THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN
 
 THE 
 
 School of Shakspere 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 'THE MFF. AND DEATH OF CAPTAIN THOMAS STUK.F.LEY,' 
 
 WITH A NEW LIFE OF STUCLEY, FROM UNP'J liLISHED S(;URCES; 
 
 •NOBODY AND SOMEBODY;' ' HISTRIO-MASTIX :' 
 
 'THE PRODIGAL SON;' 'JACK DRUM'S ENTERTAINEMENT . ' 
 
 'A WARNING FOR FAIR WOMEN,' 
 
 WITH REPRINTS OF THE ACCOUNTS OF THE MURDER: 
 
 AND 'FAIRE E]VL' 
 
 EDITED, 
 
 Wiit^ |utrDbuctimis anJ) |totcs, 
 
 A.VO A.V ACCOUNT OF ROBERT GREENE, HIS PROSE WORKS, AND 
 HIS QUARRELS WIJH SHAKSPERE, 
 
 By RICHARD SIMPSON, B.A. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'the PHri.osoFHv OF shakspere's sonnets,' the 'life of campion,' etc. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES.— VOL. II. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 J. W. BOUTON, 706 BROADWAY 
 
 1878.
 
 PRa'zSS \ 
 
 .1. 
 
 CLAY AXD TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 nrSTRIO-MASTIX; OR, THE PLAYER WHIPT ... ... 1 
 
 THE PRODIGAL SON ... ... ... ... ... 90 
 
 JACKE DRUMS EXTERTAINEMENT ... ... ... 125 
 
 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN ... ... ... 209 
 
 FAIRE EM, THE MLLLER'S DAUGHTER OF MANCHESTER ... 337 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF ROBERT GREENE, HIS LIFE AND WORKS, AND 
 
 HIS ATTACKS ON SHAKSPERE AND THE PLAYERS ... 339 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY ... ... ... ... ... 469
 
 HISTEIO-MASTIX; 
 
 OR, 
 
 Efje i3laucr mfjtpt. 
 
 PEINTED FOE Til : THORP. 1610.
 
 [STORY OF THE PLAY.] 
 
 [This play lias too many characters to have much story. It is rather 
 a review of the vices of the time, aud tlieir iufiucuce upou tlie coiimmuity 
 generally, thau a story, or the evolvemeut of a dramatic plot. It shows 
 four Lords (Mavortius, &c.) and four Citizens (Fourcher, &c.), each group 
 in its several ways of life seduced from the study of the Arts (whose 
 virtues are set fortli iu the initial scene) by the prevalence of the luxuri- 
 ous ways consequent upon the reign of Plenty, the ill-advised daughter 
 and successor of Peace. The gentlefolk throw over the Arts, and deride 
 the teaching of the Scholar (Ghrisoganus — who, however, continues to 
 teach and preach right through the play, and so is a sort of chorus to its 
 action), m order that they may indulge in frivolous amusements, amongst 
 which the newly fashionable patronage of companies of players has a promi- 
 nent place. I'lay-acting patronage, in the humbler form of play-going, is 
 also shown as being a principal vice of the citizens. The Players, with Post- 
 haste the poet for their most active member and writer, are depicted as a set 
 of tii)pling ' mechanicals,' who have abandoned tlieir respective trades for 
 the profit, combined with dissipation, which the formation of their number 
 into a 'company' (known as 'Sir Oliver Owlet's') affords. These players 
 are furtlier shown, by means of a play iu part given by them (Act 2), an 
 'extempore song' given by their poet upon the same occasion, aud by 
 incidents in other scenes of the play, as being men of the poorest ability. 
 Indeed the play they give in the Hall of Lord JMavortius (Act 2) is 
 stopped iu mid-career for its badness ; and it and Post-haste's ' extempore 
 song' are declared by Landulpho, an Italian lord, one of Mavortius's 
 guests, to be 'base trash' by comparison with the drama and poetry of 
 Italy. Indulgence on the part of the two groups of gentlemen and 
 citizens brings upon each the influence of vice upon vice— Pride and Vain- 
 glory, for example, leading to Envy, Ambition, &c., which, in turn, bring 
 about War, &c., amongst the gentry, and Riot, &c., amongst the common 
 people. When War comes, the players are pressed, despite their ' privi- 
 lege,' and their gay stage apparel is taken to clothe soldiers ; and when 
 Poverty and Fauune come, these 'idle fellows' are arrested for the amounts 
 of their tavern scores, and are shipped off and 'banished out o' the land.' 
 When, through the general Ruin which has ensued, Mavortius and the 
 other gentlemen and their wives are reduced to beggary, and the group of 
 citizens and theh' wives are almost as badly off, they all repent; and, 
 thereupon, Peace reappears, bringing with her Fame, Fortitude, Religion, 
 &c., and driving out Poverty, &c. At the same time the Arts reappear 
 to end the play as they began it, by supporting ' Peace sitting in 
 Majestic.' The extensive list of 'dramatis personse,' with their succession, 
 almost tells the story of the play. — 6. ]
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I HAVE included the play of Ilistriomastix in tlie * School of 
 Shakspcre ' for several reasons : — 
 
 First, because of its general importance for the history of the 
 Stage. 
 
 Secondly, because of an allusion, which, if it really relate to 
 Shakspcre, is of great importance. I refer to the parody of Troilus 
 and Cressida, p. 39, 1. 273, where one of the lines seems even to name 
 Shakspcre — 
 
 That when he shakes his furious Sj)eare. 
 
 And thirdly, because it is manifestly one of the parcel works of 
 Marston, who is perhaps of all our dramatists the one mIio made 
 the most manifest attempt to form his style on that of Shakspcre. 
 
 The drama as it has come to us is manifestly the work of two 
 hands, and of two times. This is proved both by the confusion of 
 the sub-play in Act II., and by the alternative endings of the play. 
 As originally written, the sub-play was that of the Prodigal child ; 
 as it stands now, wc have both the original sub-play, and another 
 perfectly distinct one on Troilm and Cressida foisted in on its 
 shoulders. 
 
 Again, there are tv.o incompatible endings to the play. In one, 
 Queen Elizabeth in the person of Astrrca ' mounts unto the throne ' 
 and receives the homage of Peace. In the other, Plenty, Pride,
 
 4 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Envy, War, and Poverty enter and resign their sceptres to ' Peace 
 sitting in majesty.' 
 
 This alternative arrangement seems to show that the phny was 
 originally written in the reign of Elizabeth, and was remodelled 
 when it was no longer necessary to flatter her. 
 
 The anthor of the new additions to the play is clearly Marston. 
 His unraistakeahle swagger begins to appear in Act II., where he 
 begins to transmute the Academic Philosopher Crysoganus of the 
 old play into the Poet-scholar Crysoganus of the new, and Ilariot 
 becomes Jonson or Marston. 
 
 How vou translating scholar? vou can make 
 A stabbing Satir, or an Epigram, 
 And thinke you can-y just Ramnusias whippe 
 To lash the patient, (p. 30, 1. 63, et seq.) 
 
 The translating scholar, or the epigrammatist, is more like Jonson ; 
 the satirist, armed with Earanusia's whip, more like Marston him- 
 self. Yet Horace (Jonson) in the Foetader is made a satirist, 
 and in the very title of the Satlroviastlx is teiTned so, while in its 
 scenes he flings about his epigrams. In this same act the sub-play 
 of Troiliis is also Marston's. In the 3rd Act Marston's work be- 
 gins Avith the entrance of Crysoganus, and it continues at least to 
 the beginning of the 6th Act. Perhaps I ought to except the 
 scenes where the players appear. These may belong to the older 
 drama; as they are either in prose or in doggrel, the tests which 
 prove Marston's blank verse fail us. 
 
 Marston tlicn being the author of the recension of this play, it 
 remains to inquire the date of his rewriting it. I have said that 
 the alternative endings would suggest that the new additions were
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 made after the death of Elizabeth. ]jut external testimony forces 
 ' me to conclude that Marston had worked upon the play, even be- 
 fore 1509. In that year Ben Jonson brought out his Every man 
 out of his humour. In that play, as Dr Brinsley Nicholson has 
 shown me, Jonson introduces two characters, Clove and Orange, 
 whom he means for Marston and Dckker. In Act III. he puts into 
 Clove's mouth a speech crammed with Marston's fustian words, in 
 which he mentions the lUdriomaailx by name. ' Now sir, whereas 
 the ingemdttj of the time, and the souVs synderim arc but embrions 
 in nature, added to the paunch of E>iqulliue, and the intervallum of 
 the zodiac, besides the ecliptic line being optic and not mental, but 
 by the contemplative and theoric part thereof, doth demonstrate to 
 us the vegitable circumference, and the ventosity of the tropics; and 
 whereas our intellectual, or viincing capreal, (according to the 
 metaphysics) as you may read in Plato's Histriomastix' .... &c. 
 The lano:uase shows that Clove is meant for Marston, and the men- 
 tion by him of the Histriomastix leads almost irresistibly to the 
 conclusion that Marston had a finger in that composition before 
 the Christmas of 1599, when Jonson's play appeared. 
 
 Jonson's sneer at the play seems also to suggest that it was 
 written in opposition to him. ' He had,' as he told Drammond, 
 ' many quarrels with Marston, beat him, and took his pistol from 
 him, wrote his Poetaster on him.' But Marston was modelling 
 himself on Jonson when he wrote the first part of Antonio and 
 Mellida in 1598; was quarrelling witli him when he satirized him 
 as Torquatus in the Scourge of Villany, 1599 ; was lashed by Jon- 
 son in 1599 as Clove; in 1600 in Cynthia s revels as Hedon or 
 Anaides; in 1601 in the Poetaster as Crispinus. And then Jon- 
 son said that for three years ilarston and Dekker had been lam-
 
 6 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 poouing- hiin. But in 1G04 Marstoii dedicated \\h Malcontent (a 
 work of IGOO) to Joiison, ' amico suo candido ct cordato,' and in 
 1G05 joined him in writing Eadwanl Ho. 
 
 But tliougli Marston wrote Antonio and Mellida while a kind of 
 disciple of Jonson, yet Jonson made no scruple of ridiculing it in 
 the Foetastej'. So it is possible, even though Marston's Cryso- 
 ganus was intended for Jonson, that Jonson should afterwards 
 reject the compliment, and ridicule the courtier who made it. We 
 must therefore rely only on the internal evidence to determine 
 whether Marston's Crysoganus was intended for Jonson, or for 
 Marston himself. 
 
 I have already quoted a passage from Act II., which seems to Ibe 
 more applicable to Jonson than to Marston. Another of the same 
 import occurs in Act III., where the comedians ask him, 
 
 ' Chrisoganus, faith, what's the lowest price ? ' 
 and he answers, 
 
 ' You know as well as I, ten pound a play.' 
 
 (p. 50, 11. 179-80.) 
 
 Now if this play was written in 1598 or 1599 it seems preposterous 
 to suppose that Marston, 'the new poet,' as Henslowe calls him 
 Sept. 28, 1599, would be paid even more than the old ones. Here 
 is an entry eighteen days later : — ' Keceived .... for the first part of 
 the Life of Sir John Oldcastle, and in earnest of the second part, ten 
 pounds.' The earnest was either 20s. or 40s., so that the payment 
 for the play was £8 or JE9. It proved successful, and in November 
 Henslowe bestowed on Munday and the rest of the poets lOs. more 
 ' as a gift.' 
 
 A study of Henslowe's diaiy will show that before 1600 the
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 highest price ever paid by him was £S or £9. The usual price 
 varied from £4 to £G. Jonson was the first to charge £10. It was 
 for Richard Crookback, about 1600. Greene sold Orlando FurioHO 
 for 20 nobles, or £7 lO.y., in 151)2. Antonio (Munday) in The 
 Case is ylUered, says ' an they'll give me £20 a play, I'll not raise 
 my vein,' — an impossible price for an impossibility. 
 
 And again, no one can doubt that the position of Crysoganus in 
 Marston's part of the play is altogether similar to that of Asper in 
 Every man out of his humour, Crites in Cynthia s revels, and Horace 
 in the Poetaster. To us, Jonson seems to be the inventor of the 
 method which introduced the author of the play upon the stage, as 
 the great critic of the characters, and the censor of the morals of 
 the age. It is true that in Marston's first play, Antonio and Mel- 
 lida, which was earlier tlian any of the plays just named, Feliche 
 plays the same part. But T tliink that any one who reads the play will 
 agree with me, that Feliche does not carry off his character natur- 
 ally ; he does not seem to be an original, but a copy. And Jonson 
 had written many plays now lost, in which I have little doubt that 
 he introduced himself as chorus to criticize his own drama and its 
 persons, as Asper, Crites, and Horace do in his three extant plays. 
 Though ^larston in the Induction to the first part of Antonio 
 and Mellida, promises a further development of Feliche's character 
 in the second part, he seems to have repented of his purpose, and 
 to have given up his Jonsonese ideal before he wrote again. So 
 that we may probably date his quarrel with Jonson as having 
 occurred between the writings of the two parts of Antonio and 
 Mellida. 
 
 The part of Crysoganus, as developed by Marston, is precisely 
 similar in principle to that of Feliche and to those of Jonson's
 
 8 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Aspcr, C rites, and Horace. Hence it is additionally probable tliat 
 liis recension of the Hidriomadlx was made about tlie time wlien 
 he wrote the first part, and before he wrote the second part of 
 Antonio and Mellida. Hence again it is also easily to be ac- 
 counted for, if, though he meant Crysoganus for himself, he also 
 completed the sketch with many characteristics taken from Ben 
 Jonson. Jonson was the ideal which he thought he should like to 
 imitate. Consequently in describing himself he, consciously or 
 unconsciously, posed himself in the station and gait of Jonson. 
 
 And now I must inquire whether the reference to Troilm and 
 Cressida is meant for Shakspere's play. That play was not 
 published till IGO'J, and then had never been acted in a public 
 theatre. It might however have been exhibited before a private 
 audience, such as would be collected at the revels of one of the 
 Inns of Court. Then comes the question, is Shakspere's Troilus 
 and Cresmla as early as 1599 ? Mr Flcay says part of it is, pro- 
 bably, 1597: he recognizes two constituents of the play, one much 
 earlier than the other ; the earlier being the Cressida story, the later 
 the Agamemnon story. It is not at all impossible that the short 
 Cressida story may have been first dramatized as a kind of masque 
 for some private revels, and afterwards enlarged into the play as 
 we have it. The date therefore is, I take it, no objection to the 
 supposition that the short play was alluded to in the Histriomastix. 
 
 And this supposition, founded on the line ' when he shakes his 
 furious Speare,' seems to gain immense support from the line in the 
 later Troilm and Cressida, I. iii. 73, ' When rank Thersites opes 
 his mastic jaws.' Commentators have concluded from this that 
 Thersites was Dekker, and that his mastic jaws referred to his 
 Satiromastix. But this is. unlikely, as that play was written
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 expressly for the company at the Globe in reply to the abuse of 
 thera by Jonson in his Poetaster. The interpretation of the 
 passage would be much more natural if this mastic Thersites was 
 the author of the Illdriomadix who liad provoked the sarcasm by 
 his attack on the first sketch of the very play where the sarcasm is 
 now found. 
 
