment of an ac- 36 in the hearing of count. a third person. 37 knot. 302 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres, Be still in motion ! Duch. Quiek'ning, and make The like soft music ! Ant. That we may imitate the loving palms. Best emblem of a peaceful marriage, That ne'er bore fruit, divided ! Duch. What can the church force more'? Ant. That fortune may not know an acci- dent, Either of joy or sorrow, to divide Our fixed wishes ! Duch. How can the church build faster? 38 We now are man and wife, and 't is the church That must but echo this. — Maid, stand apart : I now am blind. Ant. What's your conceit in this"? Duch. I would have you lead your fortune by the hand Unto your maniage-bed : (You speak in me this, for we now are one. ) We '11 only lie and talk together, and plot T' appease my humorous ^° kindred ; and if you please. Like the old tale in Alexander and Lodo- wiek,*'^ Lay a naked sword between us, keep us chaste. 0, let me shroud my blushes in your bosom. Since 't is the treasury of all my secrets ! Exeunt Duchess and Antonio. Cari. Wliether the spirit of greatness or of woman Reign most in her, shows A fearful madness. pity. I know not; but it I owe her much of Exit. ACT IL Scene 1. Amalfi. An apartment in the palace of the Duchess. Enter Bosola and Castruccio. Bos. You say you would fain be taken for an eminent courtier*? Cast. 'T is the very main *^ of my ambi- tion. Bos. Let me see: you have a reasonable good face for 't already, and your night- cap expresses your ears sutficient largely. I would have you learn to twiil the strings of your band with a good grace, and in a set speech, at th' end of every sentence, to hum three or four times, or blow your nose till it smart again, to re- cover your memory. When you come to be a president in criminal causes, if you smile upon a prisoner, hang him ; but if you frown upon him and threaten him, let him be sure to scape the gallows. Cast. I would be a very meny president. Bos. Do not sup o' nights; 'twill beget you an admirable wit. Cast. Rather it would make me have a good stomach to quarrel; for they say, your roaring boys *' eat meat seldom, and that makes them so valiant. But how shall I know whether the people take me for an eminent fellow? Bos. I will teach a ti'ick to know it : give out you lie a-dying, and if you hear the common people curse you, be sure you are taken for one of the prime night- caps. Enter an Old Lady. You come from painting now. Old Lady. From what? Bos. Why, from your scurvy face-physic. To behold thee not painted inclines some- what near a miracle. These in thy face here were deep ruts and foul sloughs the last progress. *3 There was a lady in France that, having had the small-pox, flayed the skin off her face to make it more level ; and whereas before she looked like a nutmeg grater, after she resembled an abortive hedge-hog. Old Lady. Do you call this painting? Bos. No, no, but you call [it] careening** of an old morphew'd *^ lady, to make her disembogue ''^ again : there 's rough-cast phrase to your plastie.*'^ Old Lady. - It seems you ai^e well ac- quainted with my closet. Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of witchcraft, to find in it the fat of ser- pents, spawn of snakes, Jews' spittle, and their young children's ordure; and all these for the face. I would sooner eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of the feet of one sick of the plague,*^ than kiss one of you fasting. Here are two 38 more firmly. 39 captions. 40 A sixteenth cen- tury ballad ; a play so entitled. dealing with the same story, is mentioned in Henslowe's Diart/ as acted in 1597. 41 chief part. 4 2 bullies. 43 royal iourney. 44 turnins; over. 45 scabbed. 46 di.scharfre. 47 there's apppropri- ately rough lan- guage for your face modelling. 48 a prescription actually used at the time. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 303 of you, whose sin of your youth is the very patrimony of the physician; makes him renew his foot-cloth with the spring, and change his liigh-pric'd courtesan with the fall of the leaf. I do wonder you do not loathe yourselves. Observe my medi- tation now. What thing is in this outward form of man To be belov'd? We account it ominous, If nature do produce a colt, or Iamb, A fawn, or goat, in any limb resembling A man, and fly from 't as a prodigy. Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity In any other creature but himself. But in our own flesh though we bear dis- eases Which have their true names only ta'en from beasts, — As the most ulcerous wolf *^ and swinish measle,^° — Though we are eaten up of lice and worms. And though f'ontinually we bear about us A rotten and dead body, we delight To hide it in rich tissue : all our fear, Nay, all our terror, is, lest our physician Should put us in the ground to be made sweet. — Your wife 's gone to Rome : you two couple, and get you to the wells at Lucca to recover your aches. I have other work on foot. Exeunt Castruecio and Old Lady. I observe our duchess Is sick a-days, she pukes, her stomach seethes. The fins of her eye-lids look most teem- ing blue,^^ She wanes i' th' cheek, and waxes fat i' th' flank. And, contrary to our Italian fashion. Wears a loose-bodied gown : there 's somewhat in 't. I have a trick may discover it, A pretty one ; I have bought some apri- cocks, The first our spring yields. Enter Antonio and Belio, talking together apart. Belio. And so long since married'? You amaze me. Ant. Let me seal your lips for ever : For, did I think that anything but th' air Could carry these words from you, I should wish You had no breath at all. — Now, sir, in your contemplation? You are studying to become a great wise fellow. Bos. O, sir, the opinion of wisdom is a foul tetter ^- that runs all over a man's body: if simplicity direct us to have no evil, it directs us to a happy being; for the subtlest folly proceeds from the sub- tlest wisdom. Let me be simply honest. Ant. I do understand your inside. Bos. Do you so"? Ant. Because you would not seem to ap- pear to th' world Puff'd up with your preferment, you con- tinue This out-of- fashion melancholy: leave it, leave it. Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any phrase, in any compliment whatsoever. Shall I confess myself to you? I look no higher than I can reach : they are the gods that must ride on winged horses. A law- yer's mule of a slow pace will both suit my disposition and business; for, mark me, when a man's mind rides faster than his horse can gallop, they quickly both tire. Ant. You would look up to heaven, but I think The devil, that rules i' th' air, stands in your light. Bos. 0, sir, you are lord of the ascend- ant,^^ chief man with the duchess : a duke was your eousin-german remov'd. Say you were lineally descended from King Pepin, or he himself, what of this? Search the heads of the greatest rivers in the world, you shall find them but bubbles of water. Some would think the souls of princes were brought forth by some more weighty cause than those of meaner per- sons : they are deceiv'd, there 's the same hand to them; the like passions sway them ; the same reason that makes a vicar go to law for a tithe-pig, and undo his neighbors, makes them spoil a whole province, and batter down goodly cities with the cannon. Enter Duchess and Ladies. Dicch. Your arm, Antonio : do I not grow fat? I am exceeding short-winded. — Bosola, I would have you, sir, provide for me a litter ; 49 lupus, ulcer. 50 an eruptive dis- ease of swine was called measles. 51 her eyelids look heavy and black as if she were pregnant. 52 scurf. 53 an astrological term for a posi- tion of tance. impor- 304 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Such a one as the Duchess of Florence rode in. Bos. The duchess us'd one when she was great with child. Duch. I think she did. — Come hither, mend my ruft": Here, when ? thou art such a tedious lady ; and Thy breath smells of lemon-pills: would thou hadst done ! Shall I swoon under thy fingers'? I am So troubled with the mother ! ^^ Bos. {Aside.) I fear, too much. Duch. I have heard you say that the French courtiers Wear their hats on 'fore the king. Ant. I have seen it. Duch. In the presence"? Ant. Yes. Duch. Why should not we bring up that fashion "? 'T is ceremony more than duty that con- sists In the removing of a piece of felt. Be you the example to the rest o' th' court ; Put on your hat first. Ant. You must pardon me : I have seen, in colder countries than in France, Nobles stand bare to th' prince; and the distinction Methought show'd reverently. Bos. I have a present for your gTaee. Duch. For me, sir"? Bos. Ajoricocks, madam. Duch. 0, sir, where are they? I have heard of none to-year.''^ Bos. {Aside.) Good; her color rises. Duch. Indeed, I thank you : they are won- drous fair ones. What an unskilful fellow is our gardener ! We shall have none this month. Bos. Will not your grace pare them? Duch. No : they taste of musk, methinks ; indeed they do. Bos. I know not : yet I wish your grace had par'd 'em. Duch. Why? Bos. I forgot to tell you, the knave gar- dener, Only to raise his profit by them the sooner, Did ripen them in horse-dung. Duch. P, you jest. — You shall judge : pray, taste one. Ant. Indeed, madam, I do not love the fruit. Duch. Sir, you are loth To rob us of our dainties. 'T is a delicate fruit ; They say they are restorative. Bos. 'T is a pretty art. This grafting. Duch. 'T is so ; a bett'ring of nature. Bos. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, A damson on a black-thorn. — {Aside.) How greedily she eats them ! A whirlwind strike off these bawd far- thingales ! For, but for that and the loose-bodied gown, I should have discover'd apparently ^® The young springal ^'' cutting a caper in her belly. Duch. I thank you, Bosola : they were right good ones, If they do not make me sick. Ant. How now, madam ! Duch. This green fruit and my stomach are not friends : How they swell me ! Bos. {Aside.) Nay, you are too much swell'd already. Duch. 0, I am in an extreme cold sweat ! Bos. I am very sorry. Exit. Duch. Lights to my chamber ! — good Antonio, I fear I am undone ! Delio. Lights there, lights ! Exeunt Duchess and Ladies. Ant. my most trusty Delio, we are lost ! I fear she's fall'n in labor; and there's left No time for her remove. Delio. Have you prepar'd Those ladies to attend her; and procur'd That politic safe conveyance for the mid- wife Your duchess plotted? Ant. I have. Delio. Make use, then, of this fore'd occa- sion. Give out that Bosola hath poison'd her With these apricocks ; that will give some color For her keeping close. Ant. Fie, fie, the physicians Will then flock to her. Delio. For that you may pretend She '11 use some prepar'd antidote of her own, Lest the physicians should re-poison her. Ant. I am lost in amazement : I know not what to think on 't. Exeunt. B4 hysteria. 55 this year. 56 clearly. 57 youngster. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 305 Scene 2. A hall in the palace. Enter Bosola and Old Lady. Bos. So, so, there 's no question but her teehuiess ^^ and most vulturous eatmg of the apricoeks are api^arent signs of breed- ing. — Kow? Old Lady. 1 am in haste, sir. Bos. There was a young waiting-woman had a monstrous desire to see the glass- house ^^ — Old Lady. Nay, pray, let me go. Bos. And it was only to know what strange instrument it was should swell up a glass to the fashion of a woman's belly. Old Lady. I will hear no more of the glass- house. You are still "^^ abusing women ! Bos. Who? If No; only, by the way now and then, mention your frailties. The orange-tree bears rij^e and green fruit and blossoms all together; and some of you give entertainment for pure love, but more for more precious reward. The lusty spring smells well; but drooping autumn tastes well. If we have the same golden showers that rained in the time of Jupiter the thunderer, you have the same Danaes still, to hold up their laps to re- ceive them. Didst thou never study the mathematics'? Old Lady. What's that, sir? Bos. Why, to know the trick how to make a many lines meet in one center. Go, go, give your foster-daughters good counsel : tell them, that the devil takes delight to hang at a woman's girdle, like a false rusty watch, that she cannot discern how the time passes. Exit Old Lady. Enter Antonio, Roderigo, and Grisolan. Ant. Shut up the court-gates. Rod. Why, sir? What 's the danger? Ant. Shut up the posterns presently,*'^ and call All the officers o' th' court. Oris. I shall instantly. Exit. Ant. Who keeps the key o' th' park-gate? Rod. Porobosco. Ant. Let him bring 't presently. Re-enter Grisolan and Servants. 1 Serv. 0, gentlemen o' th' court, the foulest treason ! Bos. (Aside.) If that these apricoeks should be poison'd now, Without my knowledge? 1 Serv. There was taken even now a Swit- zer in the duchess' bed-chamber — 2 Serv. A Switzer! 1 Serv. With a pistol in his great cod- jDiece. Bos. Ha, ha, ha ! 1 Serv. The codpiece was the case for 't. 3 Serv. There was a cunning traitor. Who would have search'd his codpiece? 1 Serv. True ; if he had kept out of the ladies' chambers. And all the molds of his buttons were leaden bullets. 2 Serv. wicked cannibal! A fire-lock in 's codpiece ! 1 Serv. 'T was a French plot, upon my life. 2 Serv. To see what the devil can do ! Ant. Are all the officers here? Servants. We are. Ant. Gentlemen, We have lost much plate you know ; and but this evening Jewels, to the value of four thousand ducats. Are missing in the duchess' cabinet. Are tl!e gates shut? Serv. Yes. Ant. 'T is the duchess' pleasure Each officer be lock'd into his chamber Till the sun-rising; and to send the keys Of all their chests and of their outward doors Into her bed-chamber. She is very sick. Rod. At her pleasure. Ant. She entreats you take 't not ill : the innocent Shall be the more approv'd by it. Bos. Gentlemen o' th' wood-yard, whei'e 's. your Switzer now ? 1 Serv. By this hand, 't was credibly re- ported by one o' th' black guard. '^- Exeunt all except Antonio and Delio. Delio. How fares it with the duchess? Ant. She 's expos'd Unto the worst of torture, pain, and fear. Delio. Speak to her all happy comfort. Ant. How I do play the fool with mine own danger! You are this night, dear friend, to post to Rome : My life lies in your service. Delio. Do not doubt me. Ant. 0, 't is far from me : and yet fear presents me Somewhat that looks like danger. Delio. Believe it, 'T is but the shadow of your fear, no more. 58 irritability. there was such a Blackfriars Thpa- play was performed. 61 at once. 09 glass factory ; factory near the ter, where this go always. 62 scullions. 306 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD How superstitiously we mind our evils ! The throwing down salt, or crossing of a hare, Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a horse, Or singing of a cricket, are of power To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you well : I wish you all the joys of a bless'd father ; And, for my faith, lay this unto your breast, — Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best. Exit. Enter Cariola. Cari. Sir, you are the happy father of a son : Your wife conunends him to you. Ant. Blessed comfort ! — For heaven' sake, tend her well : I '11 pres- ently Go set a figure for 's nativity.*'^ Exeunt. Scene 3. The inner court of the palace. Enter Bosola, with a dark lantern. Bos. Sure I did hear a woman shriek : list, ha! And the sound came, if I receiv'd it right, From the duchess' lodgings. There 's some stratagem In the confining all our courtiers To their several wards : I must have part of it; My intelligence will freeze else. List, again ! It may be 't was the melancholy bird. Best friend of silence and of solitariness, The owl, that scream'd so.— Ha ! An- tonio ! Enter Antonio ivith a candle, his sword drawn. Ant. I heard some noise. — Who's there 1 ^\niat art thou"? Speak. Bos. Antonio, put not your face nor body To such a forc'd expression of fear; I am Bosola, your friend. Ant. Bosola ! — (Aside.) This mole does undermine me. — Heard you not A noise even nowl Bos. From whence'? Ant. From the duchess' lodging. Bos. Not I: did you? Ant. I did, or else I dream'd. Bos. Let 's walk towards it. Ant. No : it may be 't was But the rising of the wind. Bos. Very likely. Methinks 't is very cold, and yet you sweat : You look wildly. Ant. I have been setting a figure *'* For the duchess' jewels. Bos. Ah, and how falls your question? Do you find it radical "? ^^ Ant. What's that to you? 'T is rather to be question'd what design, When all men were commanded to their lodgings, Makes you a night-walker. Bos. In sooth, I '11 tell you : Now all the court 's asleep, I thought the devil Had least to do here ; I came to say my prayers ; And if it do offend you I do so, You are a fine courtier. Ant. (Aside.) This fellow will undo me. — You gave the duchess apricocks to-day: Pray heaven they were not poison'd! Bos. Poison'd ! a Spanish fig ^° For the imputation ! Ant. Traitors are ever confident Till they are discover'd. There were jewels stol'n too : In my conceit, none are to be suspected More than yourself. Bos. You are a false steward. Ant. Saucy slave, I '11 pull thee up by the roots. Bos. May be the ruin will crush you to pieces. Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed, sir: Are you scarce warm, and do you show your sting? You libel «^ well, sir? Bos. No, sir: copy it out. And I will set my hand to 't. Ant. (Aside.) My nose bleeds. One that were superstitious would count This ominous, when it merely comes by chance. Two letters, that are wrought here for my name,*'^ Are drown'd in blood ! Mere accident. — For you, sir, I '11 take order C3 rast his horo- scope. 64 making an trological calcula- tion to discover the jewels. '< going to the root of the matter. 60 an obscene ges- 68 i.e. on a hand- ture of contempt. kerchief. 67 write. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 307 I' th' morn you shall be safe. — (Aside.) 'T is that must color Her lying-in. — Sir, this door you pass not : I do not hold it fit that you come near The duchess' lodgings, till you have quit yourself. — (Aside.) The great are like the base, nay, they are the same, When they seek shameful ways to avoid shame. Exit. Bos. Antonio hereabout did drop a pa- per: — Some of your help, false friend.*'^ — 0, here it is. What's here? a child's nativity calcu- lated ! (Beads.) The duchess ivas deliver'd of a son, 'tween the hours twelve and one in the night, Anno Dom. 1504, — that 's this year — deci- mo nono Decemhris, — that 's this night — taken according to the meridian of Malfi, — that 's our duchess : happy discovery ! — The lord of the first house being com- bust '"^ in the ascendant signifies short life; and Mars being in a human sign,''^ joined to the tail of the Dragon, in the eighth house, doth threaten a violent death. Ccetera non scrutantur.'^^ Why, now 'tis most apparent; this pre- cise fellow Is the duchess' bawd : — I have it to my w^ish ! This is a parcel of intelligeney Our courtiers were cas'd up ''^ for : it needs must follow That I must be committed on pretense Of poisoning her; which I '11 endure, and laugh at. If one could find the father now ! but that Time will discover. Old Castruccio I' th' morning posts to Rome : by him I '11 send A letter that shall make her brothers' galls O'erfiow their livers. This was a thrifty ^"^ way ! Though Lust do mask in ne'er so strange disguise, She 's oft found witty, but is never wise. Exit. Scene 4. Rome. A room in the Car- dinal's palace. Enter Cardinal and Julia. Card. Sit : thou art my best of wishes. Prithee, tell me What trick didst thou invent to come to Rome Without thy husband? Julia. Why, my lord, I told him I came to visit an old anchorite Here for devotion. Card. Thou art a witty false one, — I mean, to him. Julia. You have prevail'd with me Beyond my strongest thoughts-; I would not now Find you inconstant. Card. Do not put thyself To such a voluntary torture, which pro- ceeds Out of your own guilt. Julia. How, my lord ! Card. You fear My constancy, because you have ap- prov'd ^^ Those giddy and wild turnings in your- self. Julia. Did you e'er find them? Card. Sooth, generally for women, A man might strive to make glass mal- leable, Ere he should make them fixed. Julia. So, my lord? Card. We had need go borrow that fan- tastic glass Invented by Galileo the Florentine To view another spacious world i' th' moon. And look to find a constant woman there. Julia. This is very well, my lord. Card. Why do you weep? Are tears your justification? The self- same tears Will fall into your husband's bosom, lady, With a loud protestation that you love him Above the world. Come, I '11 love you wisely, That 's jealously; since I am very certain You cannot make me cuckold. Julia. I '11 go home To my husband. Card. You may thank me, lady, I have taken you off your melancholy perch. Bore you upon my fist, and show'd you game, And let you fly at it.'^^ I pray thee, kiss me. 09 i.e. the lantern. 70 within ei^ht de- grees and thirty minutes of the sun. 71 one of the signs of the Zodiac with luiman form, e. g. Virgo. 7 2 The rest not C07i- sidered. 73 shut up. 74 ins;enious. 7.5 experienced. 76 The figure in the three lines taken from conry. fal- 308 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD When thou wast with thy husband, thou wast watch'd Like a tame elephant : — still you are to thank me : — Thou hadst only kisses from him and high feeding; But what delight was that"? 'T was just like one That hath a little fing'ring on the lute, Yet cannot tune it : — still you are to thank me. Julia. You told me of a piteous wound i' th' heart, And a sick liver, when you woo'd me first, And spake like one in physic. ''^ Card. Who 's that?— Enter Servant. Rest firm for my affection to thee, Lightning moves slow to 't. Serv. Madam, a gentleman That 's come post from IMalfi, desires to see you. Card. Let him enter : I '11 withdraw. Exit. Serv. He says Your husband, old Castruccio, is come to Rome, Most pitifully tir'd with riding post. Exit. Enter Delio. Julia. (Aside.) Signior Delio! 'tis one of my old suitors. Delio. I was bold to come and see you. Julia. Sir, you are welcome. Delio. Do you lie ''^ here *? Julia. Sure, your own experience Will satisfy you no : our Roman prelates Do not keep lodging for ladies. Delio. Very well. I have brought you no commendations from your husband. For I know none by him. Julia. I hear he 's come to Rome. Delio. I never knew man and beast, of a horse and a knight, So weary of each other. If he had had a good back. He would have undertook to have borne his horse. His breech was so pitifully sore. Julia. Your laughter Is my pity. Delio. Lady, I know not whether You want money, but I have brought you some. Julia. From my husband? Delio. No, from mine own allowance. Julia. I must hear the condition, ere I be bound to take it. Delio. Look on 't, 't is gold ; hath it not a fine color? Julia. I have a bird more beautiful. Delio. Try the sound on 't. Julia. A lute-string far exceeds it. It hath no smell, like cassia or civet ; Nor is it physical,'^^ though some fond *^ doctors Persuade us seethe 't in cullises.^^ I '11 tell you, This is a creature bred by — Re-enter Servant. Serv. Your husband 's come, Hath deliver'd a letter to the Duke of Calabria That, to my thinking, hath put him out of his wits. Exit. Julia. Sir, you hear: Pray, let me know your business and your suit As briefly as can be. Delio. With good speed : I would wish you, At such time as you are non-resident With your husband, my mistress. Julia. Sir, I '11 go ask my husband if I shall, And straight return your answer. Exit. Delio. Very fine ! Is this her wit, or honesty, that speaks thus? I heard one say the duke was highly mov'd With a letter sent from Malfi. I do fear Antonio is betray'd. How fearfully Shows his ambition now ! Unfortunate fortune ! They pass through whirl-pools, and deep woes do shim, Who the event weigh ere the action 's done. Exit. Scene 5. Another room in the Cardinal's palace. Enter Cardinal and Ferdinand tvith a letter. Ferd. I have this night digg'd up a man- di'ake.^- 77 undergoing treat- ment. 78 lodge. 70 medicinal. 82 Popular superstition found in the forked root of the man- so foolish. drake resemblance to the human form, and alleged that the 81 broths. root shrieked on beina: torn out of the ground ; the hearer of such shrieks went mad. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 309 Card. Say you'? Ferd. And I am grown mad with 't. Card. What's the prodigy? Ferd. Read there, — a sister damn'd : she 's loose i' th' hilts ; **3 Grown a notorious strumpet. Card. Speak lower. Ferd. Lower! Rogues do not whisper 't now, but seek to publish 't (As servants do the bounty of their lords) Aloud ; and with a covetous searching eye, To mark who note them. 0, confusion seize her! She hath had most cunning bawds to serve her turn. And more secure conveyances for lust Than towns of garrison for service. Card. Is 't possible 1 Can this be certain*? Ferd. Rhubarb, 0, for rhubarb To purge this choler ! Here 's the cursed day To prompt my memory ; and here 't shall stick Till of her bleeding heart I make a sponge To wipe it out. Card. Why do you make yourself So wild a tempest ? Ferd. Would I could be one. That I might toss her palace 'bout her ears, Root up her goodly forests, blast her meads, And lay her general territory as waste As she hath done her honors. Card. Shall our blood. The royal blood of Arragon and Castile, Be thus attainted? Ferd. Apply desperate physic : We must not now use balsamum, but fire, The smarting cupping-glass, for that 's the mean To purge infected blood, such blood as hers. I'll give it to my handkercher; and now There is a kind of pity in mine eye, — 't is here I '11 bequeath this to her bastard. Card. What to do? Ferd. Why, to make soft lint for his moth- er's wounds. When I have hew'd her to pieces. Card. Curs'd creature! Unequal nature, to place women's hearts So far upon the left side ! ®* Ferd. Foolish men, That e'er will trust their honor in a bark Made of so slight weak bulrush as is woman. Apt every minute to sink it ! Card. Thus ignorance, when it hath pur- chas'd honor, It cannot wield it. Ferd. Methinks I see her laughing, — Excellent hyena! Talk to me some- what,^^ quickly. Or my imagination will cany me To see her in the shameful act of sin. Card. With whom ? Ferd. Happily ^^ with some strong-thigh'd bargeman, Or one o' th' wood-yard that can quoit the sledge ^" Or toss the bar, or else some lovely squire That carries coals up to her privy lodg- ings. Card. You fly beyond your reason. Ferd. Go to, mistress ! 'T is not your whore's milk that shall quench my wild-fire. But your whore's blood. Card. How idly shows this rage, which carries you. As men convey'd by witches through the air, On violent whirlwinds ! This intemper- ate noise Fitly resembles deaf men's shrill dis- course. Who talk aloud, thinking all other men To have their imperfection Ferd. Have not you My palsy? Card. Yes, [but] I can be angry Without this ruj^ture. There is not in nature A thing that makes man so deform'd, so beastly. As doth intemperate anger. Chide your- self. You have divers men who never yet ex- press'd Their strong desire of rest but by unrest, By vexing of themselves. Come, put yourself In tune. Ferd. So I will only study to seem The thing I am not. I could kill her now, In you, or in myself; for I do think It is some sin in us heaven doth revenge By her. 83 unchaste. 84 supposed to be a sign of folly. (N.) 85 on some subject. S6 haply. 87 throw the hammer. 310 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Card. Are you stark mad'? Ferd. I would have their bodies Burnt in a coal-pit with the ventage stopp'd, That their curs'd smoke might not ascend to heaven; Or dip the sheets they lie in in pitch or sulphur, Wrap them in 't, and then light them like a match ; Or else to boil their bastard to a eullis, And give 't his lecherous father to renew The sin of his back. Card. I '11 leave you. Ferd. Nay, I have done. I am confident, had I been damn'd in hell, And should have heard of this, it would have put me Into a cold sweat. In, in ; I '11 go sleep. Till I know who leaps my sister, I '11 not stir : That known, I '11 find scorpions to string my wiiips, And fix her in a general eclipse. Exeunt. ACT III. Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the Duchess's palace. Enter Antonio and Delio. Ant. Our noble friend, my most beloved Delio ! 0, you have been a stranger long at court : Came you along with the Lord Ferdi- nand 1 Delia. I did, sir : and how fares your noble duchess? Ant. Right fortunately well : she 's an ex- cellent Feeder of pedigrees ; since you last saw her, She hath had two children more, a son and daughter. Delio. Methinks 't was yestei-day. Let me but wink, And not behold your face, which to mine eye Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream It were within this half hour. Ant. You have not been in law, friend Delio, Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court. Nor begg'd the reversion of some great man's place, Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make Your time so insensibly hasten. Delio. Pray, sir, tell me, Hath not this news arriv'd yet to the ear Of the lord cardinal? Ant. I fear it hath : The Lord Ferdinand, that 's newly come to court, Doth bear himself right dangerously. Delia. Pray, why? Ant. He is so quiet that he seems to sleep The tempest out, as dormice do in winter. Those houses that are haunted are most still Till the devil be up. Delia. What say the common people? Ant. The common rabble do directly say She is a strumpet. Delia. And your graver heads Which would be politic, what censure they? Ant. They do observe I grow to infinite purchase ^'^ The left hand way; and all suppose the duchess Would amend it, if she could; for, say they. Great prhices, though they grudge their officers Should have such large and unconfined means To get wealth under them, will not com- plain, Lest thereby they should make them odi- ous Unto the people. For other obligation Of love or marriage between her and me They never dream of. Delio. The Lord Ferdinand Is going to bed. Enter Duchess, Ferdinand, and Attendants. Ferd. I '11 instantly to bed. For I am weary. — I am to bespeak A husband for you. Duch. For me, sir! Pray, who is 't? Ferd. Tlie great Count Malateste. Duch. Fie upon him ! A count ! He 's a mere stick of sugar- . candy ; You may look qnite through him. When I choose A husband, I will marry for your honor. Ferd. You shall do well in 't. — How is 't. worthy Antonio? 88 wealth. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 311 Duch. But, sir, 1 am to have private con- ference with you About a scandalous report is spread Touching mine honor. Ferd. Let me be ever deaf to 't : One of Pasquil's paper-bullets,^" court- calumny, A pestilent air, which princes' palaces Are seldom purg'd of. Yet, say that it were true, I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe In your own innocency. Duch. (Aside.) bless'd comfort! This deadly air is purg'd. Exeunt Duchess, Antonio, Delio, and Attendants. Ferd. Her guilt treads on Hot-burning coulters."" Enter Bosola. Now, Bosola, How thrives our intelligence ? Bos. Sir, uncertainly : 'T is rumor'd she hath had three bas- tards, but By whom we may go read i' th' stars. Ferd. Why, some Hold opinion all things are written there. Bos. Yes, if we could find spectacles to read them. I do suspect there hath been some sorcerj' Us'd on the duchess. Ferd. Sorcery! to what purpose *? Bos. To make her dote on some desertless fellow She shames to acknowledge. Ferd. Can your faith give way To think there 's power in potions or in charms. To make us love whether we will or no'? Bos. Most certainly. Ferd. Away! these are mere gulleries,"^ horrid things. Invented by some cheating mountebanks To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or charms Can force the will? Some trials have been made In this foolish practice, but the ingre- dients Were lenitive poisons, such as are of force To make the patient mad; and straight the witch Swears by equivocation they are in love. The witch-craft lies in her rank blood. This night I will force confession from her. You told me You had got, within these two days, a false key Into her bed-chamber. Bos. I have. Ferd. As I would wish. Bos. What do you intend to do*? Ferd. Can you guess? Bos. No. Ferd. Do not ask, then : He that can compass me, and know my drifts. May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the world, And sounded all her quick-sands. Bos. I do not Think so. Ferd. What do you think, then, pray? Bos. That you Are your own chronicle "- too much, and grossly Flatter yourself. Ferd. Give me thy hand; I thank thee: I never gave pension but to flatterers. Till I entertained thee. Farewell. That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks. Who rails into his belief all his defects. Exeunt. Scene 2. The hed-chamher of the Duchess in the same. Enter Duchess, Antonio, and Cariola. Duch. Bring me the casket hither, and the glass. — You get no lodging here to-night, my lord. Ant. Indeed, I must persuade one. Duch. Very good : I hope in time 't will grow into a custom, That noblemen shall come with cap and knee To purchase a night's lodging of their wives. Ant. I must lie here. Duch. Must! You are a lord of mis-rule.^^ Ant. Indeed, my rule is only in the night. 89 "Lampoons posted on a mutilated statue in Rome and com- nn plousrhshares. monly railed pasquih from a satirical cobbler named Pasquin, oi deceptions, who began the practice." (Thorndike.) 92 chronicle your own deeds. 93 master of revels. 312 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Duch. To what use will you put me 1 Ant. We '11 sleep together. Duch. Alas, what pleasure can two lovers find in sleep"? Cari. My lord, I lie with her often, and I know She '11 much disquiet you. Ant. See, you are complain'd of. Cari. For she 's the sprawling'st bedfellow. Ant. I shall like her the better for that. Cari. Sir, shall I ask you a question? Ant. I pray thee, Cariola. Cari. Wherefore still when you lie with my lady Do you rise so early ? Ant. Laboring men Count the clock oft'nest, Cariola, Are glad when their task 's ended. Duch. I '11 stop your mouth. {Kisses him.) Ant. Nay, that's but one; Venus had two soft doves To draw her chariot; I must have an- other. — {She kisses him- again.) When wilt thou mari;y, Cariola *? Cari. Never, my lord. Ant. 0, fie upon this single life! forgo it. We read how Daphne, for her peevish flight, Became a fruitless bay-tree; Syrinx turn'd To the pale empty reed ; Anaxarete Was frozen into marble : whereas those Which married, or prov'd kind unto their friends, Were by a gracious influence trans-shap'd Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry, Became flowers, precious stones, or emi- nent stars, Cari. This is a vain poetry: but I pray you, tell me. If there were propos'd me, wisdom, riches, and beauty. In three several young men, which should I choose? Ant. 'T is a hard question. This was Paris' case, And he was blind in 't, and there was a great cause; For how was 't possible he could judge right. Having three amorous goddesses in view. And they stark naked"? 'T was a mo- tion 9* Were able to benight the apprehension Of the severest counselor of Europe. Now I look on both your faces so well form'd, It puts me in mind of a question I would ask. Cari. What is 't? Ant. I do wonder why hard-favor'd ladies, For the most part, keep worse-favor'd waiting-women To attend them, and cannot endure fair ones. Duch. 0, that 's soon answered. Did you ever in your life know an ill painter Desire to have his dwelling next door to the shop Of an excellent picture-maker? 'T would disgrace His face-making, and undo him. I pri- thee, WTien were we so merry? My hair '? tangles. Ant. Pray thee, Cariola, let 's steal forth the room. And let her talk to herself: I have divers times ^ Serv'd her the like, when she hath chaf'd extremely. I love to see her angry. Softly, Cariola. Exeunt Antonio and Cariola. Duch. Doth not the color of my hair 'gin to change? When I wax gray, I shall have all the court Powder their hair with arras,^^ to be like me. You have cause to love me ; I ent'red you into my heart Enter Ferdinand unseen. Before you would vouchsafe to call for the keys. We shall one day have my brothers take you napping. Methinks his presence, being now in court. Should make you keep your own bed ; but you '11 say Love mixt Avith fear is sweetest. I '11 as- '^ sure you, You shall get no more children till my brothers * Consent to be your gossips.^^ Have you lost your tongue? {Perceiving Ferdinand.) 'T is welcome : For know, whether I am doom'd to live or die, I can do both like a prince. 94 proposal. 05 orris-root. 06 god-parents. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 313 Ferd. Die, then, quickly. {Giving her a poniard.) Virtue, where art thou hid? What hide- ous thing Is it that doth eclipse thee'? Duch. Pray? sir, hear me. Ferd. Or is it true thou art but a bare name. And no essential thing f Duch. Sir — Ferd. Do not speak. Duch. No, sir: I will plant my soul in mine ears, to hear you. Ferd. most imperfect light of human reason, That mak'st [us] so unhappy to foresee What we can least prevent ! Pursue thy wishes, And glory in them : there 's in shame no comfort But to be past all bounds and sense of shame. Duch. I pray, sir, hear me : I am married. Ferd. So ! Duch. Happily, not to your liking : but for that, Alas, your shears do come untimely now To clip the bird's wings that's already flown ! Will you see my husband "? Ferd. Yes, if I could change Eyes with a basilisk.^'^ Duch. Sure, you came hither By his confederacy. Ferd. The howling of a wolf Is music to thee, screech-owl : prithee, peace. — Whate'er thou art that hast enjoy'd my sister, For I am sure thou hear'st me, for thine own sake Let me not know thee. I came hither prepar'd To work thy discovery; yet am now per- suaded It would beget such violent effects As would damn us both. I would not for ten millions I had beheld thee : therefore use all means I never may have knowledge of thy name ; Enjoy thy lust still, and a wretched life, On that condition. — And for thee, vile woman, If thou do wish thy lecher may grow old In thy embraeements, I would have thee build Such a room for him as our anchorites To holier use inhabit. Let not the sun Shine on him till he 's dead ; let dogs and monkeys Only converse with him, and such dumb things To whom nature denies use to sound his name; Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn it; If thou do love him, cut out thine own tongue. Lest it bewray him. Duch. Why might not I marry "? I have not gone about in this to create Any new world or custom. Ferd. Thou art undone ; And thou hast ta'en that massy sheet of lead That hid thy husband's bones, and folded it About my heart. Duch. ■ Mine bleeds for 't. Ferd. Thine ! thy heart ! . What should I name 't, unless a hollow bullet Fill'd with unquenchable wild-fire"? Duch. You are in this Too strict ; and were you not my princely brother, I would say, too wilful : my reputation Is safe. Ferd. Dost thou know what reputa- tion is ? I '11 tell thee, — to small purpose, since th' instruction Comes now too late. Upon a time Reputation, Love, and Death, Would travel o'er the world ; and it was concluded That they should part, and take three several ways. Death told them, they should find him in great battles, Or cities plagu'd with plagues ; Love gives them counsel To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds. Where dowries were not talk'd of, and sometimes 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left By their dead parents : "Stay," quoth Reputation, "Do not forsake me ; for it is my nature, If once I part from any man I meet. 97 i.e. so that I could kill him with a glance (like the fabled basilisk). 314 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD I am never found again." And so for you: You have shook hands with Reputa- tion, And made him invisible. So, fare you well : I will never see you more. Duch. ^Vhy should only I, Of all the other princes of the world, Be cas'd up, like a holy relic ? I have youth And a little beauty. Ferd. So you have some virgins That are witches. I will never see thee more. Exit. Re-enter Antonio with a pistol, and Cariola. Duch. You saw this apparition 1 Ant. Yes : we are Betray'd. How came he hither? 1 should turn This to thee, for that. Cari. Pray^ sir, do ; and when That you have cleft my heart, you shall read there Mine innocence. Duch. That gallery gave him entrance. Antt. I would this terrible thing would come again, That, standing on my guard, I might re- late My warrantable love. — {She shows the poniard.) Ha ! what means this 1 Duch. He left this with me, ^1 nt. And it seems did wish You would use it on yourself. Duch. His action seem'd To intend so much. Ant. This hath a handle to 't, As well as a point : turn it towards him, and So fasten the keen edge in his rank gall. {Knocking within.) How now! who knocks'? More earth- quakes ■? Duch. I stand As if a mine beneath my feet were ready To be blown up. Cari. 'T is Bosola. Duch. Away! misery! methinks unjust actions Should wear these masks and curtains, and not we. You must instantly part hence: I have fashion'd it already. Exit Antonio. Enter Bosola. Bos. The duke your brother is ta'en up in a whirlwind; Hath took horse, and 's rid post to Rome. Duch. So late'? Bos. He told me, as he mounted into th' saddle, You were undone. Duch. Indeed, I am very near it. Bos. What's the matter'? Duch. Antonio, the master of our house- hold, Hath dealt so falsely with me in 's ac- counts. My brother stood engag'd with me for money Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews, And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit. Bos. Strange! — {Aside.) This is cun- ning. Duch. And hereupon My brother's bills at Naples are protested Against. — Call up our officers. Bos. I shall. Exit. Re-enter Antonio. Duch. The place that you must fly to is Ancona : Hire a house there ; I '11 send after you My treasure and my jewels. Our weak safety Runs upon enginous wheels: ^^ short syl- lables Must stand for periods. I nmst now ac- cuse you Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls Magnanima menzogna, a noble lie, 'Cause it must shield our honors. — Hark ! they are coming. Re-enter Bosola and Officers. Ant. "Will your grace hear me"? Duch. I have got well by you; you have yielded me A million of loss : I am like to inherit The people's curses for your stewardship. You had the trick in audit-time to be sick, Till I had sign'd your quietus ;^^ and that cur'd you Without help of a doctor. — Gentlemen, I would have this man be an example to you all ; So shall you hold my favor; I pray, let him ; ^ For h' as done that, alas, you would not think of, And, because I intend to be rid of him. OS wheels swift as an engine's. 99 Cf. n. 35, p. 302. 1 let him go. THE DUCHESS OF MALFl 315 I mean not to publish. — Use your fortune elsewhere. Ant. 1 am strongly arm'd to brook my overthrow, As commonly men bear with a hard year. I will not blame the cause on't; but do think The necessity of my malevolent star Procures this, not her humor. O, the in- constant And rotten ground of service ! You may see, 'T is even like him, that in a winter night. Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, A-loth to part from 't; yet parts thence as cold As when he first sat dov\-n. Duch. AVe do confiscate, Towards the satisfying of your accounts, All that you have. Ant. I am all yours; and 'tis very fit All mine should be so. Duch. So, sir, you have your pass. Ant. You may see, gentlemen, what 't is to serve A prince with body and soul. Exit. Bos. Here 's an example for extortion : what moisture is drawn out of the sea, when foul weather comes, pours down, and runs into the sea again. Duch. I would know M'hat are your opin- ions Of this Antonio. 2 Off. He could not abide to see a pig's head gaping : I thought your grace would find him a Jew. 3 Off". I would you had been his officer, for your own sake. 4 Oft'. You would have had more money. 1 Off. He stopp'd his ears with black wool, and to those came to him for money said he was thick of hearing. 2 Off. Some said he was an hermaphro- dite, for he could not abide a woman. 4 Off. How scur\-y proud he would look when the treasury was full! Well, let him go. 1 Off. Yes, and the chippings of the but- tery fly after him, to scour - his gold chain. ^ Duch. Leave us. — Exeunt Officers. What do you think of these? Bos. That these are rogues that in 's pros- perity, But to have waited on his fortune, could have wish'd His dirty stirrujD riveted through their noses, And f ollow'd after 's mule, like a bear in a ring; Would have prostituted their daughters to his lust; Made their first-born intelligencers; thought none happy But such as were bom under his blest planet. And wore his livery : and do these lice drop off now? Well, never look to have the like again: He hath left a sort ^ of flatt'ring rogues behind him; Their doom must follow. Princes pay flatterers In their own money: flatterers dissemble their vices. And they dissemble their lies; that's jus- tice. Alas, poor gentleman! Duch. Poor! he hath amply fill'd his cof- fers. Bos. Sure, he was too honest. Pluto,'^ the god of riches, When he 's sent by Jupiter to any man. He goes limping, to signify that wealth That comes on God's name comes slowly; but Avhen he 's sent On the devil's errand, he rides post and comes in by scuttles.*^ Let me show you what a most unvalu'd jewel You have in a wanton humor thrown awa}', To bless the man shall find him. He was an excellent Courtier and most faithful ; a soldier that thought it As beastly to know his own value too little As devilish to acknowledge it too much. Both his virtue and form deserv'd a far better fortune : His discourse rather delighted to judge itself than show itself: His breast was fill'd with all perfec- tion. And yet it seem'd a private whisp'ring- room, It made so little noise of 't. Duch. But he was basely descended. Bos. Will you make yourself a mercenary herald. 2 polish. 3 the badge of a steward. 5 Properly Plutus. 6 quick steps. 31G THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Rather to examine men's pedigrees than virtues ? You shall want "^ him : For know an honest statesman to a prince Is like a cedar planted by a spring; The spring bathes the tree's root, the grateful tree Rewards it with his shadow: you have not done so. I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes on Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied Together with an intelligencer's heart- string, Than depend on so changeable a prince's favor. Fare thee well, Antonio ! Since the mal- ice of the world Would needs down with thee, it cannot be said yet That any ill happen'd unto thee, consid- ering thy fall Was accompanied with virtue. Duch. 0, you render me excellent music ! Bos. Say you*? Duch. This good one that you sj^eak of is my husband. Bos. Do I not dream f Can this ambi- tious age Have so much goodness in 't as to prefer A man merely for worth, without these shadows Of wealth and painted honors'? Possi- ble? Duch. I have had three children by him. Bos. Fortunate lady ! For you have made your private nuptial Ijed The humble and fair seminary of peace, No question but: many an unbenefic'd scholar Shall pray for you for this deed, and rejoice That some preferment in the world can yet Arise from merit. The virgins of your land That have no dowries shall hope your example Will raise them to rich husbands. Should you want Soldiers, 't would make the very Turks and Moors Turn Christians, and serve you for this act. Last, the neglected poets of your time, In honor of this trophy of a man, Rais'd by that curious engine, your white hand, Shall thank you in your grave for 't, and make that More reverend than all the cabinets Of living i^rinces. For Antonio, His fame shall likewise flow from many a pen, When heralds shall want coats to sell to men. Duch. As I taste comfort in this friendly si^eech, So would I find concealment. Bos. 0, the secret of mj' prince, Which I will wear on th' inside of my heart ! Duch. You shall take charge of all my coin and jewels. And follow him ; for he retires himself To Ancona. Bos. So. Duch. Whither, within few days, I mean to follow thee. Bos. Let me think : I would wish your grace to feign a pil- grimage To our Lady of Loretto,^ scarce seven leagues From fair Ancona ; so may you depart Your country with more honor, and your flight Will seem a princely progress, retaining Your usual train about you. Duch. Sir, your direction Shall lead me by the hand. Cari. In my opinion, She were better progress to the baths at Lucca, Or go visit the Spa In Geiinany; for, if you will believe me, I do not like this jesting with religion, This feigned pilgrimage. Duch. Thou art a superstitious fool : Prepare us instantly for our departure. Past sorrows, let us moderately lament them. For those to come, seek wisely to prevent them. Exeunt Duchess and Cariola. Bos. A politician is the devil's quilted an- vil; He fashions all sins on him, and the blows Are never heard : he may work in a lady's chamber. As here for proof. What rests ^ but I reveal 7 miss. 8 Loretto boasted tlie possession of the house in which the Virgin Mary was born, miraculously taken there from Palestine; the shrine was famous. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 317 All to my lord ? 0, this base quality ^° Of intelligencer! Why, eveiy quality i' th' world Prefers but gain or commendation : Now, for this act I am certain to be rais'd, And men that paint weeds to the life are prais'd. Exit. Scene 3. Rome. A room in the Cardi- nal's palace. Enter Cardinal, Ferdinand, Malateste, Pescara, Delio, and Silvio. Card. Must we turn soldier, then"? Mai. The emperor. Hearing your worth that way, ere you attaiu'd This reverend garment, joins you in com- mission With the right fortunate soldier the Mar- quis of Pescara, And the famous Lannoy. Card. He that had the honor Of taking the French king ^^ prisoner? Mai. The same. Here 's a plot drawn for a new fortifica- tion At Naples. Ferd. This great Count Malateste, I perceive, Hath got employment ? Delio. No employment, my lord ; A marginal note in the muster-book that he is A voluntary lord. Ferd. He 's no soldier ? Delio. He has worn gun-powder in 's hol- low tooth for the tooth-ache. Sil. He comes to the leaguer ^- with a full intent To eat fresh beef and garlic, means to stay Till the scent be gone, and straight re- turn to court. Delio. He hath read all the late service ^^ As the City Chronicle relates it; And keeps two pewterers going, only to express Battles in model. Sil. Then he '11 fight by the book.i* Delio. By the almanac, I think. To choose good days and shun the criti- cal; That 's his mistress' scarf. Sil. Yes, he protests He would do much for that taffeta. Delio. I think he would run away from a battle. To save it from taking ^^ prisoner. Sil. He is horribly afraid Gun-powder will spoil the perfume on 't. Delio. I saw a Dutchman break his pate once For calling him pot-gun ; he made his head Have a bore in 't like a musket. Sil. I would he had made a touch-hole to 't. He is indeed a guarded sumpter-cloth,^*' Only for the remove of the court. Enter Bosola. Pes. Bosola arriv'd! What should be the business ? Some falling-out among the cardinals'? Tliese factions amongst great men, they are like Foxes, when their heads are divided,^'' They carry fire in their tails, and all the country About them goes to wrack for 't. Sil. ^ What's that Bosola? Delio. I knew him in Padua, — a fantasti- cal scholar, like such who study to know how many knots was in Hercules' club, of what color Achilles' beard was, or whether Hector were not troubled with the tooth-ache. He hath studied himself half blear-ey'd to know the true symme- try of Cffisar's nose by a shoeing-horn ; and this he did to gain the name of a speculative man. Pes. Mark Prince Ferdinand : A very salamander lives in 's eye, To mock the eager violence of fire. Sil. That cardinal hath made more bad faces with his oppression than ever Michael Angelo made good ones. He lifts up 's nose, like a foul porpoise be- fore a storm. Pes. The Lord Ferdinand laughs. Delio. Like a deadly cannon That lightens ere it smokes. Pes. These are your true pangs of death, The pangs of life, that struggle with great statesmen. Delio. In such a deformed silence witches whisper their charms. Card. Doth she make religion her riding- hood 10 profession. 12 camp. 14 i.e. he is a theo- 16 an elaborate sad- court is making a 11 Francis I, at 13 an account of the retical soldier. dlecloth, used journey. Pavia, in 1525. late campaign. 15 being taken. only when the 17 Cf. Judges, xv. 4. 