 After having stated my reasons for believing that ]\Iar3ton is 
 the author of the amended Jlistriomastix of 1599, and that in it he 
 attacks Shakspere, it remains that I should, with all diffidence, 
 propose my hypothesis as to the author and date of the original 
 play. Enough remains of this play, after Marston's additions and 
 alterations are taken out, to show what its main intention was. It 
 was to show the utter unAvorthiness of actors to any place in the 
 commonwealth, in peace or war, plenty or poverty. With such an 
 object it coidd hardly have been intended to be acted on any public 
 stage. It was an academical exercise for voung men at the 
 universities or for schoolboys to act. In its revised form it is 
 clearly one of the series of plays in which the boy-actors went to 
 buffets with the men-actors of the common stages, and the boys' 
 poets abused the men's poets. There is no indication that in the 
 original play Crysoganus, who in the 3rd Act comes out as 
 Marston-Jonson, was a poet at all ; he is a man who professes the 
 seven liberal sciences, and prefers the mathematics to all. In the 
 1st Act, when the merchants and lawyers propose to go see a play^ 
 as being all in fashion, one replies, ' Sec a play ! a proper pastime 
 indeed ! to hear a deal of prating to so little purpose.' So they all 
 go to Cnsoganus' study to hear him read mathematics. And 
 after hearing him they agree to ' design some place for exercise, and 
 
 1 p. 23, 1. 170.
 
 lo HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 every morning liave a lecture,' and give Clirisoganus ' competent 
 exliibitiou ' — in other words, to set up an academy, where its 
 members sliould ' dote in rusty art, plodding upon a book to dull 
 the sense.' ^ The centre of this pedantic institute was quite a dif- 
 ferent Crysoganus from the one afterwards delineated by Marston.^ 
 The earlier Crysoganus seems to one to be of the time when 
 the Earl of Northumberland, Ealeigh, and Hariot strove to set up 
 an academy in London. And the spirit of the play, and even its 
 expressions, were quite in unison with Peele's dedication of his 
 Honour of the Garter (1593) to the Earl — 
 
 The Muses love, patron, and favourite, 
 That artisans and scholars dost embrace, 
 And clothest MatJiesls in rich ornaments. 
 That admirable mathematic skill 
 Familiar Avith. the stars and Zodiac, 
 To whom the heaven lies open as her book. 
 
 After much more in this style, equally like the matter of the earlier 
 play, Peele begins to speak of 
 
 these unhappy times 
 Disfurnished wholly of heroical spirits 
 That learning should with glorious hands uphold, 
 
 in which only Northumberland has, 
 
 in regard the true philosophy 
 That in pure wisdom seats her happiness. 
 
 1 p. 29, I. 20. 
 
 '^ How differently Marston treated the Scholastic questions of the first 
 Act of Histriomastix may be seen iu the character of Lampatho, in Act II. 
 of his What you will.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. ii 
 
 Augustus is dead, and Sidney, .uid W'alsinghara — why then do 
 not the poets follow ? What has Spenser to do here below, and 
 Harrington, and Daniel, and Campion, and Fraunce? Why do 
 they not go also. 
 
 And leave behind our ordinary grooms 
 
 With trivial humours to pastime the world 
 
 That favours Pan and IMicubus both alike ? . . . . 
 
 Why go not all into th' Elysian fields 
 
 And leave this centre barren of repast, 
 
 Unless in hope Augusta will restore 
 
 The wrongs that learning bears of covetousness. 
 
 This last line calls to mind the complaints of Nash and Greene 
 in 1589 and 1592 against the covetous players, who would not 
 give proper pay to the scholar poets, because they found that one 
 of their own fellows was Johannes Factotiini enough to write plays 
 for them. Peele was precisely one of the play-makers whom 
 Greene addressed in his dying protest, and urged to forswear the 
 trade of dramatist. This prologue to his Honour of the Garter in 
 1593 reads like an echo of Greene's words in 1592. And if the 
 original lUstrloniastix was a further contribution by Peele to the 
 same cause, then it follows that the original Post-hast of the play 
 was meant for the Shake-scene of Greene's Groahioorth of Wit, 
 the monopolizing factotum Shaksperc. In this case Marston, by 
 foisting in the allusion to Troilus, would not have given the old 
 satire any new application, but would simply have amplified it, and 
 brought it down to a later date. 
 
 In searching for any external or internal evidence to confirm or 
 contradict this hypothesis, I have tried to find some play of the
 
 12 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Prodigal Child, wliicli in the earlier Histridmadix was presented as 
 the masterpieee of the poet Post-hast. I have found none, except 
 that which exists only in the German collection of English trage- 
 dies and comedies published in lfi20. Of the eight pieces of that 
 collection, one is Titus Andronicus, another Julio and Hypolita, an 
 alteration of the Two Gentlemen of Vei'ona ; another Dekker's 
 Fortunatm, another Nobody and Somebody (refeiTed to by Shak- 
 spere in the Tempest), another Sidonea and Theayenea, another a 
 triumphant comedy of a son of the King of England and a daughter 
 of the King of Scotland. With these secular pieces there are two 
 spiritual plays, the Frodiyal Son, and the History of Esther and 
 Maman, probably the same piece that was played by the Lord 
 Chamberlain's Company at Newington, June 3, and June 10, 1594. 
 It seems to me probable that all these German plays belonged, at 
 the date of their representation in Germany, to a travelling detach- 
 ment of Shakspere's company. And this hypothesis would lead to 
 the belief that the Frodiyal Son, as well as Hester, was a spiritual 
 play belonging to the Lord Chamberlain's Company in 1593 or 
 1594. This would bring us a step nearer to the possibility of its 
 being by Shakspere. Another step is, that in the Groatstcorth of 
 Wit the player who employs Hoberto, who is presumably the same 
 player who is afterwards attacked as Shake-scene, is said to be a 
 country author, passing as a moral — ' for it was I that penned the 
 moral of Mans Wit, the Dialoyiie of Fives, and for seven years 
 space was absolute interpreter of the puppets.' Post-hast the poet 
 is also said in the Histriomastix to have began as a ballad-writer, and 
 when his trade as a dramatist fads, he says he will write ballads again. 
 Certainly the tradition is that Shakspere began as a ballad-maker (on 
 Sir Thomas Lucy). And he makes Hamlet say, in a way that may
 
 IIISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTIOA. 13 
 
 be autobiographic, that he is 'your only jig-maker,' a7id that he can 
 interpret any action whieli he sees puppets exhibiting. So that 
 there is some slight evidence both of his jig-making or ballading, of 
 his interpreting to the puppets, and of his writing spiritual plays. 
 Possibly, then, he may have written a Prodigal Child, as Post-hast 
 is said to have done. 
 
 And when wc come to examine the structure of the Prodigal 
 Son, we find that it is in great measure borrowed from Greene's 
 autobiographical novel the Mourning Garment. And then it be- 
 comes one of a scries of plays reflecting on Greene, Peele, and 
 Nash, all of which have traditionally been attributed to Shakspere, 
 if we take Posthaste to mean Shakspere. This series of plays in- 
 cludes Fair Em, the London Prodigal, the Prodigal Son, the Puritan, 
 and the Yorkshire Tragedy. I made some remarks on them in a 
 paper published in the Transactions of the New Shakspere Society, 
 Vol. II. pp. IGO, 161, a portion of which I will transcribe. I 
 say, then, that the tradition that Pair Em was Shakspere's must 
 be taken in connection with " the curious fact that Fair Em is not a 
 solitary phenomenon. There is another play, evidently refeiiing 
 to Greene,' and making a mock at his ' Never too late,'^ — a play of 
 the same date as Fair Em., apparently by the same hand, and con- 
 tainintr a line identical with one in Fair Em — 
 
 ' Pardon, dear Father, my follies that are past.' 
 
 This other play, the London Prodigal, was printed in 1G03 with 
 Shakspere's name on the title-page. But there is also another play, 
 now oidy existing in a miserable German translation of the end of 
 
 ^ Greene is ' Flowerdale ' in the play, and it is said of liiiii, 
 * If e'er his heart doth turn, 'tis ne'er too late.'
 
 1 4 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the IGtli century, which treats the Scriptural story of tlic Prodigal 
 Son very much as Greene treats it in his more or less auto- 
 biographical novel, the Mourning Garment. In the old play of 
 Ilistriomasiix (which, as we have it, is a hash of two distinct forms 
 of the play, one perhaps as written by Peele about 1590, the other 
 as rewritten by Marston in one of his transient alliances with Ben 
 Jonson about 1600) the Prodigal Son is attributed to the poet 
 Posthaste, who, at least in Marston's recension of the play, is pretty 
 clearly identified with Shakspere. Thus we have three plays, the 
 plots of which more or less closely refer to Greene and to his auto- 
 biographical novels, all in very early times attributed to Shakspere. 
 Kor does this list exhaust these coincidences. There is another 
 play of which George Peele is the hero, under the synonym of 
 Georire Pyeboard, and where his tricks and vices are exhibited in 
 the same unsparing fashion as Greene's are in the London Prodigal. 
 This play also, The Puritan, or the Widoic of Wailing Street, was 
 printed in Shaksperc's life-time with his initials on the title, and 
 reproduced as his in the 4th Folio. Nor does my list end here. Por 
 in the Yorkshire tragedy, also printed with Shakspere's name on the 
 title during his life, some penitent verses of Thomas Nash, from his 
 Pierce Penyiiless, are put inio the mouth of the murderer. Suppos- 
 ing that this was meant to hint at some similarity between Nash 
 and the criminal, we should be obliged to reckon this play as an 
 attack on Nash's memory — he was dead before it was written — and 
 then we have this curious fact, that five plays, exhibiting Greene, 
 or Peele, or Nash in a ludicrous or offensive way, were all tradition- 
 ally ascribed to Shakspere. Are we to suppose that this tradition 
 of Shakspere's quarrel with these men arose from Greene's letter to 
 his brother playmakers in his Groatsworth of wit ? Why, then, is
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 none of the various extant attacks on Marlowe's cliaracter attributed 
 to Shakspcre? But in truth the age was too uncritical to have 
 built so much on the interpretation of an enigmatical letter. The 
 rivalry of the poets was a fact living in the memory of nic-n at the 
 time in question, and it seemed the most natural thing in the 
 world, that whenever any play reflecting on his enemies appeared, it 
 should at once be attributed to Shakspere. And this tradition in- 
 cluded plays like Tair Em and the London Prodigal, which were 
 anterior to Greene's letter. The quaiTcl therefore did not originate 
 in the latter months of Greene's life, nor was liis pee^dsh and sple- 
 netic reference to the Shakescene a mere sudden and passing expres- 
 sion of wrath." 
 
 After these remarks it seems clearly desirable to print a trans- 
 lation of the Prodigal Son, in order that readers should be enabled 
 to judge of the hypothesis T put forward. It is only necessaiy to 
 remark that in all these German translations tlie original play is 
 strangely metamorphosed and barbarized, all poetry squeezed out, 
 characters and motives ridiculously misrepresented, and nothing but 
 a bare outline of the plot preserved with any approach to truth. 
 The translation will only enable readers to judge of the treatment 
 of the plot, and to trace its resemblance to Greene's treatment of 
 the same matter in his Mourning Garment.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX. 
 
 DKAMATIS PERSON^.' 
 
 y 
 
 Peace, 
 
 Grammar, 
 
 Logic, 
 
 Ehetoric, 
 
 Arithmetic, 
 
 Geometry, 
 
 Music, 
 
 Astronomy. 
 
 Mayortius. 
 
 Philarchus. 
 
 Lakius. 
 
 Hiletus. 
 
 CHi;isoGANTjg, 
 
 Incle, ^ 
 
 Belch, f , 
 
 Gut, )plai/ers. 
 
 Posthaste, ) 
 
 BOUGLE. 
 
 foukcher. 
 Voucher. 
 Velure. 
 Lyonrash. 
 Harvest -folks. 
 Plenty, 
 Plutus, 
 Ceres, 
 Bacchus. 
 Countrymen. 
 Clerlt, of the marliet. 
 Merchant's wife. 
 ■Prentice. 
 Gulch, ) , 
 
 clowt, ji^^^y^''-^- 
 
 Sallad-singer. 
 
 Vintner. 
 
 Usher of the Hall, ^ 
 
 Clerh of the liitehen. , .,, 
 
 „ , ■' ■ \ to Mai'or- 
 
 JPorter, y 
 
 Sen-er, 
 
 Servants, 
 
 Prologue, 
 
 Troilus, 
 
 Cressida, 
 
 Devil, 
 
 tins. 
 
 A^ICE, 
 
 Iniquity, 
 juventus. 
 
 Landulpho, a7i Italian Lord. 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Pride, 
 
 Vain-glory, 
 
 Hypocrisy, 
 
 Contempt. 
 
 Steward. 
 
 4 Serving men. 
 
 2 Pages. 
 
 Perpetuana. 
 
 FiLLISELLA. 
 
 Bellula. 
 
 Jen-eller. 
 
 Tyren'07nan. 
 
 Tailor. 
 
 Champerty. 
 
 Calamanca. 
 
 Envy. 
 
 Ingle. 
 
 War. 
 
 Ambition. 
 
 Fury. 
 
 Horror. 
 
 PiUIN. 
 
 Captain. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Riissettings and Mechanicals. 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Nohlemen. 
 
 Peasants. 
 
 Citizens. 
 
 Povkrty. 
 
 Famine. 
 
 Sickness. 
 
 Bondage. 
 
 Sluttishness. 
 
 J/ostrss. 
 
 Constable. 
 
 Sailors. 
 
 ASTR^A. 
 
 Fame. 
 Fortitude. 
 Ekligion. 
 Vir(;inity. 
 7 Arts. 
 
 1 Not in oriiriiial.
 
 H I S T R I O - M A S T I X. 
 
 ACTUS PRIMI, SCiENA PRIMA. 
 
 Enter Peace, Guammau, Logick, Rhetorick, Arithmatick, 
 Geometrie, Musick and Astronomie. 
 
 Peace. Unmaske thy face tliou minister of Time ! 
 Looke forth bright mirror, let thy golded hand 
 Ride (with distinctlesse motion) on the eyes 
 
 Of tliis fayre CJiorus, till the Raigne of Peace 4 
 
 Hath propagated Plenty, and increase. 
 Now sit wee liigh (tiyumphant in our sway) 
 Encircled with the seaven-fold flower of Art, 
 
 ^ To tread on Barharisnie with silver feete ; 8 
 
 These, these are adjuncts fit to Avaite on Peace, 
 Who beeing courted by most searching spirits, 
 Have alwayes borne themselves in God-like state 
 With lofty fore heads, higher then the starrcs. 13 
 
 Draw neere fayre Daughters of eternity, 
 Your Postresse Peace, is (like the aged Nursse) 
 Growne proud to see her Chikh-en florish thus. 
 
 Gram. We know not how to tunic these bounties backe 16 
 
 But with continuance of obsequious love. 
 
 1 Suggests the date 1585 — 95. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 i8 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 
 
 Wliil'st Teace tryumplics, it lyes in Grammers might 
 To make tlic rudest braine both speake and write. 
 
 Lo(/. Logick shall furnish them with Argument, 20 
 
 And make them apt and able to dispute ; 
 The theame shall be of Peace, and her sweet name, 
 And every Sillogism shall prove her fame. 
 
 Rhe. Ehetorick will put her richest habite on, 24 
 
 Of gestures, Voice, and exornation. 
 Her Tropes and Scheames shall dignifie her sence. 
 And Honours Peace, with clearest eloquence. 
 
 Ar. Her graces in my numbers shall be scene, 28 
 
 So full that nothing can be added more. 
 Nor ought subtracted : true ArUhmetick 
 Will multiply and make them infinit. 
 