318 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD To keep ber from the sun and tempest f Ferd. That, that damns her. Methinks her fault and beautj', Blended together, show like leprosy, The whiter the fouler. I make it a ques- tion Whether her beggarly brats were ever christ'ned. Card. I will instantly solicit the state of Aneona To have them banish'd. Ferd. You are for Loretto : I shall not be at your ceremony, fare you well-»- Write to the Duke of Malfi, my young nephew, She had by her first husband, and ac- quaint him With 's mother's honesty. Bos. I will. Ferd. Antonio ! A slave that only smell'd of ink and coun- ters. And ne'er in 's life look'd like a gentle- man. But in the audit-time. — Go, go presently, Draw me out an hundred anct fifty of our horse. And meet me at the foot-bridge. Exeunt. Scene 4. Loretto. Enter Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our Lady of Loretto. 1 Pil. I have not seen a goodlier shrine than this; Yet I have visited many. 2 Pil. The Cardinal of Arragon Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat ; His sister duchess likewise is arriv'd To pay her vow of pilgrimage. I expect A noble ceremony. 1 Pil. No question. — They come. Here the ceremony of the Cardinal's in- stalment in the habit of a soldier per- form' d in delivering up his cross, hat, robes and ring at the shrine, and invest- ing him with sxcord, helmet, shield, and spurs. Then Antonio, the Duchess and their children, having presented them- selves at the shrine, are, by a form of banishment in dumb-show expressed to- wards them by the Cardinal and the state of Aneona, banished: during all which ceremony, this ditty is sung, to very solemn music, by divers church-men; and then exeunt all except the Two Pil- grims. Arms and honors deck thy story,^^ To thy fame's eternal glory ! Adverse fortune ever fly thee; No disastrous fate come nigh thee ! I alone will sing thy praises. Whom to honor virtue raises. And thy study, that divine is, Bent to martial discipline is; Lay aside all those robes lie by thee; Crown thy arts with arms, tliey '11 beautify thee. worthy of worthiest name, adorn'd in this manner, Lead bravely thy forces on under wain's warlike banner! 0, mayst thou jirove fortunate in all mar- tial courses! Guide thou still by skill in arts and forces ! Victory attend thee nigh, whilst fame sings loud thy powers ; Triumphant conquest crown thy head, and blessings pour down showers ! 1 Pil. Here 's a strange turn of state ! who would have thought So great a lady would have match'd her- '"self Unto so mean a i^erson? Yet the cardi- nal Bears himself much too cruel. 2 Pil. They are banish'd. 1 Pil. But I would ask what power hath this state Of Aneona to determine ^^ of a free prince ? 2 Pil. They are a free state, sir, and her brother show'd How that the Pope, fore-hearing of her looseness, Hath seiz'd into th' protection of the church The dukedom which she held as dowager. 1 Pil. But by what justice? 2 Pil. Sure, I think by none, Only her brother's instigation. 1 Pil. What was it with such violence he- took Off from her finger? 2 Pil. 'T was her wedding-ring; Which he vow'd shortly he would sacri- fice To his revenge. 18 The first quarto has in the margin: "The author disclaims this ditty to be his." 19 dispose. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 319 1 Pil, Alas, Antonio ! If that a man be thrust into a well, No matter who sets hand to 't, his own weight Will bring him sooner to th' bottom. Come, let 's hence. Fortune makes this conclusion general. All things do help th' unhappy man to fall. Exeunt. Scene 5. Near Loretto. Enter Duchess, Antonio, Children, Cariola, and Servants. Duch. Banish'd Ancona! Ant. Yes, you see what power Lightens in great men's breath. Duch. Is all our train Shrunk to this poor remainder"? Ant. These poor men, Which have got little in your service, vow To take your fortune : but your wiser buntings, Now they are fledg'd, are gone. Duch. They have done wisely. This puts me in mind of death : phy- sicians thus, With their hands full of money, use to give o'er Their patients. Ant. Right the fashion of the world: From decay'd fortunes every tiatterer shrinks ; Men cease to build where the foundation sinks. Duch. I had a very strange dream to- night. Ant. What was 't? Duch. Methought I wore my coronet of state, And on a sudden all the diamonds Were chang'd to pearls. Ant. My interpretation Is, you'll weep shortly; for to me the pearls Do signify your tears. Duch. The birds, that live i' th' field On the wild benefit of nature, live Happier than we: for they may choose their mates, And carol their sweet pleasures to the spring. Enter Bosola with a letter. Bos. You are happily o'erta'en. Duch. From my brother? Bos. Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand your brother All love and safety. Duch. Thou dost blanch mischief, Would'st make it white. See, see, like to calm weather At sea before a tempest, false hearts speak fair To those they intend most mischief. (Beads.) "Send Antonio to me ; I want his head in a business." A politic equivocation ! He doth not want your counsel, but your head ; That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead. And here 's another pitfall that 's strew'd o'er With roses ; mark it, 't is a cunning one : (Reads.) "I stand engaged for your husband for severaj debts at Naples : let not that trou- ble him ; I had rather have his heart than his money." — And I believe so too. Bos. What do you believe? Duch. That he so much distrusts my hus- band's love, He will by no means believe his heart is with him Until he see it: the devil is not cunning enough To circumvent us in riddles. Bos. Will you reject that noble and free league Of amity and love which I present you? Duch. Their league is like that of some 13olitic kings, Only to make themselves of strength and power To be our after-ruin : tell them so. Bos. And what from you? Ant. Thus tell him : I will not come. Bos. And what of this? Ant. My brothers have dispers'd Bloodhounds abroad ; which till I hear are muzzl'd, No truce, though hateh'd with ne'er such politic skill. Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' will. I '11 not come at them. Bos. This proclaims your breeding. Every small thing draws a base mind to fear As the adamant draws iron. Fare you well, sir; You shall shortly hear from 's. Exit. 320 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Duch. I suspect some ambush; Therefore by all my love I do conjure you To take your eldest son, and fly towards Milan, Let us not venture all this poor remain- der In one unlucky bottom. Ant. You counsel safely. Best of my life, farewell. Since we must part, Heaven hath a hand in 't ; but no other- wise Than as some curious artist takes in sun- der A clock or watch, when it is out of frame, To bring 't m better order. Duch. I know not which is best, To see you dead-, or part with you. Fare- well, boy : Thou art happy that thou hast not un- derstanding To know thy misery; for all our wit And reading brings us to a truer sense Of sorrow. — In the eternal church, sir, I do hope we shall not part thus. Ant. 0, be of comfort ! Make patience a noble fortitude. And think not how unkindly we are us'd : Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being bruis'd. Duch. Must I, like to a slave-born Rus- sian, Account it praise to suffer tyranny"? And yet, heaven, thy heavy hand is in 't ! I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top,20 And compar'd myself to 't : naught made me e'er Go right but heaven's scourge-stick. Ant. Do not weep : Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we strive To bring ourselves to nothing. — Fare- well, Cariola, And thy sweet armful. — If I do never see thee more. Be a good mother to your little ones. And save them from the tiger: fare you well. Duch. Let me look upon you once more, for that speech Came from a dying father. Your kiss is colder Than that I have seen an holy anchor- ite Give to a dead man's skull. 20 Tops were Ant. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump of lead. With which I sound my danger : fare you well. Exeunt Antonio and his son. Duch. My laurel is all withered. Cari. Look, madam, what a troop of armed men Make toward us ! Re-enter Bosola, masked, with a Guard. Duch. 0, they are very welcome : When Fortune's wheel is over-eharg'd with princes. The weight makes it move swift : I would have ray ruin Be sudden. — I am your adventure, am I not? Bos. You are: you must see j^our husband no more. Duch. What devil art thou that counter- feit'st heaven's thunder? Bos. Is that terrible? I would have you tell me whether Is that note worse that frights the silly birds Out of the corn, or that which doth allure them To the nets? You have heark'ned to the last too much. Duch. misery! like to a rusty o'er- charg'd cannon, Shall I never fly in pieces? Come, to what prison? Bos. To none. Duch. Whither, then? Bos. To your palace. Duch. I have heard That Charon's boat serves to convey all o'er The dismal lake, but brings none back again. Bos. Your brothers mean you safetj' and pity. Duch. Pity ! With such a pity men preserve alive Pheasants and quails, when they are not fat enough To be eaten. Bos. These are your children ? Duch. Yes. Bos. Can they prattle? Duch. No : But I intend, since they were born ac- curs'd, Curses shall be their first language. Bos. Fie, madam! Forget this base, low fellow spun with whips. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 321 Duck. Were I a man, I'd beat that counterfeit face -^ into thy other. Bos. One of no birth. Duck. Say that he was born mean, Man is most happy when 's own actions Be arguments and examples of his virtue. Bos. A barren, beg'garly virtue. Duch. I pritliee, who is greatest? Can you tein Sad tales belit my woe : I '11 tell you one. A salmon, as she swam unto the sea. Met with a dog-fish, who encounters her With this rough language: "Why art thou so bold To mix thyself with our high state of floods. Being no eminent courtier, but one That for the calmest and fresh time o' th' year Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thy- self With silly smelts and shrimps'? And darest thou Pass by our dog-ship without reverence?" "O," quoth the salmon, "sister, be at peace : Thank Jupiter we both have pass'd the net! Our value never can be truly known. Till in the fisher's basket we be shown : I' th' market then my price may be the higher. Even when I am nearest to the cook and fire." So to great men the moral may be stretched ; Men oft are valu'd high, when they 're most wretched. — But come, whither you please. I am arm'd 'gainst miseiy ; Bent to all sways of the oppressor's Avill. There 's no deep valley but near some great hill. Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the Duch- ess's palace. Enter Ferdinand and Bosola. Ferd. How doth our sister duchess bear herself In her imprisonment? Bos. Nobly : I 'U describe her. She 's sad as one long us'd to 't, and she seems Rather to welcome the end of misery Than shun it ; a behavior so noble As gives a majesty to adversity: You may disceni the shape of loveliness More perfect in her tears than in her smiles : She will muse four hours together; and her silence, Methinks, expresseth more than if she spake. Ferd. Her melancholy seems to be forti- fied With a strange disdain. Bos. 'T is so ; and this restraint, Like English mastiffs that grow fierce with tying. Makes her too passionately apprehend Those pleasures she is kept from. Ferd. Curse upon her ! I will no longer study in the liook Of another's heart. Inform her what I told you. Exit. Enter Duchess and Attendants. Bos. All comfort to your grace ! Duch. I will have none. Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poi- son'd pills In gold and sugar? Bos. Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdi- nand, Is come to visit you, and sends you word, 'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow Never to see you more, he comes i' th' night; And prays you gently neither torch nor taper Shine in your chamber. He will kiss your hand. And reconcile himself ; but for his vow He dares not see you. Duch. At his pleasure. — Take hence the lights. — He 's come. Exeunt Attendants with lights. Enter Ferdinand. Ferd. Where are you? Duch. Here, sir. Ferd. This darkness suits you Avell. Duch. I would ask you pardon, Ferd. You have it ; For I account it the honorabl'st revenge, Where I may kill, to pardon. — Where are your cubs? Duch. Whom? 21 mask. 322 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Ferd. Call them your children; For though our national law distinguish bastards From true legitimate issue, compassion- ate nature Makes them all equal. Duch. Do you visit me for this 1 You violate a sacrament o' th' church Shall make you howl in hell for 't. Ferd. It had been well Could you have liv'd thus always; for, indeed, You were too much i' th' light : — but no more; I come to seal my peace with you. Here 's a hand (Gives her a dead man's hand.) To which you have vow'd much love; the ring upon 't You gave. Duch. I affectionately kiss it. Ferd. Pray, do, and buiy the print of it in your heart. I will leave this ring with j^ou for a love- token ; And the hand as sure as the ring; and do not doubt But you shall have the heart too. When you need a friend, Send it to him that ow'd ^- it ; you shall see Whether he can aid you. Duch. You are very cold : I fear you are not weU after your travel. — * Ha ! lights ! 0, horrible ! Ferd. Let her have lights enough. Exit. Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left A dead man's hand here*? (Here is discover'd, behind a traverse,^^ the artificial figures of Antonio and his chil- dren, a]2pearing as if they were dead.) Bos. Look you, here 's the piece from which 't was ta'en. He doth pi'esent you this sad spectacle, That, now you know directly they are dead, Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve For that which cannot be recovered. Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish I stay for after this. It wastes me more Than were 't my picture,-* fashion 'd out of wax, Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried In some foul dung hill ; and yon 's an excellent property For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. Bos. What's that? Duch. If they Avould bind me to that life- less trunk, And let me freeze to death. Bos. Come, you must live. Duch. That 's the greatest torture souls feel in hell. In hell, that they must live, and cannot die. Portia,-^ I '11 new kindle thy coals again. And revive the rare and almost dead ex- ample Of a loving wife. Bos. 0, fie! despair"? Remember You are a Christian. Duch. The church enjoins fasting: I '11 starve myself to death. Bos. Leave this vain sorrow. Things being at the worst begin to mend : the bee, When he hath shot his sting into your hand. May then play Avith your eye-lid. Duch. Good comfortable fellow, Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the wheel To have all his bones new set; entreat him live To be executed again. "V^Hio must desiDateh mel I account this world a tedious theater. For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. Bos. Come, be of comfort; I will save your life. Duch. Indeed, I have not leisure to tend so small a business. Bos. Now, by my life, I pity you. Duch. Thou art a fool, then. To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched As cannot pity itself. I am full of dag- gers. Puff, let me blow these vipers from me. Enter Servant. What are you f Serv. One that wishes you long life. Duch. I would thou wert hang'd for the horrible curse Thou hast given me: I shall shortly gTow one Of tiie miracles of pity. I '11 go pray; — Exit Serv. No, I '11 go curse. 22 owned. 24imaKe; ns the image melted, the life of the person upon whom the spell was laid 23 curtain. ebbed away. 2.". The wife of Brutus, who committed suicide by swallowing burning coals. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 323 Bos. 0, fie ! Duch. I could enrse the stars — Bos. O, fearful ! Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year Into a Russian Avinter; nay, the world To its first chaos. Bos. Look you, the stars shine still. Dxicli. 0, but you must Remember, my curse hath a great way to go.— Plagues, that make lanes through largest families. Consume them ! — Bos. Fie, lady ! DucTi. -Let them, like tyrants, Never be remembered but for the ill they have done ; Let all the zealous prayers of mortified Churchmen forget them ! — Bos. O, uncharitable ! Duch. Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, To punish them ! — Go, howl them this, and say, I long to bleed : It is some mercy when men kill with speed. Exit. Re-enter Ferdinand. Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ; she 's plagu'd in art.^*^ These presentations are but fram'd in wax By the curious master in that quality,-'^ Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them For true substantial bodies. Bos. Why do you do this? Ferd. To bring her to despair. Bos. Faith, end here, And go no farther in your cruelty : Send her a penitential garment to put on Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her With beads and prayer-books. Ferd. Damn her ! that body of hers, W^hile that nij^ blood ran pure in 't, was more Avorth Than that which thou wouldst comfort, call'd a soul. I will send her masques of common cour- tesans. Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and ruffians. And, 'cause she '11 needs be mad, I am resolv'd To remove forth the common hospital 26 by artifice. 27 profession. All the mad-folk, and place them near her lodging; There let them practise together, sing and dance, And act their gambols to the full o' th' moon : If she can sleep the better for it, let her. Your work is almost ended. Bos. Must I see her again? Ferd. Yes. Bos. Never. Ferd. You must. Bos. Never in mine own shape ; That 's forfeited by my intelligence And this last cruel lie : when you send me next. The business shall be comfort. Ferd. Very likely, Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee. An- tonio Lurks about Milan : thou shalt shortly thither, To feed a fire as great as my revenge, Wliich ne'er will slack till it hath spent his -^ fuel : Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. Exeunt. Scene 2. Another room in the Duchess's palace. Enter Duchess and Cariola. Duch. What hideous noise was that? Cari. 'T is the wild consort -^ Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Hath plac'd about your lodging. This tyranny, I think, was never practis'd till this hour. Duch. Indeed, I thank him. Nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits; whereas reason And silence make me stark mad. Sit down ; Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. Cari. 0, 't will increase your melancholy ! Duch. Thou art deceiv'd : To hear of greater gi'ief would lessen mine. This is a prison? Cari. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool: The robin-red-breast and the nightingale Never live long in cages. 2S its. 29 company. 324 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. Cari. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, madam ? Duch. Of nothing; When I muse thus, I sleep. Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world ? Cari. Yes, out of question. Duch. 0, that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead ! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a miracle : I am not mad yet, to my cause of soitow : Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad. I am acquainted with sad miseiy As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now? Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery, A deal of life in show, but none in prac- tice ; Or rather like some reverend monument Whose ruins are even pitied. Duch. Verjr proper; And Fortune seems only to have her eye- sight To behold my tragedy. — How now ! What noise is thatf Enter Servant. Serv. I am come to tell you Your brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician, when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With sevei'al soi'ts ^° of madmen, which wild object, Being full of change and sport, forc'd him to laugh, And so th' imposthume ^^ broke : the self- same cure The duke intends on you. Duch. ' Let them come in. Serv. There's a mad lawyer; and a secu- lar priest; A doctor that hath forfeited his wits By jealousy ; an astrologian That in his works said such a day o' th' month Should be the day of doom, and, failing oft, Ean mad; an English tailor craz'd i' th' brain With the study of new fashions; a gen- tleman-uslier Quite beside himself with care to keep in mind The number of his lady's salutations, Or "How do you," she emj)loy'd him in each morning; A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain,^- Mad 'cause he was hind'red transporta- tion : ^^ And let one broker that 's mad loose to these. You 'd think the devil were among them. Duch. Sit, Cariola. — Let them loose when you please, For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny. Enter Madmen. Here by a Madman this song is sung to a dismal kind of music. O, let us howl some heavy note, Some deadly dogged howl, Sounding as from the threat'ning throat Of beasts and fatal fowl! As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears, We 'II bell, and bawl our parts. Till irksome noise have cloy'd your ears And corrosiv'd your hearts. At last, when as our choir wants breath, Our bodies being blest, We '11 sing, like swans, to welcome death, And die in love and rest. 1 Madman. Dooms-day not come yet! I '11 draw it nearer by a perspective,^* or make a glass that shall set all the world on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep ; my pillow is stuft with a litter of porcu- pines. 2 Madman. Hell is a mere glass-house, where the devils are continually blowing up women's souls on hollow irons, and the fire never goes out. 3 Madman. I will lie with eveiy woman in my parish the tenth night. I will tithe them over like hay-cocks. 4 Madman. Shall my 'pothecary out-go me, because I am a cuckold? I have 30 bands. 31 abscess. 32 a pun on grain- dye. 33 from exporting his grain. 34 telescope. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 325 found out bis roguery : be makes alum of bis wife's urine, and sells it to Puritans tbat bave sore tbroats witb over-straining. 1 Madman. I bave skill in beraldry. 2 Madman. Hast? 1 Madman. You do give for yoi;r crest a wood-coek's head witb tbe brains jjickt out on 't ; you are a veiy ancient gentle- man. 3 Madman. Greek is turn'd Turk : we are only to be sav'd by the Helvetian trans- lation.^^ 1 Madman. Come on, sir, I will lay the law to you. 2 Madman. 0, rather lay a corrosive : tbe law will eat to the bone. 3 Madman. He that drinks but to satisfy nature is damn'd. 4 Madman. If I bad my glass here, I would show a sight should make all the women here call me mad doctor. 1 Madman. What's he'? A rope-maker? 2 Madman. No, no, no; a snuflling knave that while he shows tbe tombs, will have bis hand in a wench's placket.'*^ 3 Madman. Woe to the caroche ^"^ that brought home my wife from tbe masque at three o'clock in the morning! It had a large feather-bed in it. 4 Madman. I bave pared tbe devil's nails forty times, roasted them in raven's eggs, and cur'd agues with them. 3 Madman. Get me three hundred milch- bats, to make possets ^^ to j^roeure sleep. 4 Madman. All tbe college ^^ may throw their caps at me : I bave made a soap- boiler costive; it was my masterpiece. {Here the dance, consisting of Eight Mad- men, with music answerable thereunto; after which, Bosola, like an old man, enters.) Duch. Is be mad too? Serv. Pray, question him. I '11 leave you. Exeunt Servant and Madmen. Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Duch. Ha ! my tomb ! Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death- bed. Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick? Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since tl\y sickness is insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad, sure: dost know me? Bos. Yes. Duch. Wlio am I ? Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory *^ of green nunnmy.^^ What's this flesh? A little crudded ■»- milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body : this world is like her little turf of grass, and the heaven o'er our beads, like her looking- glass, only gives us a miserable knowl- edge of tbe small compass of our prison. Duch. Am I not thy duchess? Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleep'st worst than if a mouse should be forc'd to take up her lodging' in a cat's ear: a little infant tbat breeds its teeth, should it lie witb thee, would ciy out, as if thou wert tbe more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But, look'd to near, have neither beat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to Hatter the dead, not the living; I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou com'st to make my tomb? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little merry : — of what stuff wilt thou make it? Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fash- ion ? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our deathbed ? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie, as they were wont, seeming- to pray up to heaven ; but with their hands under their cheeks, as if they died of the tootb-aebe. They are not carved with their eyes fix'd upon the stars, but as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully therefore tbe effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk fit for a eharnel. Bos. Now I shall : — 35 the Geneva Bible. 36 petticoat. ?.'! roach. 38 hot milk curdled with liquor. 39 College of Phy- sicians. 40 repository. 41 mummia, a pitchy substance sup- posedly derived from mummies, used as a medicine. 42 curdled. 326 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Enter Executioners, icith a cojfin, cords, and a hell. Here is a present from your princely brothers ; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Buch. Let me see it : I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them good. Bos. This is your last presence-chamber. Cari. my sweet lady ! Buch. Peace ; it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bellman That usually is sent to eondemn'd per- sons The night before they suffer. Buch. Even now thou said'st Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'T was to bring you By degrees to mortification. Listen. Hark, now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud! Much you had of land and rent ; Your length in clay 's now competent : A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make sucli vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error. Their death a hideous storm of terror. Istrew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'T is now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan, and come away. Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas ! ^^^lat win you do with my lady 1— Call for help ! Duch. To whom? To our next neighbors'? They are mad-folks. Bos. Remove that noise.*^ Buch. Farewell, Cariola. In my last will I have not much to give : A many hungry guests have fed upon me; Thine will be a poor reversion. Cari. I will die with her. Buch. I pray thee, look thou giv'st my lit- tle boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. {Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.) Now what you please : What death? Bos. Strangling; here are your execution- ers, Duch. I forgive them : The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs. Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you? Duch. Who would be afraid on 't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world? Bos. Yet, methinks. The manner of your death should much afflict you : This cord should terrify you. Buch. Not a whit : What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With diamonds? or to be smothered With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls ? I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits ; and 't is found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, You may open them both ways : any way, for heaven-sake. So I were out of your whispering ! Tell my brothers That I perceive death, now I am well awake. Best gift is they can give or I can take, I would fain put off my last woman's- fault, I 'd not be tedious to you. 1 Execut. We are ready. Buch. Dispose my breath how please you ; but my body Bestow upon my women, will you? 1 Execut. Yes. Buch. Pull, and pull strongly, for j^our able strength Must pull down heaven upon me : — Yet stay ; heaven-gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees (Kneels). — Come, violent death Serve for mandragora to make me sleep ! — Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. (They strangle her.) 43 i.e. Cariola. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 327 Bos. Where 's the waitmg-woman ? Fetch her: some other strangle the chil- dren. Enter Cariola. Look you, there sleeps your mistress. Cari. 0, you are damn'd Perpetually for this ! My turn is next ; Is 't not so ordered ? Bos. Yes, and I am glad You are so well prepar'd for 't. Cari. You are deceiv'd, sir, I am not prepar'd for 't, I will not die ; I will first come to my answer,^* and know How I have offended. Bos. Come, despatch her. — You kejDt her counsel ; now you shall keep ours. Cari. I will not die, I must not ; I am con- tracted To a young gentleman. 1 Execut. Here 's your wedding-ring. Cari. Let me but speak with the duke : I '11 discover Treason to his person. Bos. Delays : — throttle her. 1 Execut. She bites and sci'atches. Cari. If you kill me now, I am damn'd ; I have not been at con- fession This two years. Bos. [To Executioners.) TNTien ! Cari. I am quick with child. Bos. Why, then, Your credit 's saved. {They strangle Cariola.) Bear her into th' next room ; Let this ■*5 lie still. Exeunt Executioners witli body of Cariola. Enter Ferdinand. Ferd. Is she dead*? Bos. She is what You 'd have her. But here begin your pity : {Shows the Children strangled.) Alas, how have these offended? Ferd. The death Of young wolves is never to be pitied. Bos. Fix your eye here. Ferd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep"? Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. 44 trial. The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young. Bos. I think not so; her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and I were twins; And should I die this instant, I had liv'd Her time to a minute. Bos. It seems she was born first : You have bloodily approv'd the ancient truth, That kindred commonly do >worse agree Than remote strangers. Ferd. Let me see lier face Again. Why didst thou not pity her"? What An excellent honest man niightst thou have been. If thou hadst borne her to some sanctu- ary ! Or, bold in a good cause, — oppos'd thy- self. With thy advanced sword above thy head. Between her innocence and my revenge ! I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits. Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done 't. For let me but examine well the cause : What was the meanness of her match to me? Only I must confess I had a hope. Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd An infinite mass of treasure by her death : And that was the main cause, — her mar- riage. That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart. For thee, as we observe in tragedies That a good actor many times is eurs'd For playing a villain's part, I hate thee for 't, And, for my sake, say thou hast done much ill well. Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive You are falling into ingratitude : I chal- lenge The reward due to my service. Ferd. I '11 tell thee What I '11 give thee. Bos. " Do. Ferd. I '11 give thee a pardon For this murder. Bos. Ha ! Ferd. Yes, and 't is 45 the Duchess's body 328 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD The largest bounty I can study to do thee. By what authority didst thou execute This bloody sentence"? Bos. By yours. Ferd. Mine! Was I her judge? Did any ceremonial form of law Doom her to not-being? Did a complete Deliver her conviction up i' tli' court ? Where shalt thou find this judgment register'd, Unless in, hell? See, like a bloody fool, Thou 'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for 't. Bos. The office of justice is perverted quite When one thief hangs another. Who shall dare To reveal this? Ferd. 0, I'll tell thee; The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up, Not to devour the corpse, but to discover The horrid murder. Bos. You, not I, shall quake for 't. Ferd. Leave me. Bos. I will first receive my pension. Ferd. You are a villain. Bos. When your ingratitude Is judge, I am so. Ferd. horror, That not the fear of him which binds the devils Can prescribe man obedience ! — Never look upon me moi'e. Bos. Why, fare thee well. Your brother and yourself are worthy men ! You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves. Rotten, and rotting others; and your ven- geance. Like two chain'd-bullets, still goes arm in arm : You may be brothers; for treason, like the plague. Doth take much in a blood.**^ I stand like one That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream : I am angry with myself now, that I wake. Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' the world, That I Yaa.y never see thee. Bos. Let me know Wlierefore I should be thus neglected. Sir, I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove To satisfy yourself than all the world : And though I loath'd the evil, yet I lov'd You that did counsel it; and rather sought To appear a true servant than an honest man. Ferd. I '11 go hunt the badger by owl- light : ' 'T is a deed of darkness. Exit. Bos. He 's much distracted. Off, my painted honor! While with vain hopes our faculties we tire. We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire. What would I do, were this to do again? I would not change my peace of eon- science For all the wealth of Europe. — She stii's ; ■^^ here 's life : — Return, fair soul, fi'om darkness, and lead mine Out of this sensible hell ! — she 's warm, she breathes : — Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart. To store them with fresh color. — Who's there? Some cordial drink ! — Alas ! I dare not call : So i^ity would destroy pity. — Her eye opes, And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut. To take me up to mercy. Duch. Antonio ! Bos. Yes, madam, he is living; The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues. He's reconcil'd to your brothers; the Pope hath wrought The atonement. Duch. Mercy ! {Dies.) Bos. 0, she 's gone again ! there the cords of life broke. sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty con- science Is a black i-egister wherein is writ All our good deeds and bad, a perspective That shows us hell ! That we cannot be suffer'd To do good when we have a mind to it ! This is manly sorrow; These tears, I am very certain, never grew In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk Below the degree of fear : where were 46 runs in a family. 47 This revival of the Duchess is reminiscent of Desdeinona's. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 329 These penitent fountains while she was living f O, they were frozen up ! Here is a sight As direful to my soul as is the sword Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I '11 bear thee hence, And execute thy last will : that 's deliver Thy body to the reverend dispose Of some good women : that the cruel tyrant Shall not deny me. Then I '11 post to Milan, Where somewhat I will speedily enact Worth my dejection. Exit with the body. ACT V. Scene 1. 3Iilan. A public place. Enter Antonio and Delia. Ant. What think you of my hope of re- concilement To the Arragonian brethren'? Delio. I misdoubt it ; For though they have sent their letters of safe-conduct For your repair to Milan, they appear But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of Pescara, Under whom you hold certain land in cheat,''8 Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been mov'd To seize those lands; and some of his de- pendants Are at this instant making it their suit To be invested in your revenues. I cannot think they mean well to your life That do deprive you of your means of life, Your living. Ant. You are still an heretic To any safety I can shape myself. Delio. Here comes the marquis: I will make myself Petitioner for some part of your land. To know whither it is flying. Ant. I pray, do. Withdraws. Enter Pescara. Drlio. Sir, I have a suit to you. Pes. To me? Delio. An easy one : There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet, With some demesnes, of late in the pos- session Of Antonio Bologna, — please you bestow them on me. Pes. You are my friend; but this is such a suit, Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take. Delio. No, sir? Pes. I will give you ample reason for 't Soon in private : — here 's the cardinal's mistress. Enter Julia. Julia. My lord, I am grown your poor petitioner. And should be an ill beggar, had I not A great man's letter here, the cardinal's, To court you in my favor. Pes. He entreats for you The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that be- long'd To the banish'd Bologna. Julia. Yes. Pes. I could not have thought of a friend I could rather Pleasure with it : 't is yours. Julia. Sir, I thank you; And he shall know how doubly I am engag'd Both in your gift, and speediness of giv- Which makes your grant the greater. Exit. Ant. How they fortify Themselves with my ruin ! Delio. Sir, I am Little bound to you. Pes. Why ? Delio. Because you deni'd this suit to me, and gave 't To such a creature. Pes. Do you know what it was? It was Antonio's land ; not forfeited By course of law, but ravish'd from his throat By the cardinal's entreaty. It were not fit I should bestow so main a piece of wrong Upon my friend ; 't is a gratification Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice. Shall I sprinkle the pure blood of inno- cents To make those followers I call my friends Look ruddier upon me? I am glad This land, ta'en from the owner by such wrong, 48 in escheat ; reverting to an overlord in the absence of heirs to the possessor. 330 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Returns again unto so foul an use As salaiy for bis lust. Learn, good Delio, To ask noble tbings of me, and you sball find I '11 be a noble giver. Delio. You instruct me well. Ant. Wby, bere 's a man now would f rigiit impudence From sauciest beggars. Pes. Prince Ferdinand 's come to Milan, Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy; But some say 't is a frenzy : I am going To visit him. Exit. Ant. 'T is a noble old fellow. Delio. Wbat course do you mean to take, Antonio ? Ant. Tbis night I mean to venture all my fortune, Which is no more than a poor lingering life, To the cardinal's Avorst of malice. I have got Private access to his chamber; and intend To visit him about the mid of night. As once bis brother did our noble duchess. It may be that the sudden apprehension Of danger, — for I '11 go in mine own shape, — When he shall see it fraught with love and duty. May draw the poison out of him, and work A friendly reconcilement. If it fail. Yet it shall rid me of this infamous call- ing; For better fall once than be ever falling. Delio. I'll second you in all danger; and, howe'er, My life keeps rank with yours. Ant. You are still my lov'd and best friend. Exeunt. Scene 2. A gallery in the Cardinal's palace. Enter Pescara and Doctor. Pes. Now, doctor, may I visit your pa- tient? Doc. If 't please your lordship ; but he 's instantly To take the air here in the gallery By my direction. Pes. Pray thee, what 's his disease? Doc. A very pestilent disease, my lord, They call lycanthropia. Pes. What's that? I need a dictionary to 't. Doc. I '11 tell you. In those that are possess'd with 't there o'erilows Such melancholy humor they imagine Themselves to be transformed into wolves ; Steal forth to church-yards in the dead of night, And dig dead bodies up : as two nights since One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane Behind Saint Mark's church, with the leg of a man Upon his shoulder; and he howl'd fear- . fully; Said he was a wolf, only the difference Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the out- side, His on the inside; bade them take their swords, Rip up his flesh, and try. Straight I was sent for. And, having minister'd to him, found his grace Very well recovered. Pes. I am glad on 't. Doc. Yet not without some fear Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again, I '11 go a nearer way to Avork with him Than ever Paracelsus *^ dream'd of ; if They '11 give me leave, I '11 buffet his mad- ness out of him. Stand aside; he comes. Enter Ferdinand, Cardinal, Malateste, and . Bosola. Ferd. Leave me. Mai, Why doth your lordship love this solitariness? Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone : they are crows, daws, and starlings that flock to- gether. Look, what 's that follows me? Mai. Nothing, my lord. Ferd. Yes. Mai. 'T is your shadow. Ferd. Stay it ; let it not haunt me. Mai. Impossible, if you move, and the sun shine. Ferd. I will throttle it. (Throtvs himself doion on his shadow.) Mai. O, my lord, you are angiy with noth- ing. Ferd. You are a fool : bow is 't possible I should catch my shadow, unless I fall 49 a famous physician and alchemist of the sixteenth century. THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 331 upon't? When I go to bell, I mean to carry a bribe ; for, look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst per- sons. Pes. Rise, good my lord. Ferd. I am studying the art of patience. Pes. 'T is a noble virtue. Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this town to Moscow; neither use goad nor whip to them, but let them take their own time; — the patient'st man i' th' world match me for an experiment: — an I '11 crawl after like a sheep-biter.^° Card. Force him up. {They raise him.) Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What I have done, I have done : I '11 confess nothing. Doc. Now let me come to him. — Are you mad, my lord*? Are you out of your princely wits'? Ferd. What's he ertram to Helena. A somewliat similar attitude is conceivable to- yward Oriana, the heroine of Fletcher's ^Yild^ >(/ Goose Chase. We might cavil, "The VVild- Goose wasn't worth chasing"; Fletcher's re- ply would be, " That 's not the question — wasn't the chase amusing?" Without con- doning a freedom of speech and insinuation impossible to modern taste, we may avoid the error of judging too severely Fletcher's light- hearted representation of the triple man- hunt. To apply the test of morality to this play is to break a butterlly on a wheel. It is a perfect specimen of light comedy as prac- tised by the wittiest and cleverest writer of it in the Elizabethan period. Comedy of manners in any strict sense The Wild-Cloose (Jkase is not. Fletcher makes no effort to hold the mirror up to nature; and sliow " the very age and body of the time his form and pressure." There is here little observa- tion of English life, and no particular at- tempt to portray manners exactly. In others of his comedies, in Monsieur Thomas and Wit tvithout Money, for example, Fletcher ap- proaclies reality more closely. Nor is the play liigh comedy, as the term is sometimes applied to the Shakespearean romantic comedy like Much Ado, for that involves an idealization and a depth of characterization wanting here. It is only necessary to re- llect upon the different impressions which Oriana and Viola or Rosalind make on us to perceive the difference; the situations are not dissimilar, but the glamour, the bloom of romance, the ideal reality, so to speak, of the Shakespearean work are altogether lack- ing. Although the influence of tlie Jon- sonian liumor comedy is evident in a figiu'e like Belleur, comedy of humors presupposes a satirist's point of view, which Fletcher has 340 not. Comedy of intrigue it might be called, tliough the name is too inclusive to be of much help in attemjiting a definition. The sole i)urpose of this play is to entertain, and light comedy is perhaps as good a name as can be found to describe it. / As in Philaster, the main interest of the play is in plot rather than in the characters. The plot is much slighter, but there is the same ingenuity of complication, the same use of surprise and sus})ense, the same develop- ment of episode at the expense of character, as for instance when Oriana reveals herself at the end of act IV. That part of the action, indeed, in whicli Oriana feigns madness in order to move Mirabel's heart to pity, the soft prelude to love, is strongly reminiscent )of the method of tragicomedy. Neither the other cliaracters nor the audience are let into Oriana's secret: she confesses that none set her on, " nor any knew or even dreamed " what she meant. Her adlierents and sympa- thizers are as thoroughly deceived as Mira- bel, and Fletcher plays on their emotions, and ours, to beguile us into a false sympathy which he exploits to its utmost before laugh- ing it away. In this respect, the situation differs from the rest of the series of tricks composing the plot, for in all tlie others we are forewarned and are thus in a position to get the full comic flavor of the play of cross- purposes. The general criticism might be made of the plot tluit tlie scheming is rather too obvious. It is credible that Mirabel should have been deceived once, even twice, but that he should for a third time be hood- winked passes belief. The devices employed by each side, moreover, are so much of one kind that the artificiality of structure is as apparent as in the case of Mother Bombie. The Wild-Goose is finally caught by the same sort of disguise that he liad once before un- masked, and that he had himself unsuccess- fully tried when he tricked out his English courtesan as a fine lady to advance Pinac in Lillia Bianca's esteem. It is, however, un- reasonable to demand that work so obviously intended merely for diversion should stand, close inspection, and the action moves for- ward so clearly througli its plots and counter- plots, the pace is so brisk and the interest so unflagging, that we are willing for the " two hours' traffic of the stage " to accept the story at its face value. Dryden in a well-known passage in the Es- say of Dramatic I'ocsy says of Beaumont and JOHN FLETCHER 341 FluU-lier: "They understood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen much better [than ShalvespeareJ ; whose wild debaucheries and 4uici like. I never lov'd to prove those; nor never long'd yet To be buried alive in another man's cold monument. And there be maids appearing, and maids being; The appearing are fantastic thing-s, mere shadows ; And, if you mark 'em well, they want their heads, too ; Only the world, to cozen -^ misty eyes, Has clapt 'em on new faces : the maids being A man may venture on, if he be so mad to marry. If he have neither fear before his eyes, nor fortune ; And let him take heed how he gather these too; For, look ye, father, they are just like melons, Musk-melons are the emblems of these maids ; Now they are ripe, now cut 'em, they taste pleasantly, And are a dainty fruit, digested easily; Neglect this pi'esent time, and come to- morrow. They are so ripe they are rotten gone, their sweetness Run into humor, aiul their taste to sur- feit. La Cast. Wliy, these are now ripe, son. Mir. I '11 try them presently. And, if I like their taste La Cast. 'Pray ye, please yourself, sii'. Mir. That liberty is my due, and I '11 maintain it. — Lady, what think you of a handsome man now ? Eos. A wholesome too, sir"? Mir. That 's as you make your bar- gain. A handsome, wholesome man, then, and a kind man. To cheer your heart up, to rejoice you, lady? Ros. Yes, sir, I love rejoicing. Mir. To lie close to you? Close as a cockle? Keep the cold nights from ye? Ros. That will be look'd for too; our bodies ask it. Mir. And get two boys at every birth ? Ros. " * That''s nothing? I have known a cobbler do it, a poor thin cobbler, 21 cheat. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 349 A cobbler out of moldy cheese perforin it, Cabbage, and coarse black bread. Me- Ihinks, a gentleman Should take foul scorn to have an awl outname — him. Two at a birth ! Why, every house-dove has it. That man that feeds well, promises as well too, I should expect indeed something of worth from. You talk of two ! Mir. (Aside.) She would have me get two dozen, Like buttons, at a birth. Eos. You love to brag, sir. If you proclaim these offers at your mar- riage, (You are a pretty-timber'd man, take heed, ) They may be taken hold of, and expected. Yes, if not hoped for at a higher rale too. 3Iir. I will take heed, and thank ye for your counsel. Father, what think you? La Cast. 'T is a merry gentlewoman ; Will make, no doubt, a good wife. Mir. Not for me. I marry her, and, happily,-^ get nothing; In what a state am I then, father? I shall suffer. For any thing I hear to the contrary, more majorum; I were as sure to be a cuckold, father, A gentleman of antler La Cast. Away, away, fool ! Mir. As I am sure to fail her expectation. I had rather get the i^ox than get her babies. La Cast. Ye are much to blame. If this do not affect -^ ye, Pray, try the other; she's of a more de- mure way. Bel. (Aside.) That I had but the audac- ity to talk thus ! I love that plain-spoken gentlewoman ad- mirably ; And, certain, I could go as near to please her. If down-right doing — she has a per'lous countenance — If I could meet one that would believe me, And take my honest meaning without circumstance Mir. You shall have your will, sir; I will try the other; But 'twill be to small use. — I hope, fair lady, (For, methinks, in your eyes I see more mercy,) You will enjoin your lover a less penance ; And though I '11 promise much, as men are liberal. And vow an ample sacrifice of service, Yet your discretion, and your tenderness. And Ihriftiness in love, good huswife's carefulness To keep the stock entire Lil. Good sir, speak louder, That these may witness, too, you talk of nothing. I should be loth alone to bear the bur- den Of so much indiscretion. Mir. Hark ye, hark ye ! 'Ods-bobs, you arc angry, lady. Lit. Angi-y ! no, sir; I never own'd an anger to lose poorly. Mir. But you can love, for all this; and delight too, For all your set austerity to hear Of a good husband, lady? Lil. You say true, sir; For, by my troth, I have heard of none these ten years. They are so rare ; and there are so many, sir. So many longing women on their knees too. That pray the dropping-down of these good husbands — The dropping-down from heaven; for they are not bred here — That you may guess at all my hope, but hearing Mir. Why may not I be one? Lil. You were near 'em once, sir. When ye came o'er the Alps; those are near heaven. But since ye niiss'd that hapi^iness, there 's no hope of ye, Mir. Can ye love a man? Lil. Yes, if the man be lovely. That is, be honest, modest. I would have him valiant. His anger slow, but certain for his honor; Travel'd he should be, but through him- self exactly. For 't is fairer to know manners well than countries. He must be no vain talker, nor no lover 22 exceed. 23 haply. 24 please. 350 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD To hear himself talk; they are brags of a wanderer, Of one finds no retreat for fair behavior. Would ye learn more? 3£ir. Yes. Lil. Learn to hold your peace, then : Fond -^ girls are got with tongues, women with tempers. Mir. Women, with I know what; but let that vanish. Go thy way, good-wife Bias ! '° Sure, thy husband Must have a strong philosopher's stone, he will ne'er please thee else. — Here 's a stareh'd piece of austerity ! — Do you hear, father f Do you hear this moral lecture'? La Cast. Yes, and like it. Idir. Why, there's your judgment now; there 's an old bolt shot ! This thing must have the strangest ob- servation,-^ (Do you mark me, father?) when she is married once, The strangest custom too of admiration On all she does and speaks, 't will be past sufferance. I must not lie with her in common lan- guage. Nor cry, "Have at thee, Kate !" — I shall be hiss'd then ; Nor eat my meat without the sauce of sentences,-^ Your powder'd -^ beef and problems, a rare diet ! My first son. Monsieur Aristotle, I know it. Great master of the metaphysics, or so ; The second, Solon, and the best law-set- ter; And I must look ^'^ Egyptian god-fathers, Which will be no small trouble; mj' eld- est daughter, Sapijho, or such a fiddling kind of poetess, And brought up, invita Minerva,^^ at her needle ! My dogs must look their names too, and all Spartan, Lelaps, Melampus; no more Fox and Bawdy-face. I married to a sullen set of sentences ! To one that weighs her words and her behaviors In the gold-weights ^- of discretion ! T 'U be hang'd fii'st. La Cast. Prithee, reclaim thyself. Mir. Pray ye, give me time, then. If they can set me any thing to play at, That seems fit for a gamester, have at the fairest, Till I see more, and try more ! La Cast. Take your time, then; I '11 bar ye no fair liberty. — Come, gen- tlemen ; And ladies, come; to all, once more, a welcome ! And, now let 's in to supper. Exeunt La Castre, Nantolet, Lugier, Rosa- lura, and Lillia Bianca. Mir. How dost like 'emf Pin. They are fair enough, but of so strange behaviors — Mir. Too strange for me. I must have those have mettle, And mettle to my mind. Come, let 's be merry. Bel. Bless me from this woman ! I would stand the cannon, Before ten words of hers. Exeunt Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. De Card. Do you find him nowf Do you think he will be ever firm ? Ori. I fear not. Exeunt. ACT IL Scene 1. A garden belonging to the house of La Castre. Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. Mir. Ne'er tell me of this happiness ; 't is nothing ; The state ^^ they bring with being sought-to, scurvy: I had rather make mine own play, and I will do. My happiness is in mine own content, And the despising of such glorious ^* trifles. As I have done a thousand more. For my humor. Give me a good free fellow, that sticks to me, A jovial fair companion ; there 's a beauty ! For women, I can have too many of them ; Good Avomen too, as the age reckons 'em, More than I have employment for. 25 foolish. 26 One of the "Seven Sages" of ancient Greece. 27 devoted attention. 28 maxims. 20 salted. 30 look for. ai against her will. 32 most 3xact bal- ances. 33 estate. 34 vain-glorious. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 351 Pin. You ai'e happy. Blir. My only fear is, that I must be forced, Against my nature, to conceal myself : Health and an able body are two jewels. Pin. If either of these two women were offered to me now, I would think otherwise, and do accord- ingly; Yes, and recant my heresies ; I would, sir ; And be more tender of opinion. And put a little of my travel'd liberty Out of the way, and look upon 'em seri- ously. Methinks, this grave-carried wench — Bel. Methinks, the other, The home-spoken gentlewoman, that de- sires to be fruitful, That treats of the full manage of the matter, (For there lies all my aim), that wench, methinks, If I were but well set on, for she is affable, If I were but hounded ^^ right, and one to teach me — She speaks to th' matter, and comes home to th' point — Now do I know I have such a body to please her As all the kingdom cannot fit her with, I am sure on 't, If I could but talk myself into her favor. Mir. That 's easily done. Bel. That 's easily said ; would 't were done ! You should see then how I would lay about me. If I were virtuous, it would never grieve me. Or any thing that might justify my mod- esty ; But when my nature is prone to do a chaiity, And my calf's tongue will not help me — Mir. Will ye go to 'em ? They cannot but take it courteously. Pin. I '11 do my part. Though I am sui-e 't will be the hardest I e'er play'd yet, A way I never tried too, which \vill stag- ger me ; And, if it do not shame me, I am happy. Mir. Win 'em, and wear 'em ; I give up my interest. Pin. What say you, Monsieur Eelleur'? Bel. Would I could say, 35 set on. Or sing, or any thing that were but hand- some ! I would be with her presently ! Pin. Yours is no venture; A merry ready wench. Bel. A vengeance squibber ; ^^ She '11 fleer me out of faith too. Mir. 1 '11 be near thee ; Pluck ui? thy heart ; I '11 second thee at all brunts. Be angry, if she abuse thee, and beat her a little; Some women are won that way, Bel. Pray, be quiet. And let me think : I am resolv'd to go on ; But how I shall get off again — Mir. 1 am persuaded Thou wilt so please her, she will go n^ar to ravish thee. Bel. I would 't were come to that once ! Let me pi^Y a little. Mir. Now, for thine honor, Pinac, board me this modesty; Warm but this frozen snow-ball, 't will be a ctmquest (Although I know thou art a fortunate wencher, And hast done rarely in thy days) above all thy ventures. Bel. You will be ever near"? Mir. At all necessities; And take thee off, and set thee on again, boy, And cherish thee, and stroke thee. Bel. Help me out too; For I know I shall stick i' th' mire. If you see us close once, Be gone, and leave me to my fortune, sud- denly. For I am then determin'd to do won- ders. Farewell, and fling an old shoe. How my heart throbs! Would I were drunk! Farewell, Pinac; Heaven send us A joyful and a merry meeting, man ! Pin. Farewell, And cheer thy heart up; and remember, Belleur, They are but women. Bel. I had rather they were lions. Mir. About it ; I '11 be with you in- stantly. — Exeunt Belleur and Pinac. Enter Oriana. Shall I ne'er be at rest? No peace of conscience'? 36 sarcastic jester. 352 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD No quiet for these creatures'? Am I or- daiu'd To be devour'd quick ^' by these she- cannibals? Here's another they call handsome; I care not for her, I ne'er look after her. When I am half- tippled, It may be I should turn her, and peruse her; Or, in my want of women, I might call for her; But to be haunted wlien I have no fancy, No maw to th' matter — Now, why do you follow me? OrL I hope, sir, 't is no blemish to my virtue ; Nor need you, out of scruple, ask that question. If you remember ye, before your travel, The contract you tied to me. 'T is my love, sir. That makes me seek ye, to confirm your memory ; And, that being fair and good, I cannot suffer. I come to give ye thanks, too. Mir. For what, prithee"? Ori. For that fair piece of honesty you show'd sir, That constant nobleness. Mir. How? for I am short -headed.^^ Ori. I '11 tell you then ; for refusing that free offer Of Monsieur Nantolet's, those handsome beauties, Those two prime ladies, that might well have press'd ye If not to have broken, yet to have bow'd your promise. I know it was for my sake, for your faith- sake. You slipt 'em off ; your honesty compell'd ye; And let me tell ye, sir, it show'd most handsomely. Mir. And let me tell thee, there was no such matter; Nothing intended that way, of that na- ture. I have more to do with my honesty than to fool it, Or venture it in such leak barks as women. I put 'em off because I lov'd 'em not, Because they are too queasy^" for my temper, 37 alive. 3" critical. 38 short of memory. And not for thy sake, nor the contract- sake, Nor vows, nor oaths; I have made a thou- sand of 'em; They are things indifferent, whether kept or broken ; Mere venial slips, that grow not near the conscience ; Nothing concerns those tender parts; they are trifles ; For, as I think, there was never man yet hop'd for Either constancy or secrecy from a woman, Unless it were an ass ordain'd for suf- ferance; Nor to contract with such can be a tie-all. So let them know again ; for 't is a justice And a main point of civil policy, '\^^iate'er we say or swear, they being reprobates. Out of the state of faith, we are clear of all sides,4o And 't is a curious blindness to believe us. Ori. You do not mean this, sure? Mir. Yes, sure, and certain; And hold it positively, as a principle. As ye are strange things, and made of strange tires and fluxes, So we are allow'd as strange ways to ob- tain ye. But not to hold ; we are all created errant. Ori. You told me other tales. 3Iir. I not deny it ; I have tales of all sorts for all sorts of women. And protestations likewise of all sizes. As they have vanities to make us cox- combs. If I obtain a good turn, so it is, I am thankful for it ; if I be made an ass. The 'mends are in mine own hands, or the surgeon's, And there 's an end on 't. Ori. Do not you love me, then? Mir. As I love others ; heartily I love thee ; When I am high and lusty, I love thee cruelly. After I have made a plenteous meal, and satisfied My senses with all delicates, come to me. And tbou shalt see how I love thee. Ori. Will not you marry me? Mir. No, certain, no, for any thing I know yet. I must not lose my liberty, dear lady, ■10 An oath made to an unbeliever need not be kept. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 353 And, like a wanton slave, cry for more shackles. What should I marry for? Do I want any thing? Am I an inch the farther from my plea- sure ? Why should I be at charge to keep a wife of mine own, When other honest married men will ease me, And thank me too, and be beholding to me? Thou think'st I am mad for a maiden- head ; thou art cozen'd : Or, if I were addicted to that diet. Can you tell me where I should have one? Thou art eighteen now, And, if thou hast thy maidenhead yet extant, Sure, 'tis as big as cods-head; and those grave dishes I never love to deal withal. Dost thou see this book here? Look over all these ranks; all these are women, Maids, and pretenders to maidenheads; these are my conquests; All these I swore to marry, as I swore to thee. With the same reservation, and most righteously : Which I need not have done neither; for, alas, they made no scruple, And I enjoy'd 'em at my will, and left 'em. Some of 'em are married since, and were as pure maids again. Nay, o' my conscience, better than they were bred for; The rest, fine sober Avomen. Ori. Are ye not ashamed, sir? Mir. No, by my troth, sir;'*i there's no shame belongs to it ; I hold it as commendable to be wealthy in pleasure, As others do in rotten sheep and pasture. Enter De Gard. Is Ori. Are all my hopes come to this there no faith. No troth, nor modesty, in men? (Weeps.) Be Gard. How now, sister? Why weeping thus? Did I not proph- "esy? Come, tell me why — 41 formerly addressed to women also. 42 boastfully. Ori. I am not well; pray ye pardon me. Exit. De Gard. Now, Monsieur Mirabel, what ails my sister? You have been playing the wag with her. Mir. As I take it, She is crying for a cod-piece. Is she gone ? Lord, what an age is this ! I was calling for ye ; For, as I live, I thought she would have ravish'd me. De Gard. Ye are meriy, sir. Mir. Thou know'st this book, De Gard, this inventory? De Gard. The debt-book of your mis- tresses ; I remember it. Mir. Why, this was it that anger'd her; she was stark mad She found not her name here ; and cried downright Because I would not pity her immediately, And put her in my list. De Gard. Sure, she had more modesty. Mir. Their modesty is anger to be over- done ; They '11 quarrel sooner for precedence here. And take it in more dudgeon to be slighted. Than they will in public meetings ; 't is their natures : And, alas, I have so many to despatch yet, And to provide myself for my affairs too. That, in good faith — De Gard. Be not too glorious '^^ foolish; Sum not your travels up with vanities; It ill becomes your expectation.*^ Temper your speech, sir: whether your loose story Be true or false (for you are so free, I fear" it), _ Name not my sister in 't; I must not hear it. Upon your danger, name her not! I hold her A gentlewoman of those happy parts and carriage, A good man's tongue may be right proud to speak her. Mir. Your sister, sir ! D' ye blench at that? D'ye cavil? Do you hold her such a piece she may not be play'd withal? 43 our expectation of you. 44 suspect. 354 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD I have had an hundred handsomer and nobler Have su'd to me, too, for such a courtesy ; Your sister comes i' the rear. Since ye are so angry. And hold your sister such a strong re- cusant,'*^ I tell ye, I may do it ; and, it may be, will too; It may be, have too ; there 's my free con- fession; Work upon that now ! Be Gard. If I thought ye had, I would work. And work such stubborn work should make your heart ache : But I believe ye, as I ever knew ye, A glorious talker, and a legend-maker Of idle tales and trilles; a depraver Of your own truth : their honors fly about ye! And so, I take my leave; but with this caution, Your sword be surer than your tongue; you '11 smart else. 31ir. I laugh at thee, so little I respect thee; And I'll talk louder, and despise thy sis- ter; Set up a chamber-maid that shall outshine her. And carry her in my coach too, and that will kill her. Go, get thy rents up, go ! De Gard. Ye are a fine gentleman ! Exit. Mir. Now, have at my two youths ! I '11 see how they do, How they behave themselves; and then I '11 study What wench shall love me next, and when I '11 lose her. Exit. Scene 2. A hall in Nantolet's house. Enter Pinac and Servant. Pin. Art thou her servant, sayest thou? Serv. Her poor creature ; But servant to her horse, sir. Pin. Canst thou show me The way to her chamber, or where I may conveniently See her, or come to talk to her? Serv. That I can, sir; But the question is, whether I will or no. Pin. Why, I '11 content thee. Serv. Why, I '11 content thee, then ; now ye come to me. Pin. There 's for your diligence. {Gives money.) Serv. There 's her chamber, sir, And this way she comes out ; stand ye but here, sir. You have her at your prospect or your pleasure. Pin. Is she not very angry? Serv. You '11 tind that quickly. May be she '11 call ye saucy, scurvy fel- low. Or some such familiar name; may be she knows ye And will fling a piss-pot at ye, or a pantofle,^*^ According as ye are in acquaintance. If she like ye, May be she '11 look upon ye ; may be no ; And two months hence call for ye. Pin. This is fine. She is monstrous proud, then ? Serv. She is a little haughty ; Of a small body, she has a mind well mounted. Can ye speak Greek? Pin. No, certain. Serv. Get ye gone, then ! — And talk of stars, and firmaments, and fire-drakes ? Do you remember who was Adam's schoolmaster. And who taught Eve to spin? She knows all these. And will run ye over the beginning o' tli' world As familiar as a fiddler. Can ye sit seven hours together, and say nothing? Which she will do, and, when she speaks, speak oracles, SjDeak things that no man understands, nor herself neither. Pin. Thou mak'st me wonder. Serv. Can ye smile? Pin. Yes, willingly; For naturally I bear a mirth about me. Serv. She '11 ne'er endure ye, then ; she is never merr>'; If she see one laugh, she '11 swound past aqua vitae. Never come near her, sir; if ye chance to venture, 45 rebel. 46 slipper. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 355 And talk nut like a doctor, you are damn'd too. I have told ye enough for your crown, and so, good speed ye ! Exit. Pin. I have a pretty task, if she be thus curious,'* '^ As, sure, it seems she is! If I fall off now, I shall be laugh'd at fearfully; if I go forward, I can but be abus'd, and that I look for; And yet I may hit right, but 'tis un- likely. Stay: in what mood and fig:ure shall T attempt her? A careless way? No, no, that will not waken her: Besides, her gravity will give me line still, And let me lose myself: yet this way often Has hit, and handsomely. A wanton method? Aye, if she give it leave to sink into her consideration : But there 's the doubt : if it but stir her blood once, And creep into the crannies of her fancy. Set her a-g:og"; — but, if she chance to slight it. And by the power of her modesty tling it back, I shall api>ear the arrant'st rascal to her, The most licentious knave, for I shall talk lewdly. To bear myself austerely? Rate"* my words? And fling a general gravity about me. As if I meant to give laws? But this I cannot do. This is a way above my understanding; Or, if I could, 't is odds she Ml think I mock her; For serious and sad things are ever still suspicious. Well, I '11 say something : But learning I have none, and less good manners, Especially for ladies. Well, I '11 set my best face. Enter Lillia Bianca and Petella. I hear some coming. This is the first woman I ever fear'd yet, the first face that shakes me. (Retires.) 47 captious. Lil. Give me my hat, Petella; take this veil off. This sullen cloud; it darkens my delights. Come, wench, be free, and let the music warble : — Play me some lusty measure. {Music within, to which presently Lillia dances. ) Pin. (Aside.) This is she, sure, The very same I saw, the very woman, The gravity I wonder'd at. Stay, stay; Let me be sure. Ne'er trust me, but she danceth ! Summer is in her face now, and she skijD- peth ! I 'II go a little nearer. Lil. Quicker lime, fellows! Enter Mirabel, and remains at the side of the stage. I cannot find my legs yet — Now, Petella ! Pin. (Aside.) I am amaz'd ; I am found- er'd in my fancy ! Mir. (Aside.) Ha! say you so? Is this your gravity? This the austerity you put upon you? I '11 see more o' this sport. Lil. A song now ! Call in for a merry and a light song; And sing it with a liberal spirit. Enter a Man. Man. Yes, madam. Lil. And be not amaz'd, sirrah, but take us for your own company. — (^-1 song by the Man, and exit.) Let's walk ourselves; come, wench. Would we had a man or two ! Pin. (Aside.) Sure, she has spied me, and Avill abuse me dreadfully. She has put on this for the purpose : yet I will try her. — (Advances.) Madam, I would be loth my rude intru- sion. Which I must crave a pardon for — Lil. Oh, ye are welcome, Ye are very welcome, sir! We want such a one. Strike up again! — I dare presume ye dance well: Quick, quick, sir, quick! the time steals on. Pin. I would talk with you. LiL Talk as ye dance. (They dance.) 48 weigh, 356 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mir. She '11 beat him I am lesson'd. Give roe (Aside.) off his leg's first. This is the finest masque ! Lil. Now, how do ye, sir? Pin. You have given me a shrewd lieat. Lil. I '11 give ye a hundred. Come, sing now, sing : for I know ye sing well; I see ye have a singing face. Pin. (Aside.) A fine modesty! If I could, she 'd never give me breath. — Madam, would I might sit and recover! Lil. Sit here, and sing now ; Let 's do things quickly, sir, and hand- somely. — Sit close, wench, close. — Begin, begin. Pin. (A song.) Lil. 'T is very pretty, i' faith. some wine now. Pin. I would fain speak to you. Lil. You shall drink first, believe me. Here 's to ye a lusty health. (They drink.) Pin. I thank ye, lady. — (Aside.) Would I were off: again! I smell my misery; I was never put to this rack: I shall be drunk too. Blir. (Aside.) If thou be'st not a right one, I have lost muie aim much : I thank Heaven that I have scap'd thee. To her, Pinac ! For thou art as sure to have her, and to groan for her. — I '11 see how my other youth does ; this speeds trimly. A fine grave gentlewoman, and worth much honor! Exit. Lil. Now, how do ye like me, sir "? Pin. I like ye rarely. Lil. Ye see, sir, though sometimes we are grave and silent. And put on sadder dispositions, Yet Ave are compounded of free parts, and sometimes too Our lighter, aiiy, and our fiery mettles Break out, and show themselves: and what think you of that, sir? Pin. Good lady, sit (for I am vei-y weary), And then I '11 tell ye. Lil. Fie ! a young man idle ! Up, and walk ; be still in action ; The motions of the body are fair beau- ties; 'Ods sir, let 's Besides, 't is cold. walk faster! What think ye now of the Lady Felicia'? And Bellafronte, the duke's fair daugh- ter? ha! Are they not handsome things? There is Duarta, And brown Olivia — Pin. I know none of 'em. Lil. But brown must not be cast away, sir. If young Lelia Had kept herself till this day from a hus- band. Why, what a beauty, sir! You know Is men a. The fair gem of Saint-Germains? Pin. By my troth, I do not. Lil. And, then, I know, you must hear of Brisac, How unlike a gentleman — Pin. As I live, I have heard nothing, Lil. Strike me another galliard ! *^ , Pin. By this light, I cannot ! In troth, I have sprain'd my leg, madam. Lil. Now sit ye down, sir. And tell me why ye came hither? Why ye chose me out ? What is your business? Your errand? Desjoatch, despatch. Maybe, you are some gentleman's man, and I mistook ye. That have brought me a letter, or a haunch of venison. Sent me from some friend of mine. Pin. Do I look like a carrier? You might allow me, what I am, a gen- tleman. Lil. Ciy ye mercy, sir! I saw ye yester- day; You are new-come out of travel; I mis- took ye. And how do all our impudent friends in Italy? Pin. Madam, I came with duty, and fair courtesy. Service, and honor to ye. Lil. Ye came to jeer me. Ye see I am merry, sir; I have chang'd my copy ; None of the sages now : and, pray ye, pro- claim it. Fling on me what aspersion you shall please, sir, Of wantonness or wUdness ; I look for it ; And tell the world I am an hypocrite, Mask in a forc'd and borrow'd shape; I expect it; 49 a lively dance. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 357 But not to have you believ'd: for, mark ye, sir, I have won a nobler estimation, A stronger tie, by my discretion. Upon opinion (howe'er you think I fore'd itj Than either tongue or art of yours can slubber; ^° And, when I please, I will be what I please, sir, So I exceed not mean;^^ and none shall brand it. Either with sconi or shame, but shall be slighted. Pin. Lady, I come to love ye. Lil. Love yourself, sir; And, when I want observers,^- I '11 send for ye. Heig"h-ho ! my tit 's almost off ; for we do all by fits, sir. If ye be weary, sit till I come again to ye. Exit tcitJi Petella. Pin. This is a wench of a dainty spirit ; but Hang me, if I know yet either what to think Or make of her. She had her will of me. And baited me abundantly, 1 thank her ; And, I confess, I never was so blurted, ^^ Nor never so abus'd. I must bear mine own sins. Ye talk of travels ; here 's a curious coun- try! Yet I will find her out, or forswear my faculty. Exit. Scene 3. A garden belonging to the house of Nantolet, with a summer-house in the hack-ground. Enter Rosalura, Oriana, and a Maid. Ros. Ne'er vex yourself, nor grieve; ye are a fool, then. Ori. I am sure I am made so: yet, before I suffer Thus like a girl, and give him leave to tri- umph — Ros. You say right; for, as long as he perceives ye Sink under his proud scornings, he '11 laugh at ye. For me, secure yourself; and, for my sister, I partly know her mind too: howsoever. To obey my father, we have made a tender Of our poor beauties to the travel'd mon- sieur; Yet two words to a bargain. He slights us As skittish things, and we shun him as curious. May be, my free behavior turns his stom- ach. And makes him seem to doubt a loose opinion.''^ I must be so sometimes, though all the world saw it. Ori. Why should not ye"? Are our minds only ineasur'd? As long as here ye stand secure — Ros. Ye say true; As long as mine own conscience makes no question. What care I for report? That woman 's miserable. That 's good or bad for their tongues* sake. Come, let 's retire. And get my veil, wench. (Exit Maid.) By my troth, your sorrow. And the consideration of men's humorous maddings. Have put me into a serious contempla- tion. Enter Mirabel and Belleur, on one side. Ori. Come, faith, let 's sit and think. Ros. That 's all my business. Mir. Why stand'st thou peeping here? Thou great slug, forward ! Bel. She is there; peace! Mir. Why stand'st thou here, then, Sneaking and peeking as thou wouldst steal linen? Hast thou not place and time? Bel. I had a rare speech Studied, and almost ready; and your violence Has beat it out of my brains. Mir. Hang your rare speeches! Go me on like a man. Bel. Let me set my beard up. How has Pinae performed? Mir. He has won already; He stands not thrumming of ^^ caps thus. Bel. Lord, what should I ail ! What a cold I have over my stomach! Would I had some hum ! ^^ 50 soil. 51 moderation. 52 admirers at a dis- tance. 53 flouted. 54 reputation. 65 fiddling with. 56 unusually strong ale. 358 THE ELIZABETHAl^ PERIOD Certain I have a great mind to be at her, A mighty mind. Mir. On, fool! Bel. Good words, I beseech ye ; For I will not be abus'd by both. Mir. Adieu, then (I will not trouble you; I see you are valiant) ; And work your own way. Bel. Hist, hist ! I will be rul'd ; I will, i' faith ; I will go presently. Will ye forsake me now, and leave me i' th' suds'? You know I am false-hearted this way, I beseech ye. Good sweet Mirabel — I '11 cut your throat, if ye leave me, Indeed I will — sweet-heart — Mir. I will be ready, Still at thine elbow. Take a man's heart to thee. And speak thy mind ; the ]ilainer still the better. She is a woman of that free behavior. Indeed, that common courtesy, she cannot deny thee. Go bravely on. Bel. Madam — keep close about me, Still at my back — Madam, sweet madam — Ros. Ha ! What noise is that"? What saucy sound to trouble me"? Mir, What said she^ Bel. I am saucy. Mir. 'T is the better. Bel. She comes; must I be saucy still '? Mir. More saucy. Ros. Still troubled with these vanities'? Heaven bless us ! What are we born to"? — Would you speak with any of my people f Go in, sir; I am busy. Bel. This is not she, sure : Is this two children at a birth "? I '11 be hang'd, then : Mine was a merry gentlewoman, talk'd daintily, Talk'd of those matters that befitted women ; This is a parcel prayer-book.^^ I 'm serv'd sweetly! And now I am to look to; I was prepar'd for th' other way. Ros. Do you know that man"? Ori. Sure, I have seen him, lady. 57 partly a prayer-book. Ros. Methinks 't is a pity such a lusty fel- low Should wander up and down, and want employment. Bel. She takes me for a rogue ! — You may do well, madam, To stay this wanderei', and set him a-work, forsooth ; He can do something that may ]ilease your ladyship. I have heard of women that desire good breedings. Two at a birth, or so. Ros. The fellow 's impudent. Ori. Sure, he is craz'd. Ros. I have heard of men too that have had good manners. Sure, this is want of grace : indeed, 't is great pity The young man has been bred so ill; but this lewd age Is full of such examples. Bel. I am founder'd. And some shall rue the setting of me on. Mir. Ha! so bookish, lady"? Is it pos- sible"? Tnrn'd holy at the heart too? I'll be hang'd then : Why, this is such a feat, such an activity, Such fast and loose ! ^** A veil too for your knavei-y'? Enter Maid with veil. Bio, Bio! Ros. What do you take me for, sir'? Mir. An hypocrite, a wanton, a dissembler, Howe'er ye seem ; and thus ye are to be handled ! — Mark me, Belleur; — and this you love, I know it. Ros. Stand off, bold sir! Mir. You wear good clothes to this end, Jewels; love feasts and masques. Ros. Ye are monstrous saucy. Mir. All this to draw on fools : and thus, thus, lady, {Attempts to remove the veil.) You are to be lull'd. Bel. Let her alone, I '11 swinge ye else, 1 will, i' faith ! for, though I cannot skill o' this matter Myself, I will not see another do it be- fore me, And do it worse. Ros. Away ! ye are a vain thing. 58 Fiist and loose was an old cheating game; hence shiftiness. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 359 You have travel'd far, sir, to return again A windy and poor bladder. You talk of women, That are not worth the favor of a com- mon one, The grace of her grew in an hospital ! Against a thousand such blown ^^ fool- eries I am able to maintain good women's honors, Their freedoms, and their fames, and I will do it. — Mir. She has almost struck me dumb too. Ros. And declaim Against your base malicious tongues, your noises, For they are nothing else. You teach be- haviors ! Or touch us for our freedoms ! Teach yourselves manners, Truth and sobriety, and live so clearly That our lives may shine in ye; and then task*'" us. It seems ye are hot; the suburbs '^^ will su])ply ye : Good women scorn such gamesters. So, I '11 leave ye. I am sorry to see this: faith, sir, live fairly. Exit with Oriana. Mir. This woman, if she hold on, may be virtuous ; 'T is almost possible : we '11 have a new day. Bel. Ye brought me on, ye forc'd me to this foolery, I am sham'd, I am scom'd, I am flurted ; ^"^ yes, I am so ; Though I cannot talk to a woman like your worship, And use my phrases and my learned figures, Yet I can fight with any man. Mir. Fie ! Bel. I can, sir; And I will fight. Mir. With whom f Bel. With you; with any man; For all men now will laugh at me. Mir. Prithee, be moderate. Bel. And I '11 beat all men. Come. Mir. I love thee dearly. Bel. I will beat all that love ; love has un- done me. Never tell me ; I will not be a history. Mir. Thou art not. Bel. 'Sfoot, I will not! Give me room. And let me see the proudest of ye jeer me ; And I '11 begin with you first. Mir. Prithee, Belleur — If I do not satisfy thee — Bel. Well, look ye do. But, now I think on 't better, 't is im- possible ; I must beat somebody. I am maul'd my- self. And I ought in justice — Mir. No, no, no; ye are cozen'd: But walk, and let me talk to thee. Bel. Talk wisely, And see that no man laugh, upon no oc- casion ; For I shall think then 't is at me. Mir. I waiTant thee. Bel. Nor no more talk of this. Mir. Dost think I am maddish? Bel. I must needs fight yet, for I find it concerns me; A pox on 't, I must fight. Mir. V faith, thou shalt not. Exeunt. ACT III. Scene 1. A public walk. Enter De Garcl and Lugier. Be Gard. I know ye are a scholar, and can do wonders. Lug. There 's no great scholarship belongs to this, sir; What I am, I am. I pity your poor sis- ter, And heartily I hate these travelers, These gim-cracks, made of mops •'^ and motions. There 's nothing in their houses here but hummings ; A bee has more brains. I grieve and vex too The insolent licentious carriage Of this out-facing fellow Mirabel; And I am mad to see him prick his plumes up. De Gard. His wrongs ^* you partly know. Lug. Do not you stir, sir; Since he has begun with wit, let wit re- venge it : Ti!) empty. 00 take to task. 6t Many of the London suburbs were notorious for their houses of ill fame. G2 flouted. 63 grimaces. G4 insults. 360 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD' Keep your sword close ; we 'U cut bis throat a new way. I am asham'd the gentlewoman should suffer Such base lewd wrongs. Be Gard. I will be rul'd; he shall live, And left to your revenge. Lug. Aye, aye, I '11 fit him. He makes a common scorn of handsome women ; Modesty and good manners are his May- games ; He takes up maidenheads with a new commission, — The church-warrant 's out of date. Fol- low my counsel. For I am zealous in the cause. Be Gard. I will, sir. And will be still directed; for the truth is, My sword will make my sister seem more monstrous. Besides, there is no honor won on repro- bates. Lug. You are i' th' right. The slight he has show'd my pupils Sets me a-fire too. Go ; I '11 prepare your sister, And as I told ye. Be Gard. Yes ; all shall be fit, sir. Lug. And seriously, and handsomely. Be Gard. I warrant ye. Lug. A little counsel more. {Whispers.) Be Gard. 'T is well. Lug. Most stately! See that observ'd ; and then — Be Gard. I have ye every way. Lug. Away, then, and be ready. Be Gard. With all speed, sir. Exit. Enter Lillia Bianca, Rosalura, and Oriana. Lug. We '11 learn to travel too, may be, be- yond him. — Good day, fair beauties! Lil. You have beautified us, We thank ye, sir; ye have set us off most gallantly With your grave precepts. Ros. We expected husbands Out of your documents ^^ and taught be- haviors. Excellent husbands; thought men would run stark mad on us, Men of all ages and all states; we ex- pected An inundation of desires and offers, A torrent of trim suitors; all we did, Or said, or purpos'd, to be spells about us. Spells to jDrovoke. Lil. Ye have provok'd us finely! We follow'd your directions, we did rarely, We were stately, coy, demure, careless, light, giddy. And play'd at all points : this, you swore, would cany. Ros. We made love, and eontemn'd love; now seem'd holy. With such a reverent put-on reserva- tion "^ Which could not miss, according to your principles; Now gave more hope again; now close,*''^ now public. Still up and down we beat it like a bil- low; And ever those behaviors you read to us. Subtle and new : but all this will not help us. Lil. They help to hinder us of all ac- quaintance. They have frighted off all friends. What am I better, For all my learning, if I love a dunce, A handsome dunce? To what use serves my reading *? You should have taught me what belongs to horses. Dogs, dice, hawks, banquets, masques, free and fair meetings, To have studied gowns and dressings. Lug. Ye are not mad, sure ! Ros. We shall be, if we follow your en- couragements. I '11 take mine own way now. Lil. And I my fortune ; We may live maids else till the moon drop mill-stones. I see, your modest women are taken for monsters; A dowry of good breeding is worth noth- ing. Lug. Since ye take it so to th' heart, pray ye, give me leave yet, And ye shall see how I '11 convert this heretic. Mark how this Mirabel — Lil. Name him no more; For, though I long for a husband, I hate him. And would be married sooner to a mon- key, 65 lessons. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 361 Or to a Jack of Straw, than such a jug- gler. Ros. I am of that mind too. He is too nimble, And plays at fast and loose too learnedly, For a plain-meaning woman; that's the truth on 't. Here 's one too, that we love well, would be angry; [Pointing to Oriana.) And reason why. — No, no, we will not trouble ye. Nor him at this time : may he make you happy! We '11 turn ourselves loose now to our fair fortunes; And the downright way — Lil. The winning way we'll follow; We '11 bait that men may bite fair, and not be frighted. Yet we '11 not be carried so cheap neither ; we '11 have some sport, Some mad-morris or other for oar money, tutor. Lug. 'T is like enough : j^rosper your own devices ! Ye are old enough to choose. But, for this gentlewoman. So jDlease her give me leave — Ori. I shall be glad, sir, To find a friend whose pity may direct me. Lug. I '11 do my best, and faithfully deal for ye ; But then ye must be rul'd. Ori. In all, I vow to ye. Ros. Do, do : he has a lucky hand some- times, I assure ye. And hunts the recovery of a lost lover deadly. Lug. You must away straight. Ori. Yes. Lug. And I '11 instruct ye : Here ye can know no more. Ori. By your leave, sweet ladies; And all our fortunes arrive at our own wishes ! Lil. Amen, amen! Lug. I must borrow your man. Lil. Pray? take him ; He is within. To do her good, take any thing. Take us and all. Lug. No doubt, ye may find takers ; And so, we '11 leave ye to your own dis- poses. Exeunt Lugier and Oriana. Lil. Now, which way, wench? Ros. We '11 go a brave way, fear not ; A safe and sure way too; and yet a by- way. I must confess I^have a great mind to be married. Lil. So have I too a grudging*'® of good- will that way. And would as fain be despatch'd. But this Monsieur Quicksilver — Ros. No, no ; we '11 bar him, bye and main.*'" Let him trample ; There is no safety in his surquedi-y.'^*' An army-royal of women are too few for him; He keeps a journal of his gentleness, And will go near to print his fair des- patches. And call it his ''TriumiDh over time and women." Let him pass out of memory! What think you Of his two companions'? Lil. Pinac, methinks, is reasonable; A little modesty he has brought home with him, And might be taught, in time, some hand- some duty. Ros. They say he is a wencher too. Lil. I like him better; A free light touch or two becomes a gen- tleman, And sets him seemly otf : so he exceed not, But keep his compass ^^ clear, he may be lookt at. I would not many a man that must be taught, And eonjur'd up with kisses; the best game Is play'd still by the best gamesters. Ros. Fie upon thee ! What talk hast thou ! Lil. Are not we alone, and merry? Why should we be ashamed to speak what we think? Thy gentleman, The tall fat fellow, he that came to see thee — Ros. Is 't not a goodly man? Lil. A wondrous goodly ! H' as weight enough, I warrant thee. Mercy upon me. What, a serpent wilt thou seem under such a St. George ! Ros. Thou art a fool ! Give me a man brings mettle. Brings substance with him, needs no broths to lare '^- him. 68 inclination. 69 completely ; a gambling phrase. "0 presumption. 71 ijounds. 72 Possibly, as other editors suggest, a misprint for lard =fatten. 362 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD These little fellows shew like fleas in boxes, Hop up and down, and keep a stir to vex us. Give me the jDuissant pike; take you the small shot. Lil. Of a great thing, I have not seen a duller; Therefore, methinks, sweet sister — Bos. Peace, he 's modest ; A bashf ulness ; which is a point of grace, wench : But, when these fellows come to mould- ing, sister. To heat, and handling — as I live, I like him ; Enter Mirabel. And, methinks, I could form him. Lil. Peace ; the fire-drake. Mir. Bless ye, sweet beauties, sweet incom- parable ladies, Sweet wits, sweet humors! Bless you, learned lady ! And you, most holy nun, bless your de- votions ! Lil. And bless your brains, sir, your most pregnant brains, sir! They are in travail; may they be de- livered Of a most hopeful wild-goose ! Ros. Bless your manhood ! They say ye are a gentleman of action, A fair accomplish'd man, and a rare en- gineer. You have a trick to blow up maidenheads, A subtle trick, they say abroad. Mir. I have, lady. Ros. And often glory in their ruins. Mir. Yes, forsooth; I have a speedy trick, please you to try My engine will despatch ye instantly. Ros. I would I were a woman, sir, tit for ye! As there be such, no doubt, may engine you too; May, with a counter-mine, blow up your valor : But in good faith, sir, we are both too honest ; And, the plague is, we cannot be per- suaded ; For, look you, if we thought it were a glory To be the last of all your lovely ladies — Mir. Come, come, leave prating: this has spoil'd your market! 73 fierce dogs. This pride and puft-up heart will make ye fast, ladies, Fast when ye are hungry too. Ros. The more our pain, sir. Lil. The more our health, I hope too. Mir. Your behaviors Have made men stand amaz'd; those men that lov'd ye, Men of fair states and parts. Your strange conversions . Into I know not what, nor how, nor wherefore ; Your scorns of those that came to visit ye; Your studied whim-whams and your fine set faces — What have these got ye*? Proud and harsh oi)inions. A travel'd monsieur was the strangest creature. The wildest monster to be wond'red at; His person made a public scoff, his knowledge (As if he had been bred 'mongst bears or ban-dogs ^^ ) Shunn'd and avoided; his conversation snuff'd '* at ;— AVhat harvest brings all this? Ros. I pray you, pi'oceed, sir. Mir. Now ye shall see in what esteem a traveler. An understanding gentleman, and a mon- sieur. Is to be held; and, to your griefs, con- fess it. Both to your griefs and galls. Lil. In what, I pray ye, sir? We would be glad to understand your excellence. Mir. Go on, sweet ladies; it becomes ye rarely ! For me, I have blest me fi'om ye;. scoff on seriously. And note the man ye mock'd. You, Lady Learning, Note the poor traveler that came to visit you. That flat unfuiiiisli'd fellow; note him throughly; You may chance to see him anon. Lil. 'T is very likely. 3Iir. And see him courted by a travel'd lady. Held dear and honor'd by a virtuous vir- gin ; May be, a beauty not far short of yours neither ; It may be, clearer. 74 sniffed. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 363 Not unlikely. Lil. Mir. ' Younger. As killing- eyes as yours, a wit as poign- ant; May be, a state, too, that may top your fortune. Inquire how she thinks of him, how she holds him; His good parts, in what precious price al- ready ; Being: a stranger to him, how she courts him ; A stranger to his nation too, how she dotes on him. Inquire of this; be sick to know; curse, lady, And keep your chamber; cry, and curse; a sweet one, A thousand in yearly land, well bred, M-ell friended, Travel'd, and highly followed for her fashions. Lil. Bless his good fortune, sir! ^iir. This scurvy fellow, I think they call his name Pinac, this serving'-man That brought ye venison, as I take it, madam. Note but this scab: 't is strange that this coarse creature, That has no more set-off ^=^ but his jug- glings, His travel'd tricks — 1-il- Good sir, I grieve not at him, Nor envy not his fortune : yet 1 wonder. He's handsome; yet I see no such per- fection. Mir. Would I had his fortune ! For 't is a woman Of that sweet-temper'd nature, and that judgment, Besides her state, that care, clear under- standing, And such a wife to bless him — I^os. • Pray you, whence is she? Mir. Of England, and a most aceomplish'd lady; So modest that men's eyes are frighted at her. And such a noble carriage — Enter a Boy. How now, sirrah? Boy. Sir, the great English lady — ^ir- What of her, sir? Boy. Has newly left her coach, and com- ing this way. Where you may see her plain : Monsieur Pinac The only man that leads her. Enter Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants. ^^if"- He is much honored ; Would I had such a favor! Now vex, ladies. Envy, and vex, and rail ! -Rtis- You are short of us,'^'^ sir. Mir. Bless your fair fortune, sir ! Pi'^- I nobly thank ye. Mir. Is she married, friend ? Pi^- No, no. ^^ir. A goodly lady; A sweet and delicate aspect! — Mark, mark, and wonder! — Hast thou any hope of her? Pin. A little. ^^ir- Follow close, then ; Lose not that hoj^e. Pin. To you, sir. {Mariana courtesies to Mirabel.) ^^"'- Gentle lady ! Ros. She is fair, indeed. ^'^•^ I have seen a fairer; yet She is well. Bos. Her clothes sit handsome too. -^'^- She dresses prettily. Bos. And, by my faith, she is rich; she h)oks still sweeter. A Avell-bred woman, I warrant her. ^i^- Do you hear, sir? May I crave this gentlewonian's name? Pi^' Mariana, lady. Lil. I will not say I owe ye a quarrel, monsieur. For making mo your stale : " a noble gentleman Would have had more courtesy, at least more faith, Than to turn off his mistress at first trial. You know not what respect I might have show'd ye; I find ye have worth. Pin^ I cannot stay to answer ye; Ye see my charge. I am beholding to ye For all your merry tricks ye put upon me. Your bobs,^s and base accounts. I came to love ye, To woo ye, and to serve ye; I am much indebted to ye For dancing me off my legs, and then for walking me ; For telling me strange tales I never heard of, 75 attractiveness. 70 fail to do us justice. 77 decoy. 78 sneers. 364 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD More to abuse me; for mistaking me, When you both knew I was a gentleman, And one deserv'd as rich a match as you are. Lil. Be not so bitter, sir. Pin. You see this lady: She is young enough and fair enough to please me; A woman of a loving mind, a quiet, And one that weighs the wortli of him that loves her: I am content with this, and bless ray fortune. Your curious wits, and beauties Lil. Faith, see me once more. Pin. I dare not trouble ye. Lil. May I speak to your ladyl Pin. I pray ye, content yourself. I know ye are bitter. And, in your bitterness, ye may abuse her; Which if she comes to know (for she un- derstands ye not). It may breed such a quarrel to your kin- dred. And such an indiscretion fling on you too (For she is nobly friended) Lil. (Aside.) I could eat her. Pin. Rest as ye are, a modest noble gen- tlewoman. And afford your honest neighbors some of your prayers. Exeunt Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants. Mir. Wliat think you now"? Lil. Faith, she's a pretty whiting;'''^ She has got a pretty catch too. Mir. You are angry, Monstrous angi-y now, gTievously angry ; And the pretty heart does swell now. Lil. No, in troth, sir. Mir. And it will cry anon, "A pox upon it !" And it Avill curse itself, and eat no meat, lady; And it will sigh. Lil. Indeed, you are mistaken ; It will be very merry. Bos. Why, sir, do you think There are no more men living, nor no handsomer, Than he or you? By this light, there be ten thousand, Ten thousand thousand ! Comfort your- self, dear monsieur ; Faces, and bodies, wits, and all abili- ments ^^ — There are so many we regard 'em not. Bel. Mir. Bel. Mir. Enter Belleur and two Gentlemen. Mir. That such a noble lady — I could burst now ! — So far above such trifles Bel. You did laugh at me ; And I know why ye laughed. 1 Gent. I pray ye, be satisfied : If we did laugh, we had some private reason. And not at you. 2 Gent. Alas, we know you not, sir I Bel. I '11 make you know me. Set your faces soberly; Stand this way, and look sad ; I '11 be no May-game ; Sadder, demurer yet. Bos. What is the matter"? What ails this gentleman'? Bel. Go off now backward, that I may be- hold ye; And not a simper, on your lives ! Exeunt Gentlemen, walking backwards. Lil. He 's mad, sure. Do you observe me tool I may look on ye. Why do you grin? I know your mind. You do not. You are strangely humorous. Is there no mirth nor pleasure But you must be the object ? Bel. Mark, and observe me. Wherever I am nam'd, The very word shall raise a general sad- ness. For the disgrace this scurvy woman did me, This proud pert thing. Take heed ye laugh not at me, Provoke me not; take heed. Bos. I would fain please ye; Do any thing to keep ye quiet. Bel. Hear me. Till I receive a satisfaction Equal to the disgrace and scorn ye gave me. Ye are a wretched woman ; till thou woo'st me, And I scorn thee as much, as seriously Jeer and abuse thee; ask what gill ^^ thou art. Or any baser name ; I will proclaim thee, I will so sing thy virtue, so be-paint thee Bos. Nay, good sir, be more modest. Bel. Do you laugh again? — Because ye are a woman, ye are lawless. 79 a term of endearment. 80 faculties. 81 common woman. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 365 And out of compass of an honest anger. Ros. Good sir, have a better belief of me. Lil. Away, dear sister ! Exit with Bosalura. Mir. Is not this better now, this seeming madness. Than falling out with your friends'? Bel. Have I not frighted her? Mir. Into her right wits, I warrant thee. Follow this humor, And thou shalt see how prosperously 't will guide thee. Bel. I am glad I have found a way to woo yet; I was afraid once I never should have made a civil suitor. Well, I '11 about it still. Exit. Mir. Do, do, and prosper. What sport do I make with these fools ! What pleasure Feeds me, and fats my sides at their poor innocence ! Enter Lugier, disguised. Wooing and wiving — hang it! Give me mii'th, Witty and dainty mirth ! I shall gTow in love, sure. With mine own happy head. Who 's this?— To me, sir?— {Aside.) What youth is this? Lug. Yes, sir, I would speak with you. If your name be Monsieur Mirabel. Mir. You have hit it : Your business, I beseech you? Lug. This it is, sir: There is a gentlewoman hath long time affected ye. And lov'd ye dearly. Mir. Turn over, and end that story ; 'T is long enough : I have no faith in women, sir. Lug. It seems so, sir. I do not come to woo for her, Or sing her praises, though she well de- serve 'em ; I come to tell ye, ye have been cruel to her. Unkind and cruel, falser of faith, and careless. Taking more pleasure in abusing her, Wresting her honor to your wild dis- poses. Than noble in requiting her affection : Which, as you are a man, I must desire ye (A gentleman of rank) not to persist in, No more to load her fair name with your injuries. Mir. Why, I beseech you, sir? Lug. Good sir, I '11 tell ye. And I '11 be short; I'll tell ye because I love ye. Because I would have you shim the shame may follow. There is a nobleman, new come to town, sir, A noble and a great man, that affects her, (A countryman of mine, a brave Sa- voyan. Nephew to th' duke) and so much honors her, That 't will be dangerous to pursue your old way. To touch at any thing concerns her honor, Believe, most dangerous. Her name is Oriana, And this great man will marry her. Take heed, sir; For howsoe'er her brother, a staid gen- tleman, Lets things pass upon better hopes, this lord, sir. Is of that tieiy and that poignant metal, (Especially provok'd on by affection) That 't will be hard — but you are wise. Mir. A lord, sir? Lug. Yes, and a noble lord. Mir. Send her good fortune ! This will not stir her lord. A baroness ! Say ye so? Say ye so? By 'r lady, a brave title ! Top and top-gallant now! Save her great ladyship ! I was a poor servant of hers, I must con- fess, sir. And in those days I thought I might be jovy,8- And make a little bold to call in to her; But, basta; ^^ now I know my rules and distance ; Yet, if she want an usher, such an imple- ment, One that is throughly pac'd, a clean- made gentleman. Can hold a hanging ^* up with approba- tion, Plant his hat formally, and wait with patience, I do beseech you, sir Lug. Sir, leave your scoffing. And, as ye are a gentleman, deal fairly. I have given ye a friend's counsel; so, I '11 leave ye. 82 jovial. 83 Ital. "enough." 84 portiere. 366 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mir. But, hark ye, hark ye, sir ; is 't pos- sible I may believe what you say? Lug. You may choose, sir. Mir. No baits, no fish-hooks, sir? No ginsi no nooses'? No pitfalls to catch puppies'? Lug. I tell ye certain : You may believe; if not, stand to the danger ! Exit. Mir. A lord of Savoy, says he? The duke's nephew? A man so mighty ? By lady, a fair mar- riage ! By my faith, a handsome fortune ! I must leave prating: For, to confess the truth, I have abus'd her, For which I should be sorry, but that will seem scurvy. I must confess she was, ever since I knew her. As modest as she was fair; I am sure she lov'd me ; Her means good, and her breeding excel- lent ; And for my sake she has refus'd fair matches. I may play the fool finely. — Stay: who are these? Re-enter Be Gard, disguised, Oriana, and Attendants. {Aside.) 'Tis she, I am sure; and that the lord, it should seem. He carries a fair port, is a handsome man too. I do begin to feel I am a coxcomb.^^ Ori. Good my loi'd, choose a nobler; for I know I am so far below your rank and honor, That what ye can say this way I must credit But spoken to beget yourself sport. Alas, sir, I am so far off from deserving you. My beauty so unfit for your affection, That I am grown the scorn of common railers, Of such injurious things that, when they cannot Reach at my person, lie with my repu- tation ! I am poor, besides. Be Gard. Ye are all wealth and goodness ; And none but such as are the scum of men, 85 fool. The ulcers of an honest state, spite- weavers, That live on poison only, like swoln spiders, Dare once profane such excellence, such sweetness. Mir. This man speaks loud indeed. Be Gard. Name but the men, lady; Let me but know these poor and base de- pravers. Lay but to my revenge their persons open. And you shall see how suddenly', how fully, For your most beauteous sake, how dire- fuUy, I'll handle their despites. Is this thing one? Be what he will Mir. Sir? Be Gard. Dare your malicious tongue, sir Mir. I know you not, nor what you mean. Ori. Good my lord Be Gard. If he, or any he Ori. I beseech your honor — This gentleman 's a stranger to my knowledge ; And, no doubt, sir, a worthy man. Be Gard. Your mercy! — But, had he been a tainter of your honor, A blaster of those beauties reign within ye- Dear But we shall find a fitter time. lady. As soon as I have freed ye from your guardian, And done some honor'd offices unto ye, I '11 take ye with those faults the world flings on ye. And dearer than the whole world I '11 esteem ye! Exit with Oriana and Attendants. Mir. This is a thund'ring lord : I am glad I scap'd him. How lovingly the wench disclaim'd my villainy ! I am vex'd now heartily that he shall have her; Not that I care to marry, or to lose her, But that this bilbo-lord ^^ shall reap that ■ maidenhead That was my due; that he shall rig and top her: I 'd give a thousand crowns now, he might miss her. Enter a Servant. 80 swaprgerer. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 367 Serv. Nay, if I bear your blows, and keep your counsel. You have good luck, sir : I '11 teach ye to strike lighter. Mir. Come hither, honest fellow : canst thou tell me Where this great lord lies, this Savoy lord"? Thou mett'st him; He now went by thee, certain. Serv. Yes, he did, sir; I know him, and I know you are fooFd. Mir. Come hither: Here 's all this, give me truth. {Gives money.) Serv. Not for your money, (And yet that may do much) but I have been beaten, And by the worshipful contrivers beaten, and I '11 tell ye : This is no lord, no Savoy lord. Mir. Go forward. Serv. This is a trick, and put upon you grossly By one Lugier. The lord is Monsieur De Gard, sir. An honest gentleman, and a neighbor hei'e ; Their ends you understand better than I, sure. Mir. Now I know him ; know him now plain. Serv. I have diseharg'd my colors,^'^ so God b'y ye, sir ! Exit. Mir. What a purblind puppy was I. Now I remember him ; All the whole cast on 's face, though it were umber'd,**^ And mask'd with patches. What a dnn- derwhelp,*^ To let him domineer thus ! How he strutted, And what a load of lord he clapt upon him ! Would I had him here again ! I would so bounce him, I would so thank his lordship for his lewd 00 plot ! Do they think to carry it away, with a great band made of bird-pots,^^ And a pair of pin-buttock'd breeches'? — Ha ! 't is he again ; He comes, he comes, he comes ! have at him ! Re-enter De Gard, Oriana, and Attendants. My Savoy lord, why dost thou frown on me? And will that favor never sweeter be? Wilt thou, I say, for ever play the fool? De Gard, be wise, and. Savoy, go to school ! My lord De Gard, I thank you for your antic ; My Lidy bright, that will be sometimes frantic ; You worthy train, that wait upon this pair, Send you more wit, and them a bouncing hair? 02 And so I take my humble leave of your honors ! Exit. De Gard. We are discover'd ; there 's no I'emedy. Lillia Bianca's man, upon my life, In stubbornness, because Lugier corrected him — A shameless slave ! Plague on him for a rascal ! Ori. I was in a perfect hope. The bane on 't is now, He will make mirth on mirth, to perse- cute us. De Gard. We must be patient ; I am vex'd to the proof too. I '11 try once more; then, if I fail, here 's one speaks. {Puts his hand on his sivord.) Ori. Let me be lost and scorn'd first! De Gard. Well, we '11 consider. Away, and let me shift ; I shall be hooted else. Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene 1. A street before the lodging of Pinac. Enter Lugier, Lillia Bianca, and Servant carrying a willow garland. Lug. Faint not, but do as I direct ye : trust me; Believe me too; for what I have told ye, As true as you are Lillia, is authentic ; I know it, I have found it : 't is a poor courage Flies off for one repulse. These travel- ers S7 Exact meaning not known ; ap- parently equiva- lent to "I have ss stained brown, fulfilled my obli- so blockhead, gations." 90 vile. ill apparently some extravagance of dress. (Neilson.) 92 bairn, child. 368 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Shall find, before we have done, a home- spun wit, A plam French understanding, may cope with 'em. They have had the better yet, thank your sweet squire here ! And let 'em brag. You would be re- veng'd ? Lil. Yes, surely. Lug. And married too? Lil. I think so. Lug. Then be eounsel'd ; You know how to proceed. I have other irons Heatmg as well as yours, and I will strike Three blows with one stone home. Be rul'd, and happy; And so, I leave ye. Now is the time. Lil. I am ready. If he do come to do ^^ me. Exit Lugier. Serv. Will ye stand here, And let the people think ye are God knows what, mistress*? Let boys and prentices presume upon ye*? Lil. Prithee, hold thy peace. Serv. Stand at his door that hates ye*? Lil. Prithee, leave prating. Serv. Pray ye, go to the tavern : I '11 give ye a pint of wine there. If any of the mad-cap gentlemen should come by. That take up women upon special war- rant. You were in a wise case now. Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Mariana, Priest, and Attendants. Lil. Give me the garland; And wait you here. {Takes the garland from Servant, who retires.) Mir. She is here to seek thee, sirrah. I told thee what would follow; she is mad for thee. Show, and advance. — So early stirring, lady? It shows a busy mind, a fancy troubled. A willow garland too ? Is 't possible "I 'T is pity so much beauty should lie musty ; But 't is not to be help'd now. Lil. The more 's my misery. — Good fortune to ye, lady ! you deserve it ; To me, too-late repentance ! I have sought it. I do not envy, though I grieve a little, You are mistress of that happiness, those joys, That might have been, had I been wise — but fortune — Pin. She understands ye not; pray ye, do not trouble her : And do not cross me like ■ a hare thus ; 't is as ominous.^* Lil. I come not to upbraid your levity (Though ye made show of love, and though I lik'd ye). To claim an interest (we are yet both strangers ; But what we might have been, had you persever'd, sir ! ) To be an eye-sore to your loving lady : This garland shows I give ^^ myself for- saken (Yet, she must pardon me, 'tis most un- willingly) ; And all the power and interest I had in ye (As, I persuade myself, somewhat ye lov'd me) Thus patiently I render up, I offer To her that must enjoy ye, and so bless ye; Only, I heartily desire this courtesy. And would not be denied, to wait upon This day, to see ye tied, then no more trouble ye. Pin. It needs not, lady. Lil. Good sir, grant me so much. Pin. 'T is private, and we make no invi- tation. Lil. My presence, sir, shall not proclaim it public. Pin. May be, 't is not in town. Lil. I have a coach, sir. And a most ready will to do you service. Mir. {Aside to Pinac.) Strike now or never ; make it sure : I tell thee. She will hang herself, if she have thee not. Pin. Pray ye, sir, Entertain my noble mistress : only a word or two With this importunate woman, and I '11 relieve ye. — Now ye see what your flings are, and your fancies. Your states, and your wild stubbornness; now ye find What 't is to gird ^^ and kick at men's fair services. 93 Sympson sug- gests dor— raock. 94 It was consid ered bad luck to have a hare cross in front of one. 95 grant. 96 jeer. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 369 To raise your pride to such a pitch and glory That goodness shows hke gnats, scorn'd under ye. 'T is ugly, naught ; a self-will in a woman, Chain'd to an overweening thought, is pestilent, Murders fair fortune first, then fair opinion. There stands a pattern, a true patient pattern. Humble and sweet. Lil. I can but grieve my ignorance. Repentance, some say too, is the best sac- rifice ; For, sure, sir, if my chance had been so happy (As I confess I was mine own destroyer) As to have arriv'd at you, I will not prophesy. But certain, as I think, I should have pleas'd ye; Have made ye as much wonder at my courtesy, My love, and duty, as I have disheart- en'd ye. Some hours we have of youth, and some of folly; And being free-born maids, we take a liberty, And, to maintain that, sometimes we strain highly. Pin. Now you talk reason. Lil. But, being yok'd and goveni'd, Married, and those light vanities purg'd from us. How fair we grow, how gentle, and how tender ! We twine about those loves that shoot up with us ! A sullen woman fear, that talks not to ye; She has a sad and darken'd soul, loves dully. A merry and a free wench, give her liberty, Believe her, in the lightest form she ap- pears to ye. Believe her excellent, though she despise ye; Let but those fits and flashes pass, she will show to ye As jeAvels rubb'd from dust, or gold new burnish'd: Such had I been, had you believ'd. Pin. Is 't possible ? Lil. And to your happiness, I dare as- sure ye, If true love be accounted so : your pleas- ure. Your will, and your command, had tied my motions : But that hope 's gone. I know you are young and giddy. And, till you have a wife can govern with ye, You sail upon this world's sea light and empty, Your bark in danger daily. 'T is not the name neither Of wife can steer you, but the noble na- ture. The diligence, the care, the love, the pa- tience : She makes the pilot, and preserves the husband. That knows and reckons every rib he is built on. But this I tell ye to my shame. Pin. I admire ye; And now am sorry that I aim beyond ye. Mir. {Aside.) So, so, so : fair and softly ! She is thine own, boy; She eomes now without lure. Pin. But that it must needs Be reckoned to me as a wantonness. Or worse, a madness, to forsake a bless- ing, A blessing of that hope Lil. I dare not urge ye; And yet, dear sir Pin. 'T is most certain, I had rather. If 't were in mine own choice — for you are my country-woman, A neighbor here, bom by me; she a stranger, And who knows how her friends Lil. Do as you please, sir; If ye be fast, not all the world — I love ye. It is most true, and clear I would per- suade ye; And I shall love you still. Pin. Go, get before me — So much you have won upon me — do it presently. Here 's a priest ready — I '11 have you. Lil. Not now, sir; No, you shall pardon me. Advance your lady ; I dare not hinder your most high prefer- ment : 'T is honor enough for me I have un- mask'd you. Pin. How's that? Lil. I have caught ye, sir. Alas, I am no stateswoman. 370 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Nor no great traveler, yet I have found ye; I have found your lady too, your beaute- ous lady; I have found her birth and breeding too, her discipline. Who brought her over, and who kept your lady. And, when he laid her by, what virtuous nunnery Receiv'd her in: I have found all these. Are ye blank now? Methinks, such travel'd wisdoms should not fool thus, — Such excellent indiscretions ! Mir. How could she know tins'? Lil. 'T is true she 's English-born ; but most part French now, And so I hope you '11 find her to your comfort. Alas, I am ignorant of what she cost ye ! The price of these hired clotlies I do not know, gentlemen ! Those jewels are the broker's, how ye stand bound for 'em ! Pin. Will you make this good? Lil. Yes, yes ; and to her face, sir, That she is an English whore, a kind of fling-dust. One of your London light-o'-loves, a right one; Came over in thin pumps and half a pet- ticoat. One faith, and one smock, with a broken haberdasher — I know all this without a conjurer. Her name is Jumping Joan, an ancient sin-weaver ; She was first a lady's chambermaid, there slipp'd. And broke her leg above the knee; de- parted. And set up shop herself; stood the fierce conflicts Of many a furious term ; there lost her colors. And last shipp'd over hither. Mir. We are betray'd ! Lil. Do you come to fright me with this mystery ? To stir me with a stink none can endure, sir? I pray ye, proceed; the wedding will be- come ye : Wlio gives the lady? You? An excel- lent father! A careful man, and one that knows a beauty ! !>" take those clothes off. Send ye fair shipping, sir ! and so, I '11 leave ye. Be wise and manly; then I may chance to love ye! Exit with Servant. Mir. As I live, I am asham'd this wench has reach'd me. Monstrous asham'd; but there's no rem- edy. This skew'd-ey'd carrion Pin. This I suspected ever. — Come, come, unease ; ^'^ we have no more use of ye; Your clothes must back again. Mari. Sir, you shall pardon me; 'T is not our English use to be degraded. If you will visit me, and take your ven- ture. You shall have pleasure for your prop- erties. And so, sweetheart Exit. Mir. Let her go, and the devil go with her ! We have never better luck with these pre- ludiums. Come, be not daunted; think she is but a woman. And, let _ her have the devil's wit, we '11 reach her! Exeunt. Scene 2. A jouhlic walk. Enter Rosalura and Lugicr. Bos. You have now redeem'd my good opinion, tutor, And ye stand fair again. Lug. I can but labor. And sweat in your affairs. I am sure Belleur Will be here instantly, and use his anger. His wonted hai'shness. Bos. I hope he will not beat me. Lug. No, sure, he has more manners. Be you ready. Bos. Yes, yes, I am; and am resolv'd to fit him, With patience to outdo all he can offer. But how does Oriana? Lug. Worse and worse still; Tiiere is a sad house for her;^^ she is now, Poor lady, utterly distracted. Bos. " Pity, Infinite pity! 'tis a handsome lady: 98 her household is sad about her. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 371 That Mirabel 's a beast, worse than a monster, If this affliction work not. Enter Lillia Bianca. Lil. Are you ready ? Belleur is coming on here, hard behind me: I have no leisure to relate my fortune ; Only I wish you may come off as hand- somely. Upon the sign, you know what. Ros. Well, well; leave me. Exeunt Lillia Bianca and Lugicr. Enter Belleur, Bel. How now? Ros. Ye are welcome, sir. Bel. 'T is well ye have manners. That court'sy again, and hold your coun- tenance staidly. That look 's too light ; take heed : so ; sit ye down now; And, to confirm me that your gall is gone, Your bitterness dispers'd (for so I '11 have it). Look on me steadfastly, and, whatsoe'er I say to ye. Move not, nor alter in your face; ye are gone then ; For, if you do express the least distaste. Or show an angry wrinkle, (mark me, woman ! We are now alone,) I will so conjure thee. The third part of my execution Cannot be spoke. Eos. I am at your dispose, sir. Bel. Now rise, and woo me a little ; let me hear that faculty: But touch me not; nor do not lie, I charge ye. Begin now. Ros. If so mean and poor a beauty May ever hope the grace- Bel. Ye cog,^'' ye flatter; Like a lewd thing, ye lie : "May hope that grace !" Why, what grace canst thou hope for? Answer not ; For, if thou dost, and liest again, I '11 swinge thee. Do not I know thee for a pestilent woman ? A proud at both ends? Be not angry, Nor stir not, o' your life. -Ros. I am eounsel'd, sir. Bel. Art thou not now (confess, for I '11 have the truth out) As much unworthy of a man of merit, Or any of ye all, nay, of mere man, Though he were crooked, cold, all wants upon him, Nay, of any dishonest thing that bears that figure. As devils are of mercy? Ros. We are iinworthy. Bel. Stick to that truth, and it may chance to save thee. And is it not our bounty that we take ye? That we are troubled, vex'd, or tortur'd with ye. Our mere and special bounty? Ros. Yes. Bel. Our pity. That for your wickedness we swinge ye soundly ; Your stubbornness and stout hearts, we belabor ye? Answer to that ! Ros. I do confess your pity. Bel. And dost not thou deserve in thine own person. Thou impudent, thou pert — Do not change countenance. Ros. I dare not, sir. Bel. For, if ye do Ros. I am settled. Bel. Thou wagtail, peacock, puppy, look on me: I am a gentleman. Ros. It seems no less, sir, Bel. And dar'st thou in thy surque- dry Ros. I beseech ye ! — It was my weakness, sir, I did not view ye, I took not notice of your noble parts, Nor call'd your person nor your fashion proper.^ Bel. This is some amends yet. Ros. I shall mend, sir, daily. And study to deserve. Bel. Come a little nearer: Canst thou repent thy villainy? Ros. Most seriously. Bel. And be asham'd? Ros. I am asham'd. Bel. Cry. Ros. It will be hard to do, sir. Bel. Cry now instantly; Cry monstrously, that all the town may hear thee; Cry seriously, as if thou hadst lost thy monkey; And, as I like thy tears Ros. Now ! 99 cheat. 1 handsome; original reading proper fashion. 372 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Enter Lillia Bianca, and four Women, laughing. Bel. How! how! Do ye jeer me'? Have ye broke your bounds again, dame'? Bos. Yes, and laugh at ye, And laugh most heartily. Bel. What are these ? whirlwinds '? Is hell broke loose, and all the Furies flutter'd? Am I greased ^ once again "? Bos. Yes, indeed are ye ; And once again ye shall be, if ye quar- rel: Do you come to vent your fury on a virgin '? Is this your manhood, sir"? 1 Worn. Let him do his best; Let 's see the utmost of his indignation ; I long to see him angry. — Come, proceed, sir. — Hang him, he dares not stir; a man of timber ! 2 Worn. Come hither to fright maids with thy bull- faces! To threaten gentlewomen ! Thou a man ! A Maypole, A great dry pudding.^ 3 Worn. Come, come, do your worst, sir; Be angry, if thou dar'st. Bel. The Lord deliver me ! 4 Worn. Do but look scurvily upon this lady, Or give us one foul word ! — We are all mistaken ; This is some mighty dairy-maid in man's clothes. Lil. I am of that mind too. Bel. {Aside.) What will they do to me? Lil. And hired to come and abuse us. — A man has manners; A gentleman, civility and breeding: — Some tinker's trull, with a beard glu'd on. 1 Worn. Let's search him. And, as we find him Bel. Let me but depart from ye, Sweet Christian women ! Lil. Hear the thing speak, neighbors. Bel. 'T is but a small request : if e'er I trouble ye, If e'er I talk again of beating women. Or beating any thing that can but turn to me; Of ever thinking of a handsome lady But virtuously and well; of ever speak- ing But to her honor, — this I '11 promise ye, I will take rhubarb, and pui'ge choler mainly,* Abundantly I '11 purge. Lil. I '11 send ye broths, sir. Bel. I will be laugh'd at, and endure it patiently ; I will do any thing. Bos. I '11 be your bail, then. When ye come next to woo, pray come not boisterously. And furnish'd like a bear-ward.^ Bel. No, in truth, forsooth. Bos. I scented ye long since. Bel. I was to blame, sure : I will appear a gentleman. Bos. 'T is the best for ye, For a true noble gentleman 's a brave thing. Upon that hope, we quit ye. You fear seriously *? Bel. Yes, truly do I; I confess I fear ye, And honor ye, and any thing. Bos. Farewell, then. Worn. And, when ye come to woo next, bring more mercy. Exeunt all except Belleur. Enter two Gentlemen. Bel. A dairy-maid! A tinker's trull! Heaven bless me ! Sure, if I had provok'd 'em, they had quarter'd me. I am a most ridiculous ass, now I per- ceive it; A coward, and a knave too. 1 Gent. 'T is the mad gentleman ; Let 's set our faces right. Bel. No, no; laugh at me. And laugh aloud. 2 Gent. We are better manner'd, sir. Bel. I do deserve it ; call me patch ^ and puppy, And beat me, if you please. 1 Gent. No, indeed; we know ye. Bel. 'Death, do as I would have ye! 2 Gent. Ye are an ass, then, A coxcomb, and a calf ! Bel. I am a great calf. Kick me a little now. Why, when! (They kick him.) Sufficient. Now laugh aloud, and scorn me. So good b' ye ! And ever, when ye meet me, laugh. Gentlemen. We will, sir. Exeunt. 2 fooled. 3 sausage. 4 vigorously. s bear-keeper. 6 fool. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 373 Scene 3. A room in La Castre's house. Enter Nantolet, La Castre, De Gard, Lugier, and Mirabel. Mir. Your patience, gentlemen ; why do ye bait me? Nant. Is 't not a shame you are so stub- bora-hearted, So stony and so dull, to such a lady, Of her perfections and her misery? Lug. Does she not love ye? Does not her distraction For your sake only, her most pitied lu- nacy Of all but you, show ye? Does it not compel ye? Mir. Soft and fair, gentlemen; pray ye, proceed temperately. Lug. If ye have any feeling, any sense in ye, The least touch of a noble heart La Cast. Let him alone: It is his glory that lie can kill beauty. — Ye bear ray stamp, but not my tender- ness; Your wild unsavory courses let '' that in ye! For shame, be sorry, though ye cannot cure her; Show something of a man, of a fair na- ture. Mir. Ye make me mad ! De Gard. Let me pronounce this to ye: You take a strange felicity in slighting And wronging women, which my poor sister feels now; Heaven's hand be gentle on her! Mark me, sir; That very hour she dies (there 's small hope otherwise). That minute, you and I must grapple for Either your life or mine. Mir. Be not so hot, sir; I am not to be wrought on by these poli- cies. In truth, I am not; nor do I fear the tricks. Or the high-sounding threats, of a Sa- voy an. I glory not in cruelty, (ye wrong me,) Nor grow up water'd with the tears of women. This let me tell ye, howsoe'er I show to ye, Wild, as you please to call it, or self- will'd. 7 prevent. 8 cobbler. 9 kittens. When I see cause, I can both do and suffer. Freely and feelingly, as a true gentle- man. Enter Rosalura and Lillia Bianca. Ros. Oh, pity, pity! thousand, thousand pities ! Lil Alas, poor soul, she will die ! She is grown senseless; She will not know uor speak now. ■Ros. Die for love ! And love of such a youth ! I would die for a dog first : He that kills me, I'll give him leave to eat me; I '11 know men better, ere I sigh for any of 'em. Lil. You have done a worthy act, sir, a most famous; Ye have kill'd a maid the wrong way; ye are a conqueror. Ros. A conqueror? A cobbler! Hang him, sowter! * — Go hide thyself, for shame ! Go lose thy memory ! Live not 'mongst men; thou art a beast, a monster, A blatant beast ! Lil. If ye have yet any honesty. Or ever heard of any, take my counsel : Off with your garters, and seek out a bough, — A handsome bough, for I would have ye hang like a gentleman; And write some doleful matter to the world, A warning to hard-hearted men. Mir. Out, killings ! ^ What catenvauling 's here ! What gib- bing!io Do you think my heart is soft'ned with a black santis?" Show me some reason. Enter Oriana on a bed. Ros. Here then, here is a reason. Nant. Now, if ye be a man, let this sight shake ye ! La Cast. Alas, poor gentlewoman ! — Do ye know me, lady? Lug. How she looks up, and stares ! Ori. I know ye very well; You are my godfather : and that 's the monsieur. De Gard. And who am I? Ori. You are Amadis de Gaul, sir. — Catlike behav- possibly misprint 11 I. e. black-sane- hymn accompan- ior (N. E. D.) ; for gibing. tus, a burlesque ied by discordant noises. (Neilson.) 374 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Oh, oh, uiy heart! — Were you never in love, sweet lady? And do you never dream of flowers and gardens *? I dream of walking fires: take heed; it comes now. Who's that '? Pray, stand away. I have seen that face, sure. — How light my head is ! Eos. Take some rest. Qri. I cannot; For I must be up to-morrow to go to church. And I must dress nie, put my new gown on, And be as fine to meet my love ! Heigh- ho ! Will you not tell me where my love lies buried? Mir. He is not dead. — (Aside.) Beshrew my heart, she stirs me ! Ori. He is dead to me. Mir. (Aside.) Is 't possible my nature Should be so damnable to let her suf- fer?— Give me your hand. Ori. How soft you feel, how gentle! I '11 tell you your fortune, friend. Mir. How she stares on me! Ori. You have a flattermg face, but 'tis a fine one; I warrant you may have a hundred sweet- hearts. Will ye pray for me? I shall die to- morrow ; And will ye ring the bells? Mir. I am most unworthy, I do confess, unhappy. Do you know me? Ori. I would I did! Mir. Oh, fair tears, how ye take me! Ori. Do you weep too? You have not lost yovir lover? You mock me : I '11 go home and pray. Mir. Pray ye, pardon me; Or, if it i)lease ye to consider justly, Scorn me, for I deserve it; scorn and shame me. Sweet Oriana! Lil. Let her alone ; she trembles : Her fits will grow more strong, if ye pro- voke her. La Cast. Certain she knows ye not, yet loves to see ye. How she smiles now! Enter Belleur. Bel. Where are ye? Oh, why do not ye laugh? Come, laugh at me: Why a devil art thou sad, and such a subject. Such a ridiculous subject, as I am. Before thy face? Mir. Prithee, put off this lightness; This is no time for mirth, nor place; I have us'd too much on 't. I have undone myself and a sweet lady By being too indulgent to my foolery, ^Vliich truly I repent. Look here. Bel What ails she? Mir. Alas, she 's mad ! Bel. Mad ! Mir. Yes, too sure ; for me too. Bel. Dost thou wonder at that? By this good light, they are all so ; They are coz'ning-mad, they are brawl- ing-mad, they are proud-mad ; They are all, all mad. I came from a world of mad women. Mad as March hares. Get 'em in chains, then deal with 'em. There 's one that 's mad ; she seems well, but she is dog-mad. Is she dead, dost think? 3Iir. Dead ! Heaven forbid ! Bel. Heaven further it ! For, till they be key-cold dead, there 's no trusting of 'era : Whate'er they seem, or howsoe'er they carry it. Till they be chap-fallen, and their tongues at peace, Nail'd in their coffins sure, I '11 ne'er be- lieve 'em. Shall I talk with her? Mir. No, dear friend, be quiet, And be at peace a while. Bel. I '11 walk aside, And come again anon. But take heed to her: You say she is a woman ? Mir. Yes. Bel. Take great heed; For, if she do not cozen thee, then hang me : Let her be mad, or what she will, she '11 cheat thee ! Exit. Mir. Away, wild fool! — How vile this shows in him now! — Now take my faith (before ye all I speak it), And with it my repentant love. La Cast. This seems well. Mir. Were but this lady clear again, whose sorrows My very heart melts for, were she but perfect, THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE (For thus to marry her would be two miseries ) , Before the richest and the noblest beauty, France or the world could show me, I would take her. As she is now, my tears and prayers shall wed her. De Gard. This makes some small amends. Ros. She beckons to ye ; To us, too, to go off. Nant. Let 's draw aside all. Exeunt all except Oriana and Mirabel. O ri. Oh, my best friend ! I would fain — Mir. (Aside.) What ! she speaks well. And with another voice. Ori. But I am fearful, And shame a little stops my tongue — Mir. SjDeak boldly. Ori. Tell ye, I am well. I am perfect well (pray ye, mock not) ; And that I did this to j^rovoke your nature ; Out of my infinite and restless love. To win your pity. Pardon me ! Mir. Go forward : Who set ye on ? Ori. None, as I live, no creature ; Not any knew or ever dream'd what I meant. Will ye be mine 1 Mir. 'T is true, I pity ye ; But, Avhen I marry ye, ye must be wiser. Nothing but tricks? devices? Ori. Will ye shame me? Mir. Yes, marry, will I. — Come near, come near ! a miracle ! The woman 's well ; she was only mad for marriage. Stark mad to be ston'd to death : give her good counsel. Will this world never mend? — Are ye caught, damsel? Enter Belleur, Nantulet, La Caslrc, Dc Gard, Lugier, Uosalura, and Lillia Bianca. Bel. How goes it now ? Mir. Thou art a kind of prophet ; The woman 's well again, and would have guU'd me ; Well, excellent well, and not a taint upon her. Bel. Did not I tell ye? Let 'em be what can be. Saints, devils, any thing, they will abuse us: Thou wert an ass to believe her so long, a coxcomb : Give 'em a minute, they '11 abuse whole millions. Mir. And am not I a rare physician, gen- tlemen. That can cure desperate mad minds? De Gard. Be not insolent. Mir. Well, go thy ways : from this hour I disclaim thee, Unless thou hast a trick above this; then I 'U love thee. Ye owe me for your cure. — Pray, have a care of her. For fear she fall into relapse. — Come, Belleur; We '11 set up bills to cure diseased virgins, Bel. Shall we be merry ? Mir. Yes. Bel. But I '11 no more projects : If Ave could make 'em mad, it were some mastery. Exeunt Mirahcl and Belleur. Lil. I am glad she is Avell again. Ros. So am I, certain. — • Be not ashamed. Ori. I shall never see a man more. De Gard. Come, ye are a fool : had ye but told me this trick. He should not have gloried thus. Lug. He shall not long, neither. La Cast. Be rul'd, and be at peace. Ye have my consent. And what power I can work with. Nant. Come, leave blushing; We are your friends : an honest way coin- pell'd ye : Heaven will not see so true a love unre- comi^ens'd. Come in, and slight him too. Lug. The next shall hit him. Exeunt. ACT V. Scene 1. A street. Enter De Gard and Lugier. De Gard. 'T will be discover'd. Lug. That 's the worst can happen : If there be any way to reach, and work upon him, Upon his nature suddenly, and catch him — That he loves. Though he dissemble it, and would show contrary, And will at length relent, I '11 lay my for- tune ; Nay, more, my life. De Gard, Is she won ? 376 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Lug. Yes, and ready, And my desigiiments set. De Gard. They are now for travel; All for that game again; they have for- got wooing. Lug. Let 'em ; we '11 travel with 'em. De Gard. Where 's his father "? Lug. Within; he knows my mind too, and allows ^- it, Pities your sister's fortune most sin- cerely. And has appointed, for our more as- sistance. Some of his secret friends. De Gard. Speed the plough ! Lug. Well said! And be you serious too. De Gard. I shall be diligent. Lug. Let 's break the ice for one, the rest will drink too (Believe me, sir) of the same cup. My young gentlewoman Wait but who sets the game a-foot. Though they seem stubborn, Reserv'd, and proud now, yet I know their hearts. Their pulses how they beat, and for what cause, sir, And how they long to venture their abilities In a true quarrel. Husbands they must and will have, Or nunneries and thin collations To cool their bloods. Let 's all about our business. And, if this fail, let nature work. De Gard. Ye have arm'd me. Exeunt. Scene 2. A public walk. Enter Mirabel, Nantolet, and La Castre. La Cast. Will ye be wilful, then 1 Blir. Pray, sir, your pardon ; For I must travel. Lie lazy here, Bound to a wife ! Chain'd to her subtle- ties, Her humors, and her wills, which are mere fetters ! To have her to-day pleas'd, to-moiTow peevish. The third day mad, the fourth rebellious ! You see before they are married, what moriscoes,^^ W^hat masques and mummeries they put upon us : To be tied here, and suffer their la- voltas! !