 Mnsick. Musick shall feast the bounteous eares of Peace, 32 
 Whil'st she inspires her numrae conceipt with life. 
 Varying each concord, moode and faculty, 
 In flowing straynes, and rapting Sijmphonie. 
 
 Adr. The motions of the Planets and their Spheares, 36 
 
 The starres, their influence, quantities, consents. 
 All that Astronomie can teach or know. 
 She doth professe from sacred Peace to flow. 
 - Geo. And I will make her powers demonstrative 40 
 
 In aU my angles, circles, cubes or squares. 
 The very state of Peace shall seeme to shine 
 In every figure or dimensive lyne. 
 
 Peace. Inough, fayre Virgins, Time shall proove this true ; 44 
 "VYhil'st you do honor Peace shee'le cherish you.
 
 HISTRrO-MASTIX, Act I. 19 
 
 Enter Mavoutius, riiiLAUciius, Larius, IIiletus, 
 Chrisogaxus. 
 
 Omnes. Honor aiul safety still attend fayre Peace. 
 
 Peace. Thankes noble Lords and worthy Gentlemen. 
 But wherefore looke you so askaunce on these, 48 
 
 As if they were not worthy your salutes ? 
 
 Omnes. Because wee know them not, 
 
 Chri. The more your blame. 
 
 Peace. pittied state ! most weake, where nobles want 52 
 
 The love and knowledge of the liberall Arts ; ' 
 Are you the men (for biilh and place) admir'd? 
 By whose great motions, lesser wheeles turnc round? 
 And shall your miudes affect so dull a course? 56 
 
 As if your senee where most ii-rationall ? 
 What is a man superior to a beast 
 But for his mind ? nor that ennobles him. 
 
 While hee dejects his reason ; making it 60 
 
 The slave unto his brutish appetite. 
 Make then your mindcs illustrious in your deedes. 
 And each choose (in this troupe) a spowsall mate. 
 
 Mavo. Wee doe obay : And I choose Musick first— 64- 
 
 Phil. I Geometry. 
 
 ITUe. I Rhetorick. 
 
 Lar. And / Adronomle. 
 
 Chri. And I to be a servant unto all. 68 
 
 Peace. But now beware yee injure not the fame 
 
 1 This portion of the play seems to belong to the period when there was 
 great talk of setting up academics for the young nobles.
 
 20 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 
 
 Of these bright Yirgius with adulterate love. 70 
 
 Meane time their servant (heere) Chrhoganns 
 
 Shall teach of every Art the misterie. \Exeunt Peace and Arts. 
 
 Mavo. But if (1)y Art) as all our Artists say, 
 There is no reall truth to be attain'd, 74 
 
 Why should wee labour in their loves bestow ? 
 The wisest said : / kiioro I noihing know. 
 
 Chrl. The wisest was a foole for saying soe : 
 That Oracle pronounc'd wise Socrates : 78 
 
 For doe I know I see you, or the light ? 
 Or do you know you heere mee, or I touch you ? 
 
 Phil. All this wee needes must know, assuredly, 
 
 Chri. If this bee certaine then which comes from sence? 82 
 
 The knowledg proper to the soule is Truer ; 
 For that pure knowledg by the which wee know 
 A thing to bee, with true cause how it is, 
 
 Is more exact then that which knowes it is, 86 
 
 And reacheth not to knowledge of the cause. 
 Besides ; that knowledge (that considers things 
 Abjunct from sencive matter) is exaeter 
 
 Then that which joynes it selfe with elements. 90 
 
 AritJmietick ever considers numbers 
 Abstract from sencive matter : Musick still 
 Considers it with sence, as mixt with sound. 
 
 Therefore Arithneticque is more exact, 94 
 
 And more exact then is Geometrle : 
 Since unitas is still smpUcior pnncto, 
 And number simpler then is magnitude. 
 For Unitas may still be sine pundo, 98
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 21 
 
 ]?ut Piuidm never without Unitie, 
 
 Nor, Maynitudo sine Numero. 
 
 Bum (enim) purictiis ponitur, pon'Unr (ex necessitate) unitas. 
 
 Mavor. But all this prooves not wee may know a truth. 102 
 
 C/tri. If wee have this wee call Scienlia 
 We must have truth of meere necessity, 
 For Acrioeia doth not signifie 
 
 Onely a certainty in that wee know, 106 
 
 But certainty with all perfection. 
 
 P/iil. Although I am not satisfied in this, 
 It doth me good to heare him thus discourse. 
 
 Mavor. My Lords, let's betake us to our studies. 110 
 
 P/iil. In nothing am 1 better pleas'd, let's goe. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Incle, Belch, Gutt, Post-hast. 
 The Players Song. 
 
 The nut-browne ale, the nut-browne ale 
 
 Puts downc all driiike when it is stale. 
 
 The toast, the nut-meg, and the ginger 114 
 
 Will make a sighing man a singer. 
 
 Ale gives a buffet in the head, 
 
 But ginger under-proppes the brayne. 
 When ale would strike a strong man dead, 118 
 
 Then nut-megge tempers it againe. 
 The nut-browne ale, the nut-browne ale 
 Puts downe all drinke when it is stale. 
 
 Inc. This peace breeds such plenty, trades scrue no turnes. 122 
 
 Bel. The more fooles wee to follow them. 
 
 Post. Lett's make up a company of Players,
 
 ::2 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 
 
 For we can all sing and say, 
 
 And so (with practise) soone may Icarne to play. 126 
 
 Inc. True, could our action answer your extempore. 
 
 Post. He teacli ye to play true PolUlcians?- 
 
 Inc. Wliy, those are the falsest subtle fellows lives. 
 
 Bel. I pray sir, what titles have trauailing jii/Zflyen .'' 130 
 
 Post. Why, proper-felloioes, they play Lords and Kings. 
 
 Inc. What parts would best become us (sir) I pray ? 
 '. Bel. Faith, to play Roagues, till we be bound for running away. 
 
 Post. Content : Scrivener, ho ! 134 
 
 You must tve a knott of Knaves tosither. 
 
 'O' 
 
 Bnter a Scrivener. 
 
 Scri. Your appellations ? 
 
 Post. Y'our names he meanes. The man's learn'd. 
 Bel. I, Belch the beard-maker. 138 
 
 Gut. I, Gut the fiddle-string maker. 
 Inc. I, Incle the pedlar. 
 Post. I, Maister Posthast, the poet. 
 
 Scr. Y'our nomenclature ? » 143 
 
 Post. O stately Scrivener ! That's : where dwell ye ? 
 Omnes. Townsmen, townsmen all. 
 
 Scr. The Obligatory's Condition ? 145 
 
 Post. Politician players. \Bxit Scrivenek 
 
 Bel. But whose men are wee all this while ? 
 Post. Whose but the merry Knights, Sir Oliver Owlets ? 
 There was never a better man to Players. 
 
 Gut. If our 'parrell be not point-device the fat's i' th' fire. 150 
 1 Politics the arena of Players. See 1. 146.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 23 
 
 Pout. What a greasy phrase. This playing will furaish ye. 
 
 Bd. Wliat ho, Master Bougie, a word. 
 
 Tod. Here's half a dozen good fellows. 
 
 Clout. Soft sir, we arc but four or five. lo^ 
 
 Post. The likcr to thrive. 
 
 Enter Bougle. 
 
 Bou. "What sawcy knaves are these. 
 Pod. A ' speaks to you players : I am tlie poet. 
 Bel. As concerning the King and the Clowne. 158 
 
 Bouff. Will you have rich stuff indeed ? 
 Post. Tis not to be dealt on without store of drink. 
 Boiiff. Store of money you would say. 
 
 Post. Nay, tis well said, for drink must clap up the bargain. 162 
 Lets away. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Fourciier, Voucher, Velure, Lyon-rash, and Chri- 
 SOGANUS in his study. These Merchants and Lawyers enter two 
 and tioo at severall doores. 
 
 Lyon. ]\Iaistcr Foiircher, how fares your body sir ? come you 
 from your booke ? 
 
 Four. Troth Master Lyon-rash, this Peace gives Lawyers leave to 
 play. 166 
 
 Velure. INIaister Vourcher ? you are very well incountred sir. 
 
 Voucher. Maister Velure, I value your friendship at as high a 
 price as any mans. 
 
 Lion. Gentlemen, how shall wee spend this afternoone ? 170 
 
 Four. Fayth, lets goe see a Play. 
 
 ' A spta/is — lie speaks.
 
 24 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 
 
 Vel. See a Play, a proper pastime indeed : to lieere a deale of 
 prating to so little purpose. 
 
 Vour. Why this going to a play is now all in the fashion, 174 
 
 Lyon. "Why then lets goe where wee may heare sweet musick and 
 delicate songs, for the Harmonie of musick is so Heavenlike that I 
 love it with my life. 177 
 
 Four. Nay, faith, this after-noone weele spend in hearingc the 
 Mathematickes read. 
 
 Vel. Why then lets to the Academy^ to heare Crisoyanus. 
 
 Omnes. Content. 
 
 So all goe to Chrisoganus study, tvhere they jind 1dm reading. 
 
 Four. Maister Chrisoganus: by your leave, sir. 182 
 
 Chri. Gentlemen, you are welcome. 
 
 Fur. I pray, sir, what were the best course for a sclioller ? 
 
 Chri. Why, no man can attaine to any truth, 
 But lie must seeke it MathematicL 186 
 
 Vour. Whicli are the Mathematicque sciences ? 
 
 Chri. AriLlimetic and Geometry are chiefe. 
 
 Vel. What difference is there twixt philosophy 
 And knowledge which is Mathematica.il? 190 
 
 Chri. This, sir : The natural Philosopher 
 Considers things as meerely sensible ; 
 
 The Mathematician ; ut mente ahjunctas a materia sensibili. 
 But this requireth time to satisfy ; 194 
 
 For 'tis an Axiome with all men of Art, 
 ^ Mathematicum aistrahentem nou comittere mendacium. 
 
 1 See remarlcs on the attempt of the Earl of Northumberland, Ealeigh, and 
 Hariot to set up an Academy in London. Introduction to tliis play, ante, p. 10. 
 
 - Jonson's discoveries are quite contradictory to this notion of Art. He 
 evidently knew little, and cared less, for mathematics and the exact sciences,
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 25 
 
 And (for the beauty of it,) what can be 
 
 Urg'd (more extractive) then the face of lieaven ? 198 
 
 The misterics that Art hath found therein. 
 
 It is distinguisht into Regions ; 
 
 Those Regions fil'd with sundry sorts of starres : 
 
 They (likewise) christned with peculiar names. 202 
 
 To seo a dayly use wrought out of them, 
 
 With demonstrations so infallible, 
 
 The pleasure cannot bee but ravishing. 
 
 Tur. The very thought thereof enflameth mee. 206 
 
 Chri. "VAliy you shall meet with projects so remov'd 
 
 From vulgar apprehension (as for instance) 
 
 The Sunne heere riseth in the East with us. 
 
 But not of his own proper motion, 210 
 
 As beeing turu'd by pr'uimtti mobile 
 
 (The heaven above Caelum stellarum) 
 
 Whereas his true asscent is in the West. 
 
 And sohee consummates his circled course 214 
 
 In the Ecliptick line, which partes the Zodiack, 
 
 Being borne from Tropick to Tropick. This time 
 
 Wee call a yeere ; whose Hierocllpldclc was 
 
 (Amongst the Egj/ptians figured in a Snake 218 
 
 Wreath'd circular, the tayle within his mouth) 
 
 As (liappily) the Latines (since) did call 
 
 A Ring (of the word Annus) Anmdus. 
 
 Vour. I apprehend not in my ablest powers, 222 
 
 That once in every fom'e and twenty houres, 
 
 or for the Aristotelian mctaphysic. With bim, as with the later and altered 
 Chrisogunus, I'oetry ia the queen of arts.
 
 26 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 
 
 The sunnc should rise and sctte ; yet be a yeare 
 In finishing his owiie dessigned course. 
 
 CJirl. ^Vhy, that I will demonstrate to you, thus ; 226 
 
 Turne a huge wheele : contrary to the sway 
 Place me a flye uppon't : the ilye (before 
 It can arrive the pcynt from whence it went) 
 
 Shall sundry times be circumvolv'd about; 230 
 
 Even so the Sunne and the affinities : 
 For if you wonder how at one selfe houre 
 Two of discordant natures may be borne, 
 
 As one a King, another some base Swaine, 234 
 
 One valiant, and the other timerous, 
 Let but two droppcs of incke or water fall 
 Directly on so swift a turning wheele. 
 
 And YOU shall find them both cast faiTC in sunder. 238 
 
 Even so the heaveiily Orbs, whirling so fast 
 And so impetuously (project mens fates) 
 Most full of change and contrariety. 
 
 Fou7'. Good faith these knowledges are very rare, 242 
 
 And full of admiration ; are they not ? 
 
 Chri. The Mathematlcqiies are the strength of truth, 
 A Magazine of all perfection. 
 
 Von7\ Shall we designe some place for exercise, 246 
 
 And every morning have a Lecture read ? 
 
 Four. Content, (if soe Chrisoganus stand pleaz'd) 
 His exhibition shall be competent : wee'le all be Patrons, 
 
 Chri. To make you Artists, answeres my desire, 250 
 
 Eather then hope of ^ mercenary hire. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 ' or ' in original.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act I. 27 
 
 Enter harvest-foUces with a bowle .- after them Peace leading in 
 Plenty : Plutus with ingottes of gold ; Ceres with sheaves: 
 Bacchus toilh grapes. 
 
 The harvcst-folkes Song. 
 
 llolyday, blessed mornc ! 
 
 This day Plenty liatli beene borne. 
 
 Plenty is the child of Peace; 254 
 
 To her birth the Gods do prease. 
 
 Full crown'd Mazors Bacchus brings, 
 
 With liquor which from grapes hee wringes. 
 
 llolliduy, blessed morae ! 258 
 
 This day Plenty hath bin borae. 
 
 HoUiday, let's loudly cry, 
 
 For joy of her nativity. 
 
 Ceres, with a bounteous hand, 262 
 
 Doth at Plenties elbo stand. 
 
 Binding mixed Coronets 
 
 Of wheat which on her head she sets, 
 
 HoUiday, blessed morne ! 266 
 
 This day Plenty hath bin borne. 
 
 HoUiday, lets loudly cry 
 
 For joy of her nativity. 
 
 Peace. Reach me the bowle with rich Autumnian Juice, 270 
 That I may drinke a health to your new Queene. 
 Times winged howers (that poynted out my raygne,) 
 Are flcdi I ara no more your Soveraigne. 
 Wound Ayre, with shrUl tuu'd Canzonets, 274
 
 28 HISTRIO-MASTJX, Act II. 
 
 1 robbe niy selfe to inalce my Daughter rich. 
 Peace doth resigne her pure imperiall Crowne, 
 (Wrought by the Muses) in whose Circle grow 277 
 
 All flowers that are to Phccbus consecrate. [Exeunt. 
 
 Finis Actus priyni. 
 
 ACTUS SECUNDI, SCENA : 1. 
 
 Enter Plenty in Majesty, iipon a Throne ; Jieapes of gold ; Plutus, 
 Ceres ^ Ba.cchus doing homage. 
 