■* Nant. 'T is your own seeking. Mir. Yes, to get my freedom, Were they as I could wish 'em — La Cast. Fools and meacocks,^^ To endure what you think fit to put upon 'em. Come, change your mind. Mir. Not before I have chang'd air, father. When I know women Avorthy of my com- I will return again, and wait upon 'em ; Till then, dear sir, I '11 amble all the world over, And run all hazards, misery, and poverty, Enter Pinac and Belleur. So I escape the dangerous bay of matri- mony. Pin. Are ye resolv'd'? Mir. Yes, certain ; I will out again. Pin. We are for ye, sir; we are your serv- ants once more; Once more we '11 seek our fortune in strange countries ; Ours is too scornful for us. Bel. Is there ne'er a land That you have read or heard of (for I care not how far it be. Nor under what pestiferous star it lies), A happy kingdom, where there are no women. Nor have been ever, nor no mention Of any such lewd things with lewder qualities, (For thither would I travel) where 'tis felony To confess he had a mother; a mistress, treason ? La Cast. Are you for travel too'? Bel. For any thing, For living in the moon, and stopping hedges,^® Ere I stay here to be abus'd and baffl'd.^'^ Nant. Why did ye not break your minds to me*? They are my daughters; And, sure, I think I should have that com- mand over 'em. To see 'em well bestow*!!. I know ye are gentlemen, Men of fair parts and states; I know your parents : l"? approves. 13 Morris dances, in which tlie per- formers were fan- tastically dressed. 14 high-bounding dances. 15 cowards. 16 An allusion to the popular idea of the man in the moon, with his bundle of sticks, which Belleur supposes to be in- tended for mend- ing hedges with. (Weber.) 17 disgraced ; the term was used of the punishment given a knight for perjury, the displaying of a painting of him upside down. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 377 And, bad ye told me of your fair affec- tions — Make but one trial more, and let me sec- ond ye. Bel. No ; I '11 make hob-nails first, and mend old kettles. Can ye lend me an annor of high proof, to appear in. And two or three field-pieces to defend me? The king's guard are mere pigmies. Nant. They will not eat ye. Bel. Yes, and you too, and twenty fatter monsieurs. If their high stomachs hold. They came with chopping-knives. To cut me into rands ^^ and sirloins, and so powder ^^ me. — Come, shall we go'? Nant. You cannot be so discourteous. If ye intend to go, as not to visit 'em, And take your leaves. Mir. That we dare do, and civilly. And thank 'em too. Pin. Yes, sir, we know that honesty. Bel. I '11 come i' the rear, forty foot off, I '11 assure ye. With a good gun in my hand. I '11 no more Amazons, I mean, no more of their frights. I '11 make my three legs,-° Kiss my hand twice, and, if I smell no danger. If the interview be clear, may be I '11 speak to her; I '11 wear a privy coat -^ too, and behind me, To make those parts secure, a bandog. La Cast. You are a meriy gentleman. Bel. A wary gentleman, I do assure ye. I have been warn'd ; and must be arm'd. La Cast. Well, son. These are your hasty thoughts; when I see you are bent to it, Then I '11 believe, and join with ye : so, we '11 leave ye. — {Aside.) There 's a trick will make ye stay. Nant. {Aside.) I hoi^e so. Exeunt La Castre and Nantolet. Mir. We have won immortal fame now, if we leave 'em. Pin. You have ; but we have lost. Mir. Pinac, thou art cozen'd. I know they love ye; and to gain ye handsomely. Not to be thought to yield, they would give millions. Their father's willingness, that must needs show ye. Pin. If I thought so — Mir. Ye shall be hang'd, ye recreant ! Would ye turn renegado now"? Bel. No ; let 's away, boys. Out of the air and tumult of their vil- lainies. Though I were married to that grass- hopper, And had her fast by th' legs, I should think she would cozen me. Enter a Young Man, disguised as a Factor. Y. Man. Monsieur Mirabel, I take it 1 Mir. Y' are i' th' right, sir. Y. Man. I am come to seek ye, sir. I have been at your father's. And, understanding you were here — Mir. Ye are welcome. May I crave your name? r. Man. Fosse, sir, and your servant. That you may know me better, I am factor To your old merchant, Leverdure. Mir. How does he? r. Man. Well, sir, I hope; he is now at Orleans, About some business. Mir. ' You are once more welcome. Your master 's a right honest man, and one • I am much beholding to, and must very shortly Trouble his love again. Y. Man. You may be bold, sir. Mir. Your business, if you please now? Y. Man. This it is, sir. I know ye well remember in your travel A Genoa merchant — Mir. I remember many. Y. Man. But this man, sir, particularly; your own benefit Must needs imprint him in ye ; one Al- berto, A gentleman you sav'd from being mur- der'd A little from BologTia : I was then myself in Italy, and supplied ye; Though haply you have forgot me now. Mir. No, I remember ye, And that Alberto too ; a noble gentleman : More to remember were to thank myself, sir. What of that gentleman? Y. Man. He is dead. 18 pieces. 19 salt. 20 bows. 21 secret coat of mail. 378 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Mir. I am sorry. Y. Man. But on his death-bed, leaving to his sister All that he had, beside some certain jewels, Which, with a ceremony, he beqncath'd to you In grateful memory, he commanded strictly His sister, as she lov'd him and his peace. To see those jewels safe and true de- liver'd, And, with them, his last love. She, as tender To observe his will, not trusting friend nor servant With such a weight, is come herself to Paris And at my master's house. Mir. You tell me a wonder. Y. Man. I tell ye a truth, sir. She is young and handsome. And well attended; of much state and riches ; So loving and obedient to her brother, That, on my conscience, if he had given her also, She would most willingly have made her tender. Mir. May not I see her? Y. Man. Slie desiiTS it heartily. Mir. And presently? Y. Man. She is now about some business, Passing accounts of some few debts here owing, And buying jewels of a merchant. Mir. Is she wealthy ? Y. Man. I would ye had her, sir, at all ad- venture ! Her brother had a main state.-- Mir. And fair too? Y. Man. The prime of all those parts of Italy, For beauty and for courtesy. Mir. I must needs see her. Y. Man. 'T is all her business, sir. Ye may now see her; But to-morrow will be fitter for your visitation, For she is not yet prepared. Mir. Only her sight, sir; And, when you shall think fit, for further visit. Y. Man. Sir, ye may see her, and T '11 wait your coming. Mir. And T '11 be with ye instantly ; I know the house ; — Meantime, my love and thanks, sir. T. Man. Your poor servant. Exit. Pin. Thou hast the strangest luck ! What was that Alberto? 3Iir. An honest noble merchant 't was my chance To rescue from some rogues had almost slain him; And he in kindness to remember this ! Bel. Now we shall have you For all your i^rotestations and your for- wardness, Find out strange fortunes in this lady's eyes. And new enticements to put off your jour- ney; And who shall have honor then? Mir. No, no, never fear it : I must needs see her to receive my legacy. Bel. If it be tied up in her smock. Heaven help thee! May not we see too? Mir. Yes, afore we go : I must be known myself, ere I be able To make thee welcome. Wouldst thou see more women ? I thought von had been out of love with all. Bel. I may be (I find thai), with the least encourage- ment ; Yet I desire to see whether all coun- tries Are naturally possess'd with the same spirits, For, if they be, I '11 take a monastery, And never travel: for I had rather be a friar. And live niew'd '^ up, than be a fool, and flouted. 3Iir. Well, well, I '11 meet ye anon, then tell you more, boys ; However, stand prepared, prest -* for our journey ; For certain we shall go, I think, when I have seen her, And view'd her well. Pin. Go, go, and we '11 wait for ye ; Your fortune directs ours. Bel. You shall find us i' th' tavern. Lamenting in sack and sugar for our losses. If she be right Italian, and want serv- ants,-^ Yon may prefer the properest man. How I could Worry a woman now ! Pin. Come, come, leave prating: 22 great estate. 23 confined, like a hawk in a mews. 2+ ready. lovers. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 379 Ye may have enough to do, without this boasting. Exeunt. Scene 3. A room in Nantolet's house. Enter Lugier, De Gard, Rosalura, and Lillia Bianca. Lug. This is the last adventure. De Gard. And the happiest, As we hope, too. Ilos. We should be .elad to find it. Lil. Who shall conduct us thither? Lug. Your man is ready, For I must not be seen ; no, nor this gen- tleman ; That may beget suspicion ; all the rest Are peojjle of no doubt. I would have ye, ladies, Keep your old liberties, and as we in- struct ye. Come, look not pale; you shall not lose your wishes. Nor beg 'em neither; but be yourselves and happy. Bos. I tell you true, I cannot hold off longer, Nor give no more hard language. De Gard. You shall not need. Bos. I love the gentleman, and must now show it : Shall I beat a proper man out of heart ? Lug. There 's none advises ye. Lil. Faith, I repent me too. Lug. Repent and spoil all ; Tell what ye know, ye had best ! Lil. _ i '11 tell what I think ; For, if he ask me now if I can love him, I '11 tell him, yes, I can. The man 's a kind man, And out of his true honesty affects me. Although he play'd the fool, which I re- quited, Must I still hold him at the staff's end? Lug. You are two strange women. Bos. We may be, if we fool still. Lug. Dare ye believe me? Follow but this advice I have set you in now. And if ye lose — Would ye yield now so basely? Give up without your honors sav'd? De Gard. Fie, ladies! Preserve your freedom still. Lil. Well, well, for this time. Lug. And carry that full state — Bos. That 's as the wind stands; If it begin to chop about, and scant "^ us, 20 fail. Hang me, but I know what I '11 do ! Come, direct us ; I make no doubt we shall do handsomely. De Gard. Some ]iart o' tli' way we '11 wait upon ye, ladies; The rest your man supplies. Lug. Do well, I '11 honor ye. Exeunt. Scene 4. A room in a neighboring house, with a gallery. Oriana disguised as an Italian lady, and two persons disguised as Merchants dis- covered above. Enter, below, the Young Man disguised as a Factor, and Mirabel. Y. Man. Look ye, sir, there she is ; you see how busy. Methinks you are infinitely bound to her for her journey. Mir. How gloriously she shows ! She is a tall woman. Y. Man. Of a fair size, sir. My master not being at home, I have been so out of my wits to get her company ! I mean, sir, of her own fair sex and fashion — Mir. Afar off, she is most fair too. Y. Man. Near, most excellent. — At length, I have entreated two fair ladies (And happily you know 'em), the young daughters Of Monsieur Nantolet. Mir. I know 'em well, sir. What are those? Jewels? r. Man. All. Mir. They make a rich show. T. Man. There is a matter of ten thousand pounds, too, Was owing here. You see those mer- chants with her; They have brought it in now. Mir. How hand- somely her shape shows ! Y. Man. Those are still neat; your Italians are most curious.-'^ Now she looks this way. Mir. She has a goodly presence; How full of courtesy! — Well, sir, I'll leave ye ; And, if I may be bold to bring a friend or two, Good noble gentlemen — Y. Man. No doubt, ye may, sir; For you have most command. 27 fastidious. 380 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Blir. I have seen a wonder ! Exit. Ori. Is he gone'? r. Man. Yes. Ori. How"? r. Man. Taken to the utmost : A wonder dwells about him. Ori. He did not guess at mel y. Man. No, be secure; ye show another woman. He is gone to fetch his friends. Ori. Where are the gentlewomen? r. Man. Here, here: now they are come, Sit still, and let them see ye. Enter, below, Bosalura, Lillia Bianca, and Servant. Eos. Pray ye, where 's my friend, sirf r. Man. She is within, ladies ; but here 's another gentlewoman, A stranger to this town : so please you visit her, 'T will be well taken. Lil. Where is she"? y. Man. Thei-e, above, ladies. Serv. Bless me, what thing is this"? Two pinnacles Upon her pate! Is 't not a glode -^ to catch woodcocks'? Ros. Peace, ye rude knave ! Serv. What a bouncing bum she has too ! There 's sail enough for a carrack."" Bos. What is this lady •? For, as I live, she is a goodly woman. y. Man. Guess, guess. Lil. I have not seen a nobler presence. Serv. 'T is a lusty wench : now could I spend my forty-pence. With all my heart, to have but one fling at her. To give her but a swashing blow. Lil. Ye rascal ! Serv. Aye, that 's all a man has for 's good will. 'T will be long enough Before ye ei"y, ''Come, Anthony, and kiss me." Lil. I '11 have ye whipt. Bos. Has my friend seen this lady'? y. 3Ian. Yes, yes, and is well known to her. Bos. I much admire her presence. Lil. So do I too ; For, I protest, she is the handsomest, The rarest, and the newest to mine eye. That ever I saw yet. Bos. I long to know her; My friend shall do that kindness. Ori. So she shall, ladies : Come, pray ye, come up. Bos. Oh me ! Lil. Hang me, if I knew her ! — Were I a man myself, I should now love ye; Nay, I should dote. Bos. I dare not trust mine eyes ; For, as I live, ye are the strangest alter'd ! I must come up to know the truth. Serv. So must I, lady : For I 'm a kmd of unbeliever too. Lil. Get ye gone, sirrah ; And what ye have seen be secret in; you are paid else ! No more of your long tongue. y. Man. Will ye go in, ladies, And talk with her"? These venturers will come straight. Away with this fellow. Lil. There, sirrah ; go, disport ye. Serv. I would the trunk-hos'd ^° woman would go with me. Exeunt. Scene 5. The street, before the same house. Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. Pin. Is she so glorious handsome"? Mir. You would wonder ; Our women look like gipsies, like gills ^^ to her; Their clothes and fashions beggarly and bankinipt. Base, old, and scurvy. Bel. How looks her face"? 3Iir. Most heavenly; And the becoming motion of her body So sets her off! Bel. Why then, we shall stay. Mir. Pardon me. That 's more than I know. If she be that woman She appears to be — Bel. As 't is impossible. Mir. I shall then tell ye more. Pin. Did ye speak to her'? Mir. No, no, I only saw her; she was busy. Now I go for that end; and mark her, gentlemen. If she appear not to ye one of the sweet- est, The handsomest, the fairest in behavior! We shall meet the two wenches there too ; they come to visit her. 28 glade, an open- ing birds. (N. E. 30 Trunk hose were dently Oriana Oriental woman ing in a wood D.) large, loose was attired in the 31 common utilized for snar- 29 galleon. breeches ; evi- manner of an wenches. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 381 To wonder, as we do. Pin. Then we shall meet 'em. Bel. I had rather meet two beai's. Mir. There you may take your leaves, de- spatch that business, And, as ye find their humors — Pin. Is your love there too 1 3Iir. No, certain ; she has no great heart to set out again. This is the house ; I '11 usher ye. Bel. I '11 bless me, And take a good heart, if I can. Mir. Come, nobly. Exeunt. Scene 6. A room in the same house. Enter the Young Man disguised as a Fac- tor, Rosalura, Lillia Bianca, and Oriana disguised as before. Y. Man. They are come in. Sit you two off, as strangers. — There, lady.— Where 's the boy? Enter Boy. Be ready, sirrah, And clear your pipes. ^- — The music now ; they enter. (Music.) Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. Pin. What a state she keeps ! How far off they sit from her! How rich she is ! Aye, marry, this shows bravely ! Bel. She is a lusty wench, and may allure a good man ; But, if she have a tongi;e, I '11 not give twopence for her.' There sits my Fuiy ; liow I shake to see her ! Y. Man. Madam, this is the gentleman. Mir. How sweet she kisses ! She has a spring dAvells on her lips, a paradise ! This is the legacy? [Song by the Boy, while he presents a cas- ket to Mirabel.) From the honor'd dead I bring Thus his love and last olT'ring. Take it nobly, 't is your due, From a friendship ever true; From a faith, &c. Ori. Most noble sir, This from my now-dead brother, as his love. And grateful memory of your great bene- fit; From me my thanks, my wishes, and my service. Till I am more acquainted, I am silent ; Only I dare say this, — you are truly noble. Mir. What should I think? Pin. Think ye have a handsome fortune: Would I had such another! Ros. Ye are all well met, gentlemen ; We hear ye are for travel. Pin. You hear true, lady ; And come to take our leaves. Lil. We '11 along with ye : We see you are grown so witty by your journey, We cannot thoose but step out too. This lady We mean to wait upon as far as Italy. Bel. I'll travel into Wales, amongst the mountains, In hope they cannot find me. Eos. If you go further. So good and free society we hold ye, We '11 jog along too. Pin. Are you so valiant, lady? Lil. And we '11 be merry, sir, and laugh. Pin. It may be We '11 go by sea. Lil. Why, 't is the only voyage ! I love a sea-voyage, and a blust'ring tem- pest; And let all split! Pin. This is a dainty damosel ! — I think 't will tame ye. Can ye ride post? Lil. Oh, excellently! I am never weary that way : A hundred mile a day is nothing with me. Bel. I '11 travel under ground. Do you hear, sweet lady? I find it will be dangerous for a woman. Ros. No danger, sir, I warrant ; I love to be under. Bel. I see she will abuse me all the world over. — But say we pass through Germany, and drink hard? Ros. We '11 learn to drink, and swagger too. Bel. She '11 beat me !— Lady, I '11 live at home. Ros. And I '11 live with thee ; And we '11 keep house together. Bel. I 'II keep hounds first : And those I hate right heartily. Pin. I go for Turkey; And so, it may be, up into Persia. Lil. We cannot know too much ; I '11 travel with ye. 32 throat. 382 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD Pin. And you '11 abuse me ? Lil. Like enouiih. Pin. 'T is dainty ! Bel. I will live in a bawdy-house. Eos. I dare come to ye. Bel. Say I am dispos'd to hang- myself"? Ros. There I '11 leave ye. Bel. I am glad I know how to avoid ye. Mir. May I speak yet *? r. Man. She beckons to ye. Mir. Lady, I could wish I knew to recom- pense, Even with the service of my life, those pains. And those high favors you have thrown upon me : Till I be more desertf ul in your eye, And till my duty shall make known I honor ye, Noblest of women, do me but this favor, To accei3t this back again as a poor testi- mony. {Offering the casket.) Ori. I must have you too with 'em; else the will, That says they must rest with ye, is in- fring'd, sir; Which, pardon me, I dare not do. Mir. Take me then, And take me with the truest love. Ori. 'T is certain My brother lov'd ye dearly, and I ought As dearly to preserve that love : but, sir, Though I were willing, these are but your ceremonies. Mir. As I have life, I speak my soul! Ori. I like ye : But how you can like me, without I have testimony, A stranger to ye — Mir. I '11 marry ye inmiediately ; A fair state I dare promise ye. Bel. Yet she '11 cozen thee. Ori. Would some fair gentleman durst promise for ye ! Mir. By all that 's good — Enter La Castre, Nantolet, Lugicr, and De Gard. La Cast., Nant., &c. And we '11 make up the rest, lady. Ori. Then Oriana takes ye! Nay, she has caught ye; If ye start now, let all the world cry shame on ye ! I have out-travell'd ye. Bel. Did not I sav she would cheat thee? Mir. I thank ye : I am pleas'd ye have de- ceiv'd nie. And willingly I swallow it, and joy in 't ; And yet, perhaps, I knew ye. Whose plot was this? Lug. He is not asham'd that cast ^^ it ; he that executed, Follow'd your fathei-'s will. Mir. What a world 's this ! Nothing but craft and cozenage! Ori. Who begun, sir? Mir. Well ; I do take thee upon mere com- passion ; And I do think I shall love thee. As a testimony, I '11 burn my book, and turn a new leaf over. But these fine clothes you shall wear still. Ori. I obey you, sir, in all. Nant. And how, how, daughters? What say you to these gentlemen? — Wliat say ye, gentlemen, to the girls? Pin. By my troth — if she can love me — Lil. How long? Pin. Nay, if once ye love — Lil. Then take me. And take your chance. Pin. Most willingly: ye are mine, lady; And, if I use ye not that ye may love me — ■ Lil. A match, i' faith. Pin. Why, now ye travel with me. Bos. How that thing stands ! Bel. It will, if ye urge it : Bless your five wits ! Ros. Nay, prithee, stay ; I '11 have thee. Bel. You must ask me leave first. Ros. Wilt thou use me kindly. And beat me but once a week? Bel. . If you deserve no more. Ros. And wilt thou get me with child? Bel. Dost thou ask me seriously? Ros. Yes, indeed, do I. Bel. Yes, I will get thee with child. Come, presently. An 't be but in revenge, I '11 do thee that courtesy. Well, if thou wilt fear God and me, have at thee! Ros. I '11 love ye, and I '11 honor ye Bel. I am pleas'd, then. Mir. This Wild-Goose Chase is done; we have won o' both sides. Brother, your love : and now to church of all hands ; Let 's lose no time. Pin. Our travelling lay by. Bel. No more for Italy ; for the Low Conn- tries, I. Exeunt. 33 contrived. MIDDLETON AND ROWLEY THE CHANGELING Thomas Middlcton ( 1570?-1027 ), with a Cambridgo and Gray's Inn education bohind him, was by 1G12 writing for Henslowe, and about 1004 began the series of realistic comedies of London life whicli established his reputation. He also wrote a considerable number of masques and Lord IMavor's pageants, and held the post of City Cl'iron- ologer from 1G20 till his death. Tlie most striking incident of his career was connected with his play The Game at Chess, satirizing the proposed marriage of Prince Charles with a Spanish princess, which roused the anger of the Spanish ambassador and led to a war- rant for the arrest of the players and author. William Kowley (lo85^-post 1G37), an actor and playwright of whose life we know nothing, did most of his work in collabora- tion, with Fletcher, Dekker, Heywood, and others. The year 1G14, when tW Prince's Company, for whom Powlcy was writing, and the Lady Elizabeth's men, avIio had been act- ing Middleton's plays, were united, is the date assigned for the beginning of the collabora- tion which, next to that of Beaumont and Fletcher, was most fruitful of good work. Whatever the circumstances that brought Middleton and Rowley together, the partner- ship was a fortunate one, for it produced two plays of the first water, A Fair Quarrel (IGIG) and The Changeling (1G23). By 1614 Middleton had written most of the comedies which stamp him as the chief realist of his time. A Mad World, My Masters, A Chaste Maid in Chcapside, A Trick to Catch the Old One, A'o Wit, No Help like a Woman's, racy, bustling plays of intrigue, the plot centering in the pursuit of a rich widow by a young scapegrace, or the fooling of a miserly father or greedy usurer, intro- ducing just the sort of figures that would come under the observation of a young lawyer with a keen eye for the comcdie humaine, prodigal sons beset by creditors, countrv gentlemen swindled by sharpers, widows with more money than prudence, old men over- reaching themselves in craft, knaves and swaggerers of every sort, constables and police magistrates, once an Amazon in doublet and hose, courtesans masquerading as fine ladies — all the seething underworld of London set forth with the veracity of first-hand ac 383 quaintance — plays of this kind are Middle- ton's contribution to the comedy of manners. Not a pleasant world, my masters, and de- picted without a touch of romance, without moral ideality, without a breath of the fresh air that blows through The Shoemakers' Iloli- day. 'Ihe plotting is deft, the action is brisk, the characters are firmly drawn, the dialogue, shifting easily from verse to prose and back, is clear and fluent. Bowley, on the other, liand, both in style and structure offers a striking contrast. His plotting is slovenly; the conception may be good, for the man had dramatic instinct, but tlie execution is fre- quently marred by a huddling of incident and violent straining for theatrical efi'ect. The verse exhibits the same faults; it is often rugged to uncouthness, shambling in meter, exaggerated in its ettort for distinction of phrase. Pvowley's humor is characteristic: genuine, but tending to bufi'oonery, rough and ready, and all too commonly depending on mere horseplay and on violent attempts at verbal cleverness, for Rowley was an inveter- ate bad punster. Yet with all his faults Ivowley displays an honesty and human sym- ])atiiy, a capacity for iiiiagination of "the higher, idealizing sort, not felt in Middleton's more artistic product. An ill-assorted i)air tliis, we should be tenii)ted to say, with no promise of the sym- patliy of taste and poetic gift which made the union of Beaumont and Fletcher so happv. Yet something in each man seemed to call forth the best in the other, and in their first united work there comes an indescribable lift, a nobility of conception and a power to in- terpret life and express it in terms of poetry, utterly unheralded by the previous work of either man. A Fair Quarrel, with its prob- lem of the attitude of a finely grained youth toward a mother whose dishonor herself has admitted (though untruthfully, in order to prevent the boy from fighting a duel), and toward her accuser, strikes the reader as sur- prisingly modern in idea, and in execution the plot is not unworthy of the theme. But it is in the romantic tragedy. The Changeling, of the same class as Beaumont and Fletcher's The Maid's Tragedy and Webster's The Duchess of Malfi, tliat Middleton and Rowley reach their highest achievement and produce one of the greatest plays of the period. 384 . THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD The Changeling is an illustration of the dual-plot construction common at the time in Elizahethan plays, in A Woman Killed with Kindness, for instance. A superbly con- ceived main-plot is disfigured by a trashy comic sub-plot, of which the best thing to be said is that it soon fades from memory. The mad-house scenes are by all critics as- signed to Rowley. Worthless in themselves, revolting to modern taste, exhibiting Row- ley's coarse and clumsy humor at its worst, they are united to the main plot in the flim- siest fashion ;'