 Flen. THiat heavenly soveraignty supports my state 
 That Plentij raignes (as Princesse) after Peace ? 
 Then if this powerfuU arme can turne the hower, 
 It is my will, (and that shall stand for law) 4 
 
 That all things on the earth be plentifuU. 
 I crush out bounty from the amber grape, 
 And fill your barnes with swelling sheaves of Come. 
 How can this but en2;ender blessed thought, 8 
 
 Especially when Gods our good have sought ? 
 
 Ceres. For thee, thy servants captivate the Earth ; 
 Her fruitfulnes fals down at Plentyes feete. 
 
 Bach. Bachus will cheere her melancholly sence, 12 
 
 With droppes of Nectar from this Crimson Juyce. 
 
 Plut. Her body shall sustaine ten thousand wounds. 
 And swarthy India be transform'd to Sea, 
 
 Disgorging golden choller to the waves 16 
 
 Before sweet Plenty find the least defect. 
 
 Plen. Eor this aboundance pour'd at Plenties feet 
 You shall be Tetrarchs oi this petty world.
 
 niSTRIO-MASTIX, Act U. 29 
 
 Enter Mavortius, Philarchus, Ciirisoganus. 
 
 Mavo. What dullards thus would dole in rusty Arte, 20 
 
 Ploddiuj^ upon a liookc to dull the scncc,^ 
 And see the world become a treasure-house, 
 Where Angels swarmc like Bees in Flenties streets, 
 And every Peasant surl'ots on their svveetes ? 24 
 
 Phil. Give mee a season that will sturrc the blood; 
 I like not Nigardice to hunp-ar-starve. 
 Tis good when poore men frolicke in the hall. 
 The whil'st our fathers in the Chambers feast, 28 
 
 And none repines at any straunger-giiest. 
 
 Chri. Who was the authour of this store, but Peace ? 
 That common-welth is never well at ease 
 
 Where Parchment skinnes, whose use should bear records, 32 
 
 Must head their brawling Drummes and keepe a coyle, 
 As if they threatned Plenty with a spoylc. 
 
 Plenty. Your houses must bee open to the poore, 
 Your dusty Tables fill'd with store of meate. 36 
 
 Let goodly yeomen at your clboes stand. 
 Swords by their sides and trenchers in their hand : 
 Long-skirted coatcs, wide-sleeves with cloth 'inough : 
 Thus Lords, you shall my government enlarge ; 40 
 
 Reverence your Queene, by practizing her charge. 
 
 Omnes. Ours be the charge, and thine the Empire. 
 
 [Exit Plenty 
 Thei/ bring her to tJie doore and leave her. 
 Mavor. Gallants, let us invent some pleasing sportes, 
 > Compare with Biron's speecli in Love's Labour Lost, IV. iii. 289.
 
 30 HTSTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 To fit the Plentuous Immor of the Time. 44 
 
 CJni. ^Vhat better recreations can you find 
 Then sacred knowledire in divinest thino'es ? 
 
 Phil. Your bootes are Adamants, and you the Iron 
 That cleaves to them till you confound yourselfe. 48 
 
 Mavor. Poore Scholler spend thy spirits so and dye. 
 
 Phil. Let them doe soe that list ; so will not I. 
 
 Mavor. I cannot feed my appetite with Ayre 
 I must pursue my pleasures royally : 53 
 
 That, spung'd in sweat, I may returne from sport, 
 Mount mee on horseback, keepe the Hounds and Haukes, 
 And leave this Idle contemplation 
 To rugged Stoicall Morosophists. 56 
 
 Chri. 0, did you but your own true glones know, ' 
 Your judgements would not then decline so low ! 
 
 Phil. What ! Maister Pedant, pray forbeare, forbeare. 
 
 Chri. Tis you my Lord that must forbeare to erre. 60 
 
 Phil. Tis still safe ening with the multitude. 
 
 Chri. A wretched morall ; more than barbarous rude. 
 
 Mavor. How you translating-scholler ? you can make 
 A stabbing Satir} or an Epigram, 64 
 
 And thinke you carry just Ramnmias whippe. 
 To lash the patient ; goe, get you clothes, 
 Our free-borne blood such apprehension lothes. 
 
 Chri. Proud Lord, poore Art shall weare a glorious crowne 68 
 When her despisers die to all renowne. [Exeunt 
 
 ^ Hore bctjins the alteration ; from this point Chris, is Ben Jonson. The 
 additions perhaps by Marston. See ante, p. 4.
 
 HISTRIO-MASriX, Act II. 31 
 
 Enter Contrimen, to Ihem, Clarke of the Market : hee wrings a 
 bell, and drawes a ciirtalne ; tchereunder is a market set about 
 a Crosse. 
 
 Con. Wlier's this dnmkard Clarke to ring the bell ? 
 
 Ctar. Heiglio, bottle Ale has buttond my cappe. 
 
 Corne-b. Whats a quarter of Corne ? 72 
 
 Seller. Two and six-penee. 
 
 Corne-b. Ty't up tis mine. 
 
 Enter a Mar chants tvife, with a Prentice, carrying a hand-basket 
 
 TFife. Ila' y' any Potatoes ? 
 
 Seller. Th' aboundance will not quite-cost the bringing. 76 
 
 Wife. "What's your Cock-sparrowes a dozen ? 
 
 Sel. A penny, Mistresse. 
 
 Wife. Ther's for a dozen ; hold. 
 
 Enter GuLcii, Belch, Clowt and Gut. One of them steppes on 
 the Crosse, and cryes, A Play. 
 
 Gulch. All they that can sing and say, 80 
 
 Come to the Towne-house and see a play. 
 At three a clock it shall beginne. 
 The finest play that ere was scene. 
 
 Yet there is one thing more in my minde : 84 
 
 Take heed you leave not your purses behinde. 
 
 Enter a Ballet-singer and sings a Pallet 
 
 Bal. Whats your playes name ? Maisters, whose men are ye ? 
 How, the signe of the Owle i' th' Ivybush? Sir Oliver Owlets?
 
 32 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act U. 
 
 Gill. Tis a sign ye are not blind, Sir. 88 
 
 Belch. The best that ever trode on stage ! 
 The Lascivious Knight, and Ladi/ Nature ! 
 
 Post. Have you cryd the phiy, maistcrs ! 
 
 Omiu's. I, I, I. No doubt we shall have good dooings, but 92 
 How proceed you in the new plot of the ProcVujull Childe ? 
 
 Post. sirs, my wit's grown no less plentiful than the time ; 
 Thers two sheets done in folio, will cost two shillings in rime. 
 
 Gut. Shall we heere a flurt before the audience come? 96 
 
 Post. I, that you shall, I sweare by the Sunne. Sit down sirs. 
 {He reades the Prologue — they sit to heare it) 
 ' When Aucthours quill in quivering hand 
 
 His tyred arm did take, 
 His wearied Muse bad him devise 100 
 
 Some fine play for to make.' 
 And now, my Maisters, in this bravadoc, 
 I can read no more without Canadoe. 
 
 Omnes. What ho ! some Canadoe quickly ! 104 
 
 Enter Vintner with a qnart of Wine. 
 
 Post. Enter the Prodigal Child — fill the pot, I would say. 
 ' Huffa, huffa, who calls for me ? 
 I play the Prodigall child in joUytie.' 
 
 CloiDt. detestable good ! 108 
 
 Post. Enter to him Dame Vertue : 
 ' My Sonne, thou art a lost childe ' 
 (This is a passion, note you the passion ?) 
 ' And hath many poore men of their goods beguild : 112
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 33 
 
 prodigall child, and child prodiji;all ' — 
 Read the rest sirs, I cannot read for teares. 
 Fill me the pot I prethc fellow Gulch. 
 
 Gut. Faith, we can read nothing bnt riddles. 110 
 
 Post. My maisters, what tire wears your lady on her head ? 
 
 Bel. Four squirrels tails tied in a true loves knot. 
 
 Post. O amiable ^ good, 'tis excellent ! 
 
 Clout. But how shall we do for a Prologue for lords ? 150 
 
 Post, lie do it extempore. 
 
 Bel. might we hear a spurt if need require ? 
 
 Post. Why, Lords, tee are here to sheic you what we are : 
 Lords, we are here althour/h our clothes be bare. 124 
 
 Instead offioicers in season ye shall gather Rime and Reason 
 
 1 never pleasd myself better, it comes off with such suavity. 
 
 Gul. Well fellows, I never heard happier stuff. 
 Heres no new luxury or blandishment, 1 28 
 
 But plenty of Old Englands mothers words. 
 
 Clout. "^ 1st not pity this fellow's not eraployd in matters of State ? 
 But wheres the Epilogue must beg the plaudite ? 
 
 Post. Why man, The glass is run, our play is done: 132 
 
 Hence ; Time doth call, xce thank you all. 
 
 Gulsh. I, but how if they do not clap their hands? 
 
 Post. No matter so they thump us not. 
 Come come, we poets have the kindest wretches to our Ingles. 136 
 
 Belch. Why, whats an Ingle, man ? 
 
 Post. One whose hands are hard as battle doors with clapping 
 at baldness. 
 
 Clo7ct. Then we shall have rare ingling at the prodigall child. 140 
 
 J admirable (?) • Characteristics of Posthaste. See Note 2, p. 87. 
 
 . VOL. II. 3
 
 34 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 GhI. I, ant be played upon a good night. Lets give it out for 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Post. Content. 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 Stew. My maisters, my Lord Mavortius is disposed to hear what 
 you can do. 144« 
 
 Belch. What ! fellows, shall we refuse the Town play ? 
 
 Tost. Why, his reward is worth the Mayor and all the Town. 
 
 Omnes. Weele make him merry i' faith ; wele be there. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Yeluue and Lyon-rash, with a TFater-spaniell and a Buck. 
 
 Vel. Come, sirs, how shall we recreate our selves ? 148 
 
 This plentious time forbids aboad at home. 
 
 Lyon. Let's Duck it with our Dogs to make us sport, 
 And crosse the water to eate some Creame. What hoe ! Sculler. 
 
 Vel. You doe forget ; P/m^y aifoords us Oares. 152 
 
 Enter Furcher and Vourciiier, with hoives and arrowes. 
 
 Four. What, shall we shoote for a greene Goose, sir ? 
 Vour. Ther's a wise match. 
 
 Eur. Faith, we may take our bowes and shafts and sleepe, 
 This dreaming long vacation gives us leave. 156 
 
 Vel. Gentlemen, well met. What ? Pancrace ^ Knights ? 
 
 1 The Pancras knights are no doubt so calld from their gay dress, like 
 * The Earl of Pancridge ' [Pancras], one of the ridiculous personages in the 
 burlesque procession called Arthur's Show. Jonsou mentions him .... 
 
 C. Or our Shoreditcb duke. 
 M. Or Pancridge earl. P. Or Bevis, or sir Guy. — Tale of a Tub,i\\. 3. 
 Also in some lines against Inigo Jones, he says : 
 
 Content thee to be P'anrridgc earl the while, 
 An earl of show, for all thy worth is show. 
 
 To Inigo Marquis Would be.^ Nares. — F. J. F.
 
 IIISTRIO-MAST/X, Act II. 35 
 
 Votir. The bounty of the time will have it so. 
 
 Four. You are prepared for sport, as well as we. 
 
 Voter. One of the goodliest Spaniels I have seene. 160 
 
 Li/on. And heere's the very quintessence of Duckes. 
 
 Fur. For diving raeane yee ? 
 
 Li/on. I, and thriving too, 
 Por I have wonuc three wagers this last weeke; 164 
 
 What ? will you goe with us and see our sport ? 
 
 Four. No faith, sir, He go ride and breath my horse. 
 
 Tel. Why whether ride you ? w^e will all go with you. 
 
 Vour. Lets meet some ten miles hence, to hawke and hunt. 168 
 
 Lyon. Content : This plenty yeelds us choise of sports ; 
 Our trades and we are now no fit consorts. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Usher of the Ilall ; and Clarck of the Kitchin. 
 
 Usher. Maister Clarke of the Kitchin, faith what's your dayly 
 expence. 172 
 
 Clar. Two beeves ; a score of Muttons ; 
 Hogsheads of Wine and Beere, a doozen a day. 
 Ush. Never was Age more plentifull. 
 
 Clar. Usher, it is my Lords pleasm-e all comers bee bounteously 
 entertaind. 1 7 7 
 
 Ush. I, but its my Ladies pleasure ? 
 Clar. What else ? She scornes to weare cloth-breeches ^ man. 
 
 Enter Porter. 
 
 Porter. A Morrice-daunce of neighbours crave admittance. ISO 
 
 1 Allusion to Greene's pamphlet, 1592. "A Quip for an Upstart Courtier: 
 Or, a quaint dispute between Velvet breeches and Cloth-breeches." (Imitated 
 from the anonymous '• Debate Betweene Pride and Lowlines," ab. 1570, not by 
 Francis Thynne.)— F. J. F.
 
 36 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 Clar. Porter, let tliem in man. 
 
 Enter Mor rice-dancers. 
 Butler, make tliera drinke their skinnes full. 
 Omnes mor. dan. God blesse the founder. 
 
 Clar. Porter, are these Players conae ? 184 
 
 Port. Halfe an hourc a goc sir. 
 
 Clar. Bid them come iu and sing. The meat's going up. \^Exit. 
 UsJi. Gentlemen and yeomen, attend upon tlie Sewer. 
 
 Enter Players, with them Post-hast the Poet} 
 
 Ush. Sir Oliver Owlets men, welcome. By Gods will, 188 
 
 It is my Lords pleasure it should be so. 
 
 Post. Sir we have carowst like Kings ; 
 For heere is plenty of all things. 
 
 Ush. Looke about you Maisters ; be micover'd. 192 
 
 Enter Setcer toitli service, in side livery coates. 
 The Players Sony. 
 
 Brave ladds come forth and chant it, and chant it, 
 
 for now 'tis supper time. 
 See how the dishes flaunt it, and flaunt it, 
 
 with meate to make np rime. 196 
 
 Pray for his honor truly, and truly, 
 
 in all hee under takes. 
 He serv's the poore most duely, and duely, 
 
 as all the country speakes. 300 
 
 Post. God blesse my Lord Mavortius and his merry men all : 
 To raalce bis honour merry we sing in the hall. 
 
 1 Post-hast not reckoned a " Player " amongst the rest, but a " poet." See 
 Kote 2, p. 87.— G.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 37 
 
 TJalier. ]\Iy maisters, for tliat we are not only (for causes) 
 Come new to the house j but also (for causes) 20 1 
 
 I marvaile where you will lodge. 
 
 Fod. We hope (for causes) in the house, though drink be in our 
 heads. 
 Because to Plenty we carowse for beefe, and beere, and beds. 
 
 Usii. Sed like honest men : what playes have you? 208 
 
 Belch. lieres a Gentleman scholar^ writes tor us. 
 I pray, maister Post-hast, declare for our credits. 
 
 Post. For mine own part, though this summer season, 
 I am desperate of a horse. 212 
 
 Ush. Tis well. But what plays have you ? 
 
 Post. A gentleman's a gentleman that hath a clean shirt on, with 
 some learning And so have I. 
 
 Ush. One of you answer the names of your playes. 216 
 
 Post. Mother Gurtom neadle (a tragedy) 
 The Bevel and Bives (a comedie) 
 A russet coat and a knaves cap (an Infernal) 
 
 A pi'oud heart and a beggars purse (a pastoral) 220 
 
 The toiddowes apron stringes (a nocturnall) 
 
 Ush. I promise ye, pritty names. 
 I pray, what ye want in any thing, to take it out in drink. 223 
 And so go, make ye ready masters. [Exeunt Players. 
 
 Enter Mavortius, Philarchus, with Landulpho {an Italian 
 Lord) and other nobles and gentles to see the play. 
 
 Mavor. My lords, your entertainment is but base 
 Coarser your catcs, but welcome with the best. 
 
 ' Gentleman-scholar. See note on characteristics of Post-hast, p. 87.
 
 38 •' HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 Pellowes, some cushions ; place faire ladies heere. 
 
 Signoour Landulplio, pray be merry sir. 228 
 
 Lady. I'st th' Italian guise to be so sad, 
 When Love and Fancie should be banquetting ? 
 
 Land. Madam, your kinduesse hath full power to command. 
 
 Lady. These admirable wits of Italy, 232 
 
 That court with lookes, and speake in sillables, 
 Are curious sepervisoiu's over strangers ; 
 And when we covet so to frame our selves, 
 
 (Like over-nice portraying picturers,) 236 
 
 VYe spoyle the counterfeit in colouring. 
 England is playne, and loves her mothers guyse ; 
 Enricht with cunning, as her parents rise. 
 
 Land. Lady, these eyes did ever hate to scorne, 240 
 
 This toung's unur'd to carpe or contrary: 
 The bozome where this heart hath residence 
 I wish may seeme the seat of curtesie 
 
 Usher Rowme, my Maisters, take your places. 244 
 
 Hold up your torches for droppir^g there ! 
 
 Mavo)'. Usher, are the Players ready ? bid them beginne. 
 
 Enter Players and sing. 
 
 Some up and some down, there's players in the Town : 
 
 You wot well who they bee. 248 
 
 The sum doth arise to three companies : 
 One, two, three, foure, make we. 
 
 Besides we that travel, with pumps full of gravell,^ 
 
 1 Ben Jonson, Poetaster. ' If he pen for thee once thou shall not need to 
 travel xoith thy pumps full of ejravel any more, after a blind jade and a hamper, 
 and stalk upon boards and barrell-heads to an old crackt trumpet.'
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 39 
 
 Made all of such running leather, 252 
 
 That oucc in a week, new masters we seeke, 
 And never can hold together. 
 
 Enter Prologue. 
 
 Phillida was a fail" maid — I know one fairer than she. 
 TroUus was a true lover — I know one truer than he. 256 
 
 And Cressida, that dainty dame, whose beauty fair and sweet. 
 Was clear as is the crvstal stream that runs along the street. 
 How Troyl he, that noble knight, was drunk in love, and bade 
 
 good night. 
 So bending leg likewise, do you not us despise. 260 
 
 Land. Most ugly ^ lines and base-browne-paper ^-stuffe 
 Thus to abuse our heavenly poesie, 
 That sacred off-spring from the braine of Jove, 
 Thus to be mangled with prophane absurds, 26-1 
 
 Strangled and chok't with lawlesse bastards words. 
 
 Mavor. I see (my Lord) this home- spun country stuffe 
 Brings little liking to your curious eare, 
 Be patient, for perhaps the play will mend. 263 
 
 Enter Troylus and Cressida. 
 
 Tro. Come Cressida, my Cresset light, 
 Thy face doth shine both day and night 
 Behold behold thy garter blue ... . 
 
 Thy knight his valiant elbow wears, 272 
 
 That when he shakes his furious Speare ^ 
 The foe in shivering fearful sort 
 
 ' Marston-like. 2 The Shakspere allusion. See Introduction, p. 3.
 
 40 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 May lay him down in death to snort. 
 
 Cres. O knight, with valonr in thy face, 276 
 
 Here take my skreene, wear it for grace. 
 Within thy hehnet put the same, 
 Therewith to make thine enemies lame. 
 
 Land (Lame stuff indeed, the like was never heard.) 280 
 
 Enter a roaring Devil with the Vice on his hack, Iniquity in one 
 hand, and Juventus in the other. 
 
 Vice. Passion of me sir, puff, puff, how I sweat, sir ; 
 The dust out of your coat I intend for to beat, sir. 
 
 Jnven. I am the prodigal child, I, that I am. 
 Who says I am not, I say he is to blame, 284 
 
 Iniq. And I likewise am Iniquity, 
 Belov'd of many, alas for pity. 
 
 Devil. Ho ! ho ! ho ! these babes mine are all ; 
 The Vice, Iniquity, and cliild Prodigall. 288 
 
 Land. Fie ! what unworthy foolish foppery 
 Presents such buzzardly simplicity. 
 
 Mavor. No more, no more, unlesse twere better, 
 And for the rest yee shall be our debtor. 292 
 
 Post. My Lords, of your accords. 
 Some better pleasure for to bring, 
 
 If you a theame affords, 
 
 You shall know it, 296 
 
 That I, Post-haste, the Poet, 
 Extempore can sing. 
 
 Lan. I pray my Lord let's ha'te ; the Play is so good 
 That this must needs be excellent. 300
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act 1 1. 41 
 
 Mam. Content (my Lord) pray give a thearae. 
 
 Theani. 
 Land. Your Poetts aiid your Pottes ^ 
 Are knit in true-Love knots. 
 
 The Son// extempore 
 Give your scholar degrees, and your lawyer his fees, 304 
 
 And some dice for Sir Petronell flash : ^ 
 Give your Courtier grace, and your Knight a new case, 
 
 And empty their purses of cash. 
 Give your play-gull a stool, and my lady her fool, 308 
 
 And her Usher potatos and maiTow ; 
 But your poet were he dead, set a pot to his head 
 
 And he rises as peart as a spaiTow. 
 O delicate wine, with thy power so divine 312 
 
 Eull of ravishing sweet inspiration, 
 Yet a verse may run clear that is tap'd out of beer. 
 
 Especially in the vacation. 
 But when the term comes that with trumpets and drums 316 
 
 Our play houses ring in confusion 
 
 Then Bacchus me murder — but rime we no further — 
 
 Some sack now, upon the conclusion ! 
 
 Mavor. Give them forty pence,^ let them go. 320 
 
 \_Exeunt players 
 
 1 Earlc in his Microcosmography gives a character of ' A Tot-Poet,' p. 45. 
 Ed. Arber. 
 
 2 In Eastward Hoe, Act I., ' Sir Tetronel ' is called also ' Sir Flash,' 
 Marston, iii. p. 114. 
 
 3 40 pence, or 35. id., the fee to a company of players for a play. This 
 points to an early date— say 1-592. (The fee rises in the next act to £10 : See 
 p. 53, 1. 266. So much for Flentt/s reign.— G.)
 
 42 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act II. 
 
 How likes Landulplio this extempore song ? 
 
 Land. ^ I blush in your behalfes at this base trash. 
 In honour of our Italy we sport 
 
 As if a synod of the holly Gods, 324 
 
 Came to triumph within our Theatres — 
 (Always commending English courtesy) 
 Our Amphitheatres and Pyramides 
 
 Are setuate like three-headed Dindymus, 328 
 
 Where stand the Statues of three striving Queens 
 That once contended for the goidden ball, 
 (Alwaies commending English curtesie) 
 
 Are not your curious Dames of sharper spirit? 33;.. 
 
 I have a mistresse whose intangling wit, 
 Will turne and winde more cunning arguments 
 Then could the Crcetan Lahyrinth ingyre. 
 (Alwayes commending English courtesie.) 336 
 
 Mavo. Good sir, you give our English Ladyes cause 
 Eespectively to applaud th' Italian guise, 
 Which proudly hence-forth we will prosecute. 
 
 Land. Command what fashion Italy affoords. 340 
 
 Phil. By'r Lady sir, I like not of this pride. 
 Give me the ancient hospitallity : 
 They say, Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
 The Italian Lord is an Asse : the song is a good song. 344 
 
 1 This speech of Landulpho is iu tlie vein of Greene or Peele.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act III. 43 
 
 ACTUS TERTIJ, SC^NA 1. 
 
 Enter Pride, Vaine-glory, Hypocrisie, and Contempt : 
 Pride cads a mist, tcherein Mavortius and his company 
 vanish off the Stage, and Pride and her attendants remaine. 
 
 Pride. Brave mindes, now beautifie your thoughts with ponipe, 
 Send forth your Shipps unto the furthest Seas, 
 Fetch me the feathers of th' Arabian Birds, 
 
 Bring Mermaides combes, and grlasses for mv gaze : 4 
 
 Let all your sundry imitating shapes 
 Make this your native soyle the hind of Apes. 
 Then Ladies trick your traines with Turkish pride, 
 Plate your disheavled haire with ropes of Pearle, 8 
 
 Weare sparkling Diamonds like twinkling starres, 
 And let your spangled crownes shine like the Sunne : 
 ' If you will sit in throne of state with Pride 
 The newest fashion (still) must be your guide. 12 
 
 Vain. Vaine-glory vowes to lackey by thy foote, 
 Till she hath swolne mens hearts with AiTogance. 
 
 Hyp. In like designes, twofacd Hypocrisie 
 Is prest to spend her deepest industry. 16 
 
 Cant. And (till her soveraiguty decline and bow) 
 Contempt shall be enthron'd in every browe. 
 
 Pry. Then thus, (as soveraigne Empresse of all sinnes) 
 Pryde turaes her houre, and heere her Sceane beginnes. 20
 
 44 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act \U. 
 
 Enter Furcher, awt? Vourcher; ^ two Lawyers. 
 
 Tour. How sliall we best imploy tliis idle time ? 
 
 Four. Lets argue on some case for exercise. 
 
 Vour. You see the full-gorg'd world securely sleepes, 
 And sweet contention (Lawyers best content) 34 
 
 Is sent by drowsie Feace to banishment. 
 
 Fryd. these be Lawyers ! Concords enemies ; 
 Frydes fuell shall their fire of strife increase. [a^iWt^] 
 
 Enter Veluee and Lyon-rash. 
 
 Four. Signior Vonrcher, know you those Cittizens? 28 
 
 Vour. They are two wealthy merchants and our friends. 
 
 Four. Yt may be they have brought us welcome fees. 
 
 Fry. Lawyers and Merchants met ! bestir thee Fride. \as'tde^ 
 
 Vel. In faith no sute sir ; quiet, quiet all. 32 
 
 Fry. Fortune and health attend you, Gentlemen. 
 
 Four. We thank you, Lady ; may we crave your name ? 
 
 Fry. Men call me Fryde, and I am Flenties heii'e : 
 Immortal, though I beare a mortal showe. 36 
 
 Are not you Lawyers, from whose reverend lippes 
 Th' amazed multitude learne Oracles ? 
 Are not you Merchants, that from East to West, 
 From the Antarcticke to the Arctick Poles, 40 
 
 ' These are law terms. Davis, Epigram 24, says that when Gallus talks 
 to him in military slang — 
 
 ' With words of my profession I reply ; 
 I tell of fourching, vouchers, and counterpleas 
 Of withernams, essoins, and champarty.'
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act \l\. 45 
 
 Bringing all treasure that the earth can yeeld ? 
 
 Omnes. We are (most worthy Lady) 
 
 Pry. Then use your wisedome to enrich your selves -. 
 Make deepe successe high Steward of your store. 44 
 
 Enlarge your mighty spirits : strive to exccde 
 In buildings, ryot, garments, gallantry. 
 For take this note : The world the show affects : 
 Play lie Vertm, (vilie clade) is counted Vice ; 48 
 
 And makes high blood indm-e base prejudice. 
 
 Four. But wee have Lawes to limitte our attire.^ 
 
 Pry. Broke with the least touch of a golden wyer. 
 
 Vel. Yet wisedome still commands to keepe a meane, 52 
 
 Pry. True, had you no meancs to excell the same ; 
 But having power laboiu- to ascend. 
 The fames of mighty men do never end. 
 
 Four. Is not Ambition an aspiring sinne? 56 
 
 Pry. Yes for blind baits and birds of lazy wing. 
 
 Lyon. Me secmes tis good to keepe within our bounds. 
 
 Pry. Why beasts themselves of bounds are discontent. 
 Spend me your studies to get offices, 60 
 
 Then stooping suiters and uncovered heads 
 May groaning come, imbowelling - the bagges 
 Of their rich burthens in your wide-mouth'd deskes. 
 
 Lyon. But men will taxe us to want charity. 64 
 
 ^ Sir Geo. Bond, L. ^Nfayor in 1587-8, -wrote from the city to the?. Council, 
 to say that in order to maintain comely order (which could not be without 
 some further toleration) they had dra^vn up a book containing a certain order 
 for apparel of citizens and their wives, and desiring that they might not be 
 impeached for wearing it. (Nichols, Prog, of Q. Eliz., ii. p. 543.) 
 
 - Incomplete note in Mr Simpson's MS. — ' if some expression of Sh.'
 
 46 HISTRIO-MASTIX,ACTlU. 
 
 Pry. True cliarity beginneth first at home. 
 Heere in your bosomes dwell your deere-lov'd hearts ; 
 Feed them with joy ; first crowne their appetites, 
 And then cast water on the care-scorcht face. 68 
 
 Let your owne longings first be satisfied ; 
 Ail other pitty is but foolish pryde. 
 
 Fo2ir. Sweet councell ; worthy of most high regard. 
 All our endeavours shall be to aspire. 72 
 
 Voia\ Ours to be rich and gallant in attire. 
 
 Pry. All to be brave, else all of no respect ; 
 It is the habit doth the mind deject.^ 
 
 Vour. Lets brave it out, since Pride hath made us knowe, 76 
 Nothing is grac'd that wants a glorious showe. 
 
 Exeimt : mariet Pryde. 
 
 Pry. The puft up spirits of the greater sort 
 Shall make them scorne the abject and the base ; 
 Th' impatient spirit of the wretched sort 80 
 
 Shall think imposed duties their disgrace, 
 
 « 
 
 Poore naked neede shall be as full of pryde, 
 
 As he that for his wealth is Deifide. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Steward, with four e Serving-men, tvith Sioords and BucJders, 
 in their hose and dotiblets. 
 
 1. ser. No Steward with discharge shall us disgrace. 84 
 
 Steio. Why, all the Lords have now cashierd their traines. 
 
 1 delect — perhaps «fei!ec<. (Compare Polonius's advice to Laertes: 
 Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
 But not cxpresst in fancy ; rich, not gaudy ; 
 For the apparel oft ptroclaims the man. 
 
 Hamlet, I. iv. 70-2.— F. J. F.)
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act U\. 47 
 
 2. ser. But we have serv'd his father in the field. 
 
 3 ser. What, think they boyes can serve to beard their foes ? 
 
 Enter ]\1avortius and Piiilauciius ic'Uk their pages. 
 
 Page. Be patient, fellow, seest thou not my Lord ? 88 
 
 1. ser. What an I see him ? puppet, prating ape ! 
 
 2. ser. We arc no stocks, but we can feele disgrace. 
 
 3 serv. Nor tonglesse blocks ; but since we feele, weele speak. 
 
 Mavo. What a coyle keepes those fellows there? 92 
 
 Steio. These impudent, audatious, serving-men, 
 Scarcely beleeve your honours late discharge. \_Exit 
 
 1. ser. Beleeve it? by this sword and buckler, no : 
 Stript of our liveries, and discharged thus ? 'J 6 
 
 Mavo. Walke sirs, nay walke ; awake yee drowsie drones 
 That long have suckt the houney from my liives : 
 Begone yee greely beefe-eaters ; y'are best : 
 
 The Callis Cormorants^ from Dover roadc 100 
 
 Are not so chargeable as you to feed. 
 
 Ph'd. 'Tis true ray Lord, they carelessly devoure. 
 In faith, good fellow es, get some other trade ; 
 Ye live but idle in the common-wealth. 104 
 
 Mavo. Broke we not house up, you would breake our backs. 
 
 1. ser. We breake your backs? no, 'tis your rich lac'd sutes, 
 And straight lac'd mutton ; those breake all your backs. 
 
 Phil. Cease, Euffians ! With your swords and bucklers, hence. 
 
 2. ser. Por service, this is savage recompence. 109 
 
 ^ Eefers most easily to the year when the English in Henry lY.'s pay 
 were discliarj^ed. But the returners from the Low Countries must have kept 
 up always a procession on the Dover Iload. Calais Cormorants however are 
 men who have served in France.
 
 48 HTSTRIO-MASTIX, Act III. 
 
 Tour fathers bouglit lands and maintained men : 
 
 You sell your lauds, and scarse keepe rascall boyes ; 
 
 Who ape-like jet, in garded coates, are whipt 112 
 
 For mockina: men. Though with a shamlesse face, 
 
 CO ■' 
 
 Yet gracelesse boyes can never men disgrace. 
 
 3. Ser. Desertfull vertue : O impiety ! [Exeunt 
 
 Mavo. My Lord PJiilarclim, follow all my course, 116 
 
 I keepe a Taylor, Coach-man, and a Cooke, 
 The rest for their boord-wages may goe looke. 
 A thousand pound a yeare will so be sav'd, 
 For revelling and banquetting and playes 120 
 
 Phil. Playes, well rememln'ed : we will have a play. 
 Steward, lets have Sir Olliver Owlets men. 
 
 Mavo. Philarchus, I mislike your fashion. 
 
 PJiil. Faith, He fly intoo't with a sweeping wing. 124 
 
 Methinkes your honours hose sit very well ; 
 And yet this fashion is growne so stale. 
 
 Mav. Your hat is of a better l)locke then mine. 
 
 Phil. Is on a better block, your Lordship meanes. 128 
 
 Mav. Without all question 'tis ; he that denies 
 Either, he hath no judgement or no eyes. 
 
 Phil. Your Lordships doublet-skirt is short and neate. 
 
 Mav. Who sits there, iinds the more uneasie seate. 132 
 
 Enter a Page 
 
 Pag. My Lords, your Supper stales ; tis eight a clock. 
 
 Mav. What, is't so late ? That fashion's not so good. \_Exeunt.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act Ul. 49 
 
 Enter Perpetuana, Fillisella, Bellula ; with thcui a Jewel- 
 ler, a Tyre-woman, and a Tuylour ; with every one their severali 
 furniture. 
 
 Perp. Of our tliree Jewells (sir) which likes you best ? 
 
 Jew. An excellent piece. This those excells as faiTC 136 
 
 As glorious Tytan staines a silly Starre. 
 
 Filli. Tusli, he not partiall, but peruse mine well. 
 See you not proud Ulisses carrying spoyles ? 
 
 Jeio. Tiie rest are but (to this) in sooth base foyles, 140 
 
 And yet they all are ritch, and wondrous faire. 
 
 Bell. Eut trasli : Tie have a JcAvell Amatist 
 Whose beauty shall strike blind the gazers Eye ; 
 
 Perp. He put it downe. One proraisd to devise 144- 
 
 A Globe — like Jewell, cut transparently. 
 And in the place of fixed stan-es to set 
 The richest stones that mightiest summes could get. 
 
 Fill. Nay, He be matchlesse for a carckanet, 148 
 
 Whose Pearles and Diamonds, placed with ruby ^ rocks. 
 Shall circlp this fair necke to set it forth. 
 
 Bell. Well Goldsmith, now you may be gone. — \_Exit Jeweller"] 
 Taylour, 152 
 
 He have a purfled lloabe, loose boddied wise. 
 That shall enjoy my Jewells maydenhead. 
 
 Ta!/. The loosest bodies are in fashion most. 
 
 Perp. We better know what likes us best, then you. 1.56 
 
 Let me have flaring fashions, tuok't and pinn'd -, 
 That powerfull winds may heave it all a huffe. 
 
 1 on'/;, ruly. - i.e. winged or flounced. 
 
 VOL. II. 4
 
 50 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act III. 
 
 Bell. True measure of my body slialbe tane : 
 Plaiue dealing is the best wlien all is done. 160 
 
 Tliat fall Pride taught us when we first begun. 
 
 Fill. He have a rich imbost imbrothery, 
 On which invaluable pretious Eoabe 
 
 Tie hang the glorious brightnesse of my Globe. 164 
 
 Mistresse Pinckanie, is mv new rutle done ? 
 
 Pine. Beleeve me, Madam, tis but new begun. 
 
 Bell. Let pinching citty-dames orecloud their Eies, 
 Our brests lie forth like conduicts of delight, 168 
 
 Able to tice the nicest appetite. 
 Mistresse Pinckanie, shall I have this Panne ? 
 
 Pink. Madam, not this weeke, doe what I can. 
 
 Fill. Pleasure as bond-slave to our wills is tyed. 172 
 
 We Ladies cannot be defam'd with Pride. 
 Come, lets have a play : let poore slaves prate ; 
 Eanck pride in meanest sort, in us is state. 
 Ptemember promise, mistres Pinkanie. 176 
 
 Pink. Well Ladies, though with worke I am opprest, 
 Workewomen alwaies live by doing, best. \Exeunt 
 
 Enter Chrisoganus, Post hast, Gulch, Clout, Gut and Belch. 
 
 Bel. Chrisoganus, faith, what's the lowest price ? 
 
 Chri. You know as well as I ; tenne pound a play. ISO 
 
 Gtd. Our Corapanie's hard of hearing of that side. 
 
 Chri. And will not this booke passe ? alasse for pride ! 
 I hope to sec you starve and storme for books ; 
 And in the dearth of rich invention, 184
 
 inSTRIO-MASTIX, Act III. 51 
 
 When sweet smooth lines are held for pretious, 
 Then will you fawne and crouch to Poesy, 
 
 Clout. Not while goosequillian Posthast holds his pen. 
 
 Gut. Will not our own stuffe serve the multitude? 188 
 
 Chri. Write on, crie ou, yawlc to the common sort 
 Of thick-skin'd auditours such rotten stuffs, 
 More fit to fill the paunch of Esquiline ^ 
 
 Than feed the hearings of judiciall eares. 192 
 
 Yee shades, triuraphe, while foggy Ignorance 
 Clouds bright Apollos beauty ! Time will cleere 
 The misty dulnesse of Spectators Eyes : 
 
 Then, woeful hisses to your fopperies ! 194 
 
 O age, when every Scriveners boy shall dippe 
 Profaning quills into Thessaliaes spring ; 
 When every artist prentice that hath read 
 
 The pleasant pantry of conceipts shall dare 200 
 
 To write as confident as Hercules ; 
 When every ballad-nioiiger boldly writes 
 And windy forth - of bottle-ale ^ doth fill 
 
 Their purest organ of invention — 204 
 
 Yet all applauded and puft up with pride, 
 Swell in conceit, and load the stage with stuff 
 Rakt from the rotten irabers of stall jests ; 
 
 Which basest lines best please the vulgar sense, 208 
 
 Make truest rapture lose preheminence ! 
 
 Bel. The fellow doth talke like one that can talke. 
 
 Gut. Is this the well-learn'd man Chrisoganus ? 
 He beats the ayre the best that ere I heard. 21 2 
 
 1 This is Maiston's. See p. 5. 2 froth. 3 cf. Ben Jonson.
 
 52 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act Ul. 
 
 Chri. Ye scrappcs of wit, base Ecclioes to our voice, 
 Take heed ye stumble not with stalking hie, 
 Thoug-h fortune reels with strong prosperity. [Exit. 
 
 Clout. Farwell the Muses, poor Poet adiew ! 21G 
 
 When we have need, 't may be weele send for you. 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 Stew. My Lord hath sent request to see a play. 
 
 Post. Your Lord ? What, shall our pains be soundly recompenc'd 
 With open hand of honours francke reward ? 220 
 
 Stew. Ye shall have four faire Angells gentlemen. 
 
 Clout. Faire ladies, meane you ? We have four i' th' play. 
 
 Stew. Nay, my good friends, I meane in faire pure gold. 
 
 Gul. Fie, 'tis to much, too long ere it be told. 224 
 
 Steio. Mas, these are single jests indeed ; 
 But I will double it once, ye shall have eight. 
 
 Post. But are you sure that none will want the weight 
 To wey downe our expense in sumptuous Clothes ? 228 
 
 Bel. Well, pleasure's pride shall mount to higher rate ; 
 Tenne pound a play will scarce maintaine our state. 
 
 Stew. Fat Plenty brings in Pride and Idleness ; 
 The world doth turn a maze in giddy round ; 232 
 
 This time doth rayse what other times confound. 
 
 Post. sir, your moral lines were better spent 
 In matters of more worthy consequent. 
 
 Gul. Well, whilest occasion helpes to clime aloft 230 
 
 Wee'le mount Promotions highest battlement. 
 
 Stew. And breake your neckes I hope. Clime not too fast : 
 A heady course confusion ends at last.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act III. 53 
 
 Post. Preach to the poore. Look, Steward, to your conipt. 2-iU 
 Direct vour houshold, teach not us to mount. 
 
 Stew. Farewell ye proud ([ hope they heare me not) 
 Proud Statute rogues.^ [Exit theijfolloio. 
 
 Enter Fourciier, A^elure, Lyon-rash, Ciiajiperty and Cala- 
 
 iiAXCiiA, their tcives. 
 
 Champ. Faith, husband. He have one to beare my traine ; 244 
 Another bare before, to usher me. 
 
 Cala. Nay, I my selfe will learne the Courtly grace ; 
 Honour shall give my wealth a higher place. 
 
 Out on these velvet gards, and black-lac'd sleeves, 248 
 
 These simpering fashions simply followed. 
 
 Cham. Well, through the streetes in thundring coache He lide : 
 Why serves our wealth, but to maiutaine our pride ? 
 Lawe, Armes, and Merchandize, these are three heads, 252 
 
 From whence Nobility first tooke his spring. 
 Then let our haughty mindes our fortune spend ; 
 Pleasure and honour shall our wealth attend. 
 
 Calla. Nay I will have it, I, that I will. 256 
 
 Four. Containe your speech within your private thoughts. 
 Wee are encountred with the honour'd traine. 
 
 Enter Mavortius, Philarchus, Fillissella, Bellula, and 
 
 others. 
 
 Mavo. Faire Ladies, could these times affoord you cates, 
 
 1 The act of 1597, cap. lY., enacted that ' all fencers, bearwards, common 
 plaj'crs of enterludes, and minstrels, wandering abroad; all juglers, tinkers, 
 pedlars &c. shall be adjudged and deemed rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy 
 beggars.'
 
 54 HISTRI0-MASTIX,ACT III. 
 
 You should be feasted in Apolloes hall; 260 
 
 But (Lords) the chaps of wide-pancht gluttonie 
 Have wasted all the dainties of the land. 
 Servant Philarchis, what, no maske too night ? 
 
 Phil. A Play, a Maske, a Banquet, weele have all. 26-i 
 
 Enter Stewakd 
 
 Steic. My Lord, the Players now are growne so proud, 
 Ten pound a play, or ^ no point Comedy. [Exit. 
 
 Mavo. What, insolent with glib prosperity ? 
 Paith Gentlemen ; no Players will appeare : 268 
 
 Gallants, to your Maske. 
 
 Phil. How soone they can remember to forget, 
 Their undeserved Fortunes and esteeme. 
 
 Blush not the peasants at their pedigree ? 272 
 
 Suckt pale with lust. What bladders swolne with pride, 
 To strout in shreds of nitty brogetie ! 
 
 Mavo. Well, though the penny raisd them to the pound, 
 Just Envie causelesse Pride doth still confound. 276 
 
 Phil. Well, let them blase, ther's none so blind but sees 
 Prydes fall is still frost-bit with miseries. 
 
 Enter a MasJce 
 
 What, come they in so blunt, without devise ? 
 
 Fill. Tlie night is dead before the sport be borne. 280 
 
 Maw. Cease Musick there! Prepare to banquet, sirs. 
 Phi. Ceres and Bacchus tickled, Venus stiiTcs. 
 Mavo. Gallants unmaske, and fall to baiiquetting. 
 
 1 No point. See Loves Labour's Lost, II. i. 190, & Y. ii. 277.
 
 ins TRIO- MA S TIX, Act 1 1 1 . 55 
 
 A health about: carovvse shall feede carowse.^ 284 
 
 Phil. Tlie first is plcdg'd, and heere begins a fresh. 
 
 Mavo. This royall health of welcome greetes you all. 
 
 Vouch. Bacchus begins to reel with going round. 
 
 Fhil. The grape begins to fume. 288 
 
 Mavo. Why let it fret. — Xot pledge a Xobleraan? 
 
 Champ. I like this Jewell, He have his fellow. 
 
 Bell. How ? you ? what ! fellow it ? gip, Velvet gards ! 
 
 Champ. Insolent, for-bearc ! 292 
 
 Mavo. A petty-foggers whoodded wife so pearcht ? 
 
 Champ. Why not, proud Lord ? then bid your niincks come 
 downe. 
 
 Vouch. Dishonourable Lord, I say thou li'st. 
 
 Mavo. I challenge thee on that disgracefull word. 296 
 
 Vouch. Here answer I thy challenge in this wine. 
 
 Mavo. I will coufirme thy pledge, and meete thee too. 
 
 They speaJce and fall asleepe on the Stage. Sound Musicke. Enter 
 Envy alone to all the Actors sleeping on the Stage : the musicke 
 sounding : she breaths amongst them. 
 
 Envy. Downe climbing Pride to Stygian Tartaric ! 
 The breath of Envy fils the empty world : 300 
 
 Envy whose nature is to worke alone, 
 As hating any Agent but her selfe. 
 Tiirne, turne, thou Lackey to the winged Tyme ! 
 I envie thee in that thou art so slow, 304 
 
 And I so swift to mischiefe. So, now stand. 
 
 1 Compare with Hamlet, V. ii. 300. " The queen carouses to thy fortune, 
 Hamlet."
 
 56 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 
 
 Peace, Plenty, Pryde, had their competitors, 
 But I enjoy my Soveraignty alone. 
 
 Now shall proud Noblesse, Law, and Merchandize 308 
 
 Each swell at other, as their veines would breake. 
 Fat Ignorance, and rammish Barbarisnie 
 Shall spit and drivell in sweete Learnings face : 
 Whilst he, half starv'd in Euvie of their power, 312 
 
 Shall eate his marrow, and him-selfe devoure. 
 AAvake yee Brawne-fed Epicures ; looke up ! 
 And when you thinke your clearest eyes to finde, 
 Be all their Organs strooke with Envie blind. \_Exit. 316 
 
 They all awake, and begin the following Acte. 
 
 ACTUS 4. SC.ENA 1 
 
 Mavo. 0, pallid Envie, how thou suck'st my blond ! 
 And wastes my vitall spirits : I could rave, 
 E.unne madde with anguish for my slight respect. 
 O wher's the honour to my high borne bloud ! 4 
 
 "\Mien every peasant, each Plebeian, 
 Sits in the throne of undeserv'd repute ; 
 When every Pedlers-Erench is term'd JMonsignuer ; 
 When broad-cloathd trades-man, and what-lack-you-sir 8 
 
 Is wrapt in riche habiliments of silke, 
 Whil'st urgent need makes Princes bend thek knee 
 As servile as the ignobilitie, 
 
 To crouch for coyne, whilst slaves tye fast our Lands 12 
 
 In Statute Staple, or these Marchants bands. 
 
 Bella. Wan ghostlike Envie spungeth up my bloud
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 57 
 
 Whil'st I behold yoii lialfe-fac'd Minion, 
 
 The dauglilcr of sonic Cloves autl Cinamon, 16 
 
 To equall me in rich accoustrements. 
 
 O, wher's the outward dilFcrence of our birtli ! 
 
 When each odde-mincing uiistresse Citty-Darae 
 
 Shall dare to be as sumptuously adorn'd, 20 
 
 With Jewels, chaines and richest ornaments, 
 
 As wee from whom their Fathers held their land 
 
 In bond-slaves Tenure, and base villianapje. 
 
 Touch. AVliy should yon bubble of Nobility, 24 
 
 Yon shade of Man, appropriate Eplthetes 
 Of noble, and right honorable sir. 
 To the blind Fortune of his happy birth ? 
 
 Why should this reeling world (drunkc with the juice 28 
 
 Of Plenties bounty,) give such attribute 
 Of soveraigne title, place and dignity. 
 To that same swolne up Lord, whom blinded chance 
 Above his vertues merite doth advance 32 
 
 To high exalted state, whilst all repine 
 To see our sweate rewarded, and our paine 
 Guerdond but with a single fee, an Angels gaine ? 
 
 Champ. God for his mercy ! how yon Lady jetts 36 
 
 And swoopes along in Persian royalty. 
 I could pine with Eiivie, and consume 
 My heart in fowle disdaine, that she should strout 
 And swell in ostentation of her birth, 40 
 
 Decking the curled tresses of her haire 
 With glittering ornaments, whilst I am pent 
 In nice respect of civil modesty.
 
 58 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 
 
 He not indure it. Lawyers wives shall shine 44 
 
 Spight of the lawe, and all that dare repine. 
 
 Vel. Drops of cold sweat hang on my fretting brow. 
 O, I could gnash my teeth, and whip myselfe, 
 Parboyle my liver in this envious heate 48 
 
 Of deepe repining Malice ! I am vcxt, 
 Stung with a Viperous impatience, 
 That yon Nobility, yon JoJm-a-Stile, 
 
 Should sole possesse the throne of dignity, 52 
 
 Whilst wee fat Burgomasters of the state, 
 Rich treasuries of gold, full stuft up trunkes, 
 With all the fattest marrow of the land 
 
 Should be debarr'd from types Majesticall, 56 
 
 And live like jEsops Asse : whilst our meane birth 
 Curbes our aspiring hixmours from the seate 
 Of honours mounted state ; I cannot sleepe, 
 
 My entrailes burne with scorne, that Merchandize 60 
 
 Should stand and lick the pavement with his knee, 
 Bare-head, and crouching to Nobility. 
 Thousfh forfeited to us be all their state 
 Yet Envie (still) my heart doth macerate. 64 
 
 Perj). Gip, Mistresse, Madam ! and French-hood intaild 
 Unto a Habeas Corpus : Jesu God ! 
 How proud they jet it : and must I give wall, 
 And bend my body to their Mistresse-ships ? 68 
 
 O husband, I am sick, my cheeke is pale 
 With 
 
 Eel. With what my sweete ? 
 
 Perj). With Envie ; which no Physick can prevent. 73
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 59 
 
 Shall I still stand an abject in the eye 
 
 Of faire respect ; not mounted to the height, 
 
 To the top-gallant of o're-peeriug state, 
 
 That witli Elated lookes of Majestic 70 
 
 I may out face the proud pild Eminence 
 
 Of tliis same gilded Madam Bellula, 
 
 And yon same Jone-a-Noke, chain'd Champertie ? 
 
 Vel. Content thee wife. The tide of Royalty 80 
 
 Shall onely flow into our Merchandize. 
 The gulphe of our Ambition shall devoure 
 All the supports of honour, lands and plate, 
 
 Rich mineral! Jewels, sumptuous pallaces, 84 
 
 All shall be swallow'd by the yawning moutli 
 Of hungry Avarice. Thus I plotted it. 
 Tou see Mavortius stormie brow portends 
 
 Tempestuous whirle-winds of tumultuous armes ; 88 
 
 Now when the breath of warre is once denounc'd, 
 Then troupe the gallants to our wealthy shops 
 To take up rich apparrell, pawne their land, 
 
 To puffe up Prides swolne bulke with plumy showes. 92 
 
 Then, when the Actions expectation flags, 
 And fills not up the mouth of gaping hope, 
 To us returns the mal-coatented youth. 
 
 And for the furnishment of one suite more 9G 
 
 All, all, is ours, Jewells, plate and Lands, 
 All take cariere into the Marchants hands. 
 Then come, withdraw, and coole thy envious heate : 
 My pollicy shall make thy hopes repleate. 100 
 
 [Exeunt Yelu. and Pekpetu.
 
 6o HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 
 
 Camp. And sliall I still (deere Yourclier) sit below, 
 Give place to Madams and these citty dames ? 
 O how my Envy at their glory flames ! 
 
 Vour. Be patient bnt a while (sweete Campertie) 104* 
 
 And I will make the world do fealty 
 To thy exalted state. The Law shall stand 
 Like to a waxen nose or Lesbian rule, 
 
 A diall Gnomon, or a wethercocke 108 
 
 Turn'd with the breath of greatnesse every way, 
 On whose incertaintie our certaine ground 
 Of towring hight shall stand invincible. 
 
 The Dubious Law shall nurse dissention, 113 
 
 Which being pamper'd with our feeding helpes 
 Wee'le swell in greatnesse, and our pallace Towers 
 Shall pricke the ribs of Heaven with proud height : 
 Then let thy Enry cease, since thy high fate 116 
 
 Shall not discerne a fortune more Elate. 
 
 [^Exeunt Your and Champ. 
 
 Bel. Se with what slight respect they passe from us, 
 Not giving to our births their due saluts. 
 
 O, Deerest Lord ! shall high borne Bellula 120 
 
 Be sunke, and thus obscur'd by the proud shine 
 Of yon sophisticate base Alcumle, 
 Yon bullion stufte : nolile blonds repine. 
 That durt usurpes the orbe where you should shine ! 134 
 
 Maw. Content thee, sweet, the lightning of my armes 
 Shall purge the aire of these grosse foggy clouds. 
 That doe obscure our births bright radiance. 
 AVhen Iron Mars mounts up his plumy Crest 128
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 6i 
 
 The Law and Merchandize in rust may rest : 
 Then Envy cease ; for e're the Sonne shall set 
 He buckh; on Mavortitis burganet. 
 
 [Exeunt Mavo. and Bell. 
 
 Enter Ciirisoganl'S solus. 
 
 Chri. Summa petit liver, perflant altissiraa venti.^ 132 
 
 Then, poor Chrisoganus, who'll envy thee, 
 Whose dusky fortune hath no shining gloss 
 That Envys breath can blast ? Oh, I coukl curse 
 This idiot world, this ill-nurst age of Peace, 136 
 
 That foster[s] all save virtue ; comforts all 
 Saving industrious art, the souls bright gemme ; 
 That crusheth down the sprouting stems of Art ; 
 Blasts forward Avits with frosty cold contempt ; 140 
 
 Crowning dull clods of earth with honours wreath ; 
 Gilding the rotten face of barbarism, 
 With the unAvorthy shine of Eminence — 
 
 0, I could wish myself consum'd in air, 144 
 
 ^Vheu I behold these huge fat lumps of flesh, 
 These big-bulkt painted posts that senseless stand. 
 To have their backes pasted Avith dignity, 
 
 Quite choking up all passage to respect — 148 
 
 These huge Colossi, that roll up and down, 
 
 ' Compare Macilentc's opening speech iu Act i. Sc. 1, of Everij man out of 
 his humour. Like this, it begins with a line of latin. The general tone and 
 purpose of the two speeches are identical, though Jonson's is infinitely the 
 better. Marston flattered Jonson, and may have written this to curry favour 
 with him. Jonson says of Carlo-Butl'one ' no lionourable or reverend person- 
 age whatsoever can come within the reacli of his eye, but is turned into all 
 manner of variety by his adulterate similies.'
 
 62 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 
 
 And fill \ip all the seat of man with froth 
 
 Of outward semblance, whilst pale Artizans 
 
 Pine in the shades of gloomy Academes 152 
 
 Faint in pursuit of virtue, and quite tired 
 
 For want of liberal food for liberal art, 
 
 Give up the goal to sluggish Ignorance ! 
 
 O whether doth my passion carry me ? 156 
 
 Poor fool, leave prating. Envy not their shine 
 
 Who still will flourish, though great I'ate repine. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Belch, Gulsh, Gut and Clout, with an Ingle. 
 
 Gul. Jack of the Clock-house, where's master Post-hast ? 
 
 Bel. In my book for Slow-pace; twelve-pence on's pate for 
 staying so late. 160 
 
 Crut, Prologue begin {^rehearse ^r.) 
 ' Gentlemen, in this envious age we bring Bayard for Bucephalus. 
 If mired, bogg'd, draw him forth with your favours. So, promis- 
 ing that we never meane to perform, our Prologue peaceth.' 164 
 
 Gul. ' Peaceth ' ? What peaking Pageanter penned that ? 
 
 Bel. Who but Master Post-hast ? 
 
 Gut. It is as dangerous ^ to read his name at a play door 
 As a printed bill on a plague door. 168 
 
 Gul. [C'lout^ You wear the handsomst compast hilt I've seen. 
 
 luffle. Doth this fashion like my friend so well ? 
 
 Bel. \_Clout'\ So well I mean to wear it for your sake. 
 
 Inffle. I can deny thee nothing, if I would. 172 
 
 Gul. Fie, how this Ingling troubles otir rehearsal. Say on. 
 
 Gut. Fellow Belch, you have found a haunt at my house : 
 ^ Posthast's name unpopular.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act IV. 63 
 
 You must belcli and breathe your spirits somewhere else. 
 
 Bel. Jealous of me, with your seat for Master John ? 170 
 
 Gut. When the door's shut the sign's in Capricorn. 
 
 Clou. Then you might heave the latch up with your horn. 
 
 Gill. This cuckoldy coil liiuders our rehearsal. 
 
 Gut. ' I'll tear their turret tops 180 
 
 ' I'll beat their bulwarks down, 
 ' I'll rend such rascals from their rags, 
 ' And whip them out of town. 
 
 Bel. ' Patience, my lord, your fury strays too far.' 184 
 
 Gul. Stay, sirs, rehearse no further than you are, 
 For here be hufliug parts in this new book. 
 
 Gut. Have I e'er a good humour in my part ? 
 
 Gul. Thou hast never a good one out of thy part. 188 
 
 Bel. I'll play the conquering king, that likes me best. 
 
 Gut. Thou play the cowardly knave — Thou dost but jest. 
 
 Clowt. Half a share, half a shirt. A Comedian, 
 A whole share or turn Camelion.^ 192 
 
 Gul. "Well sirs, the gentlemen see into our trade. 
 We cannot gull them with brown-paper stuff, 
 And the best poets grown so envious, 
 They'll starve rather than we get store of money. 196 
 
 Gut. Since dearth of poets lets not players live by wit. 
 To spite them let's to wars, and learn to use a spit. 
 
 Clout. excellent ill — a spit to roast a rhyme ! 
 
 Gut. 'Twill seiTe you to remember dinner time. 200 
 
 Bel. That's true, 'tis time, let's away. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ^ Cuthbert Cony-catcher, Defence of Cony-catching, 1592. Greene said ' as 
 they were comedians to art, so the actions of their lives were chameliou-like.'
 
 64 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 ACTUS QUINTUS. 
 Enter Waeee, Ambition, Pury, Horrok, Euine 
 
 War. Eule fier-eied TFarre ! revell in blood and flames : 
 Envy, wliose breath liatb poysoued all estates 
 Hath now resigned lier spightfull tlirone to us. 
 Stand forth Ambition. Fly through the land, 4 
 
 And enter every brest of noble blood. 
 Infect their honored mindes with factious thoughts, 
 xA-nd make them glister in opposed armes : 
 
 Let unjust force, and scarlet Tp-anui/, 8 
 
 Wait on their Actions till their ulcers breake. 
 Or else be launced by the hand of TFarre, 
 Which cannot be without a lasting scarre. 
 
 Amb. Anihition like a Pestilence doth fly 12 
 
 To poyson Honour and Nobility. Exit Ambition. 
 
 War. Fwrij, thy turne is next. Goe now and fill 
 The trunck of Peasants with thy dangerous breath, 
 Inspire them with the spirit of Mutiny, 16 
 
 Eage, and rebellion ; make them desperate. 
 Hurry them headlong unto every ill. 
 Like dust rais'd Avith a whirlwind ; let their eyes 
 Be ever fixt upon the brused prints, 20 
 
 Made in their state by wilde oppression ; 
 And (after all) possesse them with this fire : 
 That onely Warre must purchase their desire. 
 
 Eury. Pury shall shine amongst this multitude, 24
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 65 
 
 Like a bright Meteor in the darkest cloud. \_Exit Fury. 
 
 War. Horror shall greet the bosorae of greene youth ; 
 The melting liver of pied gallantry ; 
 
 The wrinckled vizard of Devotion ; 28 
 
 The cheverell ^ conscience of cornipted law ; 
 And frozen heart of gowty Merchandize. 
 Hx)rror wound these, strike palsies in their limmes, 
 And as thou stalk'st (in thy prodigious shape,) 33 
 
 And meet'st a fellow swolue with mounted place, 
 Shake him with glaunses of thy hollow eyes, 
 And let thy vigour live as his heart dies ! 
 
 Ilorr. Ynough, ere long the ayre shall ring with shrikes, 36 
 And sad lament of those whom Horror strikes. [Exit Horrok. 
 
 War. Horror, adiew ! 
 These three are Ushers to our Deity, 
 
 Onely vast Ruine heere attends on us, 40 
 
 And is a follower of oui' hii>;h desiirnes : 
 Ruine, thou faythful servant to grimme VVarre, 
 Now teach thy murdring shot to teare mens limm's. 
 Thy brazen Cannons how to make a breach 44 
 
 In a fayre Citties bezome ; teach thy hers 
 To climbe the toppes of houses ; and thy mines 
 To blow up Churches in th' offended skye. 
 
 Consume whole groves and standing fields of Come, 48 
 
 In thy wild rage, and make the proud earth groane 
 Under the weight of thy confusion. 
 
 Ruine. This and much more shall Ruine execute. 
 
 1 Fr. chevreuil, roebuck. Easily-giving, or stretching leather. See Borneo 
 ^ Juliet, II. iv. 87 : mn. VIII., U. iii. 32 : Twe/fth Night, III. i. 13.— F. 
 
 VOL. 11, 5
 
 66 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 TVar. Meanewhile weele steepe our sinowie feet in blood, 52 
 
 And daimce imto the Musicke of the field ; 
 Trumpets for trebbles, bases, bellowing drummes. 
 Broyles Envy bred, but Warre shall end those brawles, 
 Deafe warre, that will not heare a word of Peace : 56 
 
 Sharpe pikes shall serve for subtle lawiers pens ; 
 The Marchants silkes shall turne to shining Steele ; 
 In steed of false yard stickes, large horsemens staves \ 
 Shall measure out true patterns of their graves. \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Belsh setting up bills. Enter to him a Captain. 
 
 Copt. Sirrah, what set you up there ? 
 
 Bel. Text-bills for plays. 
 
 Capt. What ? Plays in time of warrs ? Hold Sin-ah ! 
 There's a new plot. 64 
 
 Bel. How many mean you shall come in for this ? 
 
 Capt. Player, 'tis press money. 
 
 Bel. Press-money, press-money ? alas, sir, press me ? 
 I am no fit actor for the action. 68 
 
 Capt. Text-bills must now be turned to iron bills. 
 
 [_Exit Captain. 
 
 Bel. And please you, let them be dagger pies. 
 
 Enter an Officer, Posthaste, Gulsh, Gut, and Clout. 
 
 Off. Sir Oliver's men? The last players took the towns reward 
 like honest men. 72 
 
 Gulsh. Those were a couple of coney-catchers that 
 Cousen mayors, and have no consort but themselves. 
 But we are a fidl company, and our credit '
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 67 
 
 With our master known. 76 
 
 Off. Meanwhile there's press-naoney for your reward. 
 
 Clout. No (I thank your worship) we naean not to trouble your 
 town at this time. 
 
 Off. Well masters, you that are master-sharers 80 
 
 Must provide you upon your own pui'ses. 
 
 Gut. Alas, sir, we players are privileged : 
 Tis our audience must fight in the field for us, 
 And we upon the stage for them. 84 
 
 Post. Sir, as concerning half a score angels, 
 Or such a matter, for a man in my place — 
 
 Off. Those days are out of date. 
 
 Bel. The more's the pity. Sir. [Exit Officer. 
 
 Gul. Well, I've a brewer to mv Insrle : 
 He'll furnish me with a horse great enough. 
 
 Post. Faith, I'll e'en paste all my ballads together, 
 And make a coat to hold out pistol-proof. 92 
 
 Clotit. I marvel what use I shouV' :nake of my Ingle, 
 The hobby-horse seller. 
 
 Gut. Paith, make him sell a whole troop of horse 
 To buy thee one. 96 
 
 Bel. Sirs, if these soldiers light upon our playing 'parell 
 They'll strut it in the field, and flaunt it out. 
 
 Post. Well, su-s, I have no stomach to these wars. 
 
 Gut. Faith, I've a better stomach to ray breakfast. 100 
 
 Clout. A shrewd mornings work for players ! 
 
 Omnes. Let's be gone. [Exeunt
 
 68 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 Enter Mavortius and Larius on one side, Philakchcs and 
 HiLETUS on the other icith iceajwns Braicne : Chrisoganus 
 hetioeene them. Ambition breathing amongst them. 
 
 Chri. Have patience, worthy Lords, and calme your spirits. 
 f Mam. Peace, prating Scholler ! Bid the Sea be still, 104 
 
 When powerful! windes doe tosse the raging waves ; 
 Or stay the winged lightning in his coiu'se : 
 When thou doost this, thy words shall charm me too ; 
 Till then preserve thy breath. 108 
 
 Phil. Mavortius, dar'st thou maintaine thy words ? 
 
 Mavo. How ? dare Philarchus ? yes, T dare doe more. 
 In bloud or tire ; or where thou darst not come. 
 In the numme fingers of cold death I dare. 112 
 
 Phi. Swallow those words, or thou shalt eate mv sword, 
 
 Lar. He is no Estrich, sir, he loves no yron. 
 
 nil. And yet me thinkes he should be by his plume. 
 
 Mavo. "VVhat are you playing with my feather too? 116 
 
 They all rimne one at another, Chkysog : ste^s betweene them. 
 
 Chris. O stay your rages ! 
 Let not Ambition captivate your blood": 
 Make not youi' hates objects for vulgar eyes. 
 
 Mavo. A pox upon this linguist, take him hence. 120 
 
 Philarchus, I defie thee, and in scorae 
 Spit on thy bozome ; vowing heere by heaven 
 If either sword or fire or strength of men, 
 
 Or any other steeled violence, 124 
 
 Can brino: to swift confusion what is thine
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 69 
 
 Upon this grateful soyle, it shall be done. 
 
 Phi. And when 'tis done, I will restore my wrongs 
 Out of thy Forts, thy Castles, and thy lands. 128 
 
 Mavo. My lands ? 
 
 Phi. I, factious Lord, till then adicw : 
 Weele shine like Commets in next enter-view. 
 
 \_Exeunt Phi. and Hile. 
 
 Mavor. My soule is bigge in travaile with revenge, 132 
 
 And I could rip her w'ombe up Avith a stabbe 
 To free th' imprisoned issue of my thought. 
 
 \_ExeHnt. Manet Chrisogaxus 
 
 Chri. 0, how this vulture (vile Ambition) 
 Tyers on the heart of greatnesse, and devoures 136 
 
 Their bleeding honours ; whil'st their empty names 
 Lye chain'd unto the hill of infamie : 
 Now is the time wherein a melting eye 
 
 May spend itself in teares, and with salt drops 140 
 
 Write woe and desolation in the dust. 
 Upon the frighted bosome of our land. 
 Pitty and Piety are both exilde, 
 
 Religion buried with our Fathers bones, [' 114 
 
 In the cold earth, and nothing but her face 
 Left to adome these grosse and impious times. Stand aside 
 
 A noise within, crying Liberty, liberty. Enter a sort of Rimetings 
 and Mechanicalls, (Fury leading tJiem) and crying confusedly 
 
 Omnes. Liberty ! liberty ! liberty ! 
 
 1. Nay but stay, stay my Masters ; we have not insulted yet who 
 shall be our Captaine. I49
 
 70 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 2. Masse, that's true : faith, let's all be Captaines. 
 
 3. Content, so wee shall bee sure to have no equalitie amongst 
 us. 152 
 
 4. O, it's best, for (for mine owne part) I scorne to have an 
 equall. 
 
 1, Well then : what exploit shall we do first ? 
 
 2. Marry Be tell you : Lets pluck down the Church, and set up 
 an Ale-house. 157 
 
 Omnes. O excellent, excellent, excellent ; a rare exploit, a rare 
 exploite. 
 
 1. Good : this is for exploite : but then there's a thing cal'd 
 Action. 161 
 
 3, 0, that's going to Sea ; that we have nothing to do withall. 
 
 4. No, we are all for the land, wee. 
 
 2. Land, I : weele pluck downe all the noble houses in the laud, 
 e're we have done. 165 
 
 1. It were a most noble service, and most worthy of the Chronicle. 
 
 2. Slid, these Lords are growne so proud : Nay, weele have a 
 fling at the Lawyers too. 168 
 
 3. O, I, first of all at the Lawyers. 
 
 4. True, that we mav have the law in our owne hands. 
 
 1. O, then we may take up what we will of the Marchants. 
 
 2. I, and forfet our bonds at pleasure, nobody can sue us. 172 
 
 3. O, 'twill be rare : I wonder how much Velvet will apparell me 
 and my horse. 
 
 4. Talke not of that man, weele have inough : All shall be com- 
 mon. 
 
 1. Wives and all: what, Helter, skelter! 176 
 
 2. Slid, we are men as well as they are.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 71 
 
 3. And we came all of our Patlier Adam. 
 
 2. Goe to then, why should we be their slaves ? 
 
 Omnes. Liberty, liberty, liberty \ [Exeunt 
 
 Chri. See, see, this common beast the multitude 181 
 
 (Transported thus with fury) how it raves, 
 Threatning all states with ruine, to englut 
 
 Their bestiall and more brutish appetites. 184 
 
 O you auspicious and divinest powers, 
 (That in your wisdomes suffer such dread plagues 
 To flow and cover a rebellious land) 
 
 Give end unto their furies ! And drive back 188 
 
 The roaring ton-ent on the Authors heads 
 That (in their pride of Eage) all eyes may see 
 Justice hath whips to scourge impiety ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lyon-rash to Fourchier sitting in Ms study at one end 
 of the stage : At the other end enter Vourcher to Velure in 
 his shop. 
 
 Lyon. Good morrow, maister i^bz^rc/^er. 192 
 
 Four. Maister Lyon-rash, you are welcome : 
 How fare you, sir, in these prodigious times ? 
 
 Lyon. Troth, like a man groAvne wilde and desperate, 
 E'ene spent with horror of their strange effects. 196 
 
 Four. I feare they will be much more stranger yet. 
 
 Lyon. And you have cause to feare, sir. 
 
 Four. So have you : if wealth may make a man suspect his state. 
 
 What newes heare you, sir? sit downe I pray you. 200 
 
 They sit and whisper, whilst the other two speake. 
 
 Vour. I wonder how you dare kecpe open shoppe,
 
 72 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 Considering the tmniilts are abroad. 
 
 They say the Nobles all are up in armes, 
 
 And the mde commons in disseverd troupes 204 
 
 Have gathered dangerous head, and make such spoyle 
 
 As would strike dead a true reporters tongue. 
 
 Vel. Faith I am ignorant what course to take, 
 Wee i'th Citty heere are so distracted, 208 
 
 As if our spirits were all earth and ayre, 
 I know not how : each houre heere comes fresh newes 
 And nothing certaine. 
 
 The other two againe. 
 
 lo?<r. Well, if this be true, 212 
 
 The issue cannot be but dangerous. 
 
 Lyon. they have made the violent'st attempts 
 That ere were heard of: ruin'd Churches, Townes, 
 Burn't goodly Manours, and indeed lay'd wast 216 
 
 AU the whole Country, as they passe along. 
 
 The other. 
 
 Four. Ther's no prevention if they once come heere, 
 But that our Citty must endure the sack. 
 
 Fel. I feare it, Sir. 220 
 
 J^onr. Faith, we are sure to feele 
 The fury of the tempest when it comes. 
 The Law and Merchandize may both go begge. 
 
 Unter Champerty to her husband, and Lyon-rash. 
 
 i Cham. Where are you, husband, do you heere the newes ? 224 
 Fotir. What newes, on God's name ? 
 Cham. the enimies !
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 73 
 
 I'our. What of tlic enemies ? 
 
 Cham. They are entred into the citty 228 
 
 Lyon. Adiew, good maister Fourcher. 
 
 Foil. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Cham. O, good Maister Lyon-rash, goe pray. 
 
 [Exeunt Four. Lyox. Cham. 
 
 Vel. How now, what noyse is this? 232 
 
 Vou. They cry, arme ! arme ! me thinkes. [Enter Perpetuana 
 
 Perj). 0, sweet heart, the Spaniards ^ are come ! 
 We shall all be kUd they say. 
 Maister Vourcher, what shall we doe? Lord ! 236 
 
 Enter a sort of fellowes tolth armour and iceapons, and crosse the 
 stage, crying arme ! arme ! arme ! 
 
 Omn. Arme ! Arme ! Arme ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter a Captain with Soldiers, the Soldiers having most of the 
 players apparel, and bringing out the players amongst them. 
 
 Sol. Come on, players ; now we are the sharers, 
 And you the hired men. Nay, you must take patience. 
 Slid, how do you march ! 240 
 
 Sirrah, is this you would rend and - tear the cat 
 Upon a stage, and now march like a drown'd rat. 
 Look up and play the Tamhurlaine^ you rogue you. [Exeunt 
 
 ^ The Spaniards : a contrary terror to that of the insurgent boors : this a 
 portion of the earlier play. 
 
 2 Compare Bottom's " part to tear a cat in " : Mid. Night's Bream, I. ii. 
 31.— G. 
 
 3 Tamburlaine — an early allusion : points to 1590.
 
 74 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act V. 
 
 Hater all the factions of Noblemen, Peasants and CUtizens fi(jldlng .• 
 The ruder sorte drive in the rest, and cry " a sacke ! a sacke ! 
 Havoke, havocke ! Biirne the Latoiers bookes ! Teare the Silkes 
 out of the shops /" In that confusion, the Scholler scaping from 
 among them, they all go out and leave Mm upon the Stage?- 
 
 Chri. Thus Heaven (in spite of fury) can preserve 244 
 
 The trustfull innocent and guiltlesse soule. 
 0, what a thing is man, that thus forgets 
 The end of his creation ; and eact houre 
 
 Strikes at the glory of liis maker thus ? 248 
 
 What brazen vizage, or black yron soule 
 Hath strength to Justifie so Godlesse deeds ? 
 Hee that is most infeoft to Tyrannic, 
 
 The man whose Jawes burne most with thirst of bloud, 253 
 
 What coulours or thin cobweb can he Aveave 
 To cover so abhor'd iniquities ? 
 If then there be no shadow, no pretext, 
 
 To vade tlieir loathed bodies ; what should make 256 
 
 Men so inamour'd on this strumpet warre. 
 To doate upon her forme ? wlien (in her selfe) 
 Shee's made of nothing but infectious plagues ? 
 Witnesse the present Chaos of our Sceane, 260 
 
 Where every streete is chain'd with linckes of spoUe. 
 Heere proud Ambition rides ; there Furie flies ; 
 Heere Horror, and there i-uthlesse Murder stalkes, 
 
 1 This scene belongs to the new play. After Essex's rehellion, intestine 
 faction was more to be dreaded than external invasion.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 75 
 
 Led on by Ruine, and in Steele and fire, 264 
 
 That now on toppes of houses, now in vaults. 
 Now in tlic sacred Temples, hecrc and there 
 Runnes wilde. [Exit 
 
 Allarmes in sever all places, that brake him off thus: Jfter a re- 
 treat sounded, the Musicke plai/es and Poverty enters. 
 
 ACTUS SEXTUS. SC^NA 1. 
 Enter Poverty, Famine, Sicknesse, Bondage and Sluttisii- 
 
 NESSE. 
 
 Pover. Raigne, Poverty, in spite of tragick waiTC, 
 And triumph over glittering vanitie ! 
 Though want be never voide of bitter woes, 
 
 Yet slow pac'd remedy, true patience, showes ! 4 
 
 See worldling worlds of Vertue lin'd within. 
 Though sinners all, yet least repleat with sinne. 
 I scome a scoffing foole about my Throne, 
 
 An artlesse Ideot, that (like Esops Bawe ^ 8 
 
 Plumes fairer fether'd birds : no, Poverty 
 Will dignifie her chaire with deepe Divines : 
 Philosophers and Schollers feast with me, 
 
 As well as Martialists in misery. 12 
 
 Pirst change the houre from five to fatall sixe. 
 Then ring forth knells of heavie discontent. 
 With sighes and groans whil'st I have government. 
 
 Fam. Thin Famine needs must follow Poverty. 16 
 
 1 Poverty scorns the " upstart crowe decked with others plumes."
 
 76 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 
 
 My bones lye open, like a withered tree 
 
 By stormes disbarkt of her defending skinne, 
 
 So neere the heart the weather beates w^ithin. 
 
 S'lch. O, end thy Age, that we may end our dayes ! 20 
 
 Once Objects, now all Abjects to the world ; 
 For after feeble Sicknesse death ensues, 
 And endeth griefe that happy joye renews. 
 
 Bond. Then Bondage shall unbolt those cruell bari'es 24 
 
 That thralls faire honour in obscure reproach, 
 And savage-like yoakes up humanity, 
 To bind in chaines trae-borne civillity. 
 
 Slut. Though Sluttishiesse be loathsome to herselfe, 28 
 
 Penurious time must be obscene and base ; 
 Who hates the rich must dwell with Poverty, 
 Since rule in any thing is Soveraignty. 
 
 Pov. Were Poverty a word more miserable 32 
 
 Then Mans austere invention could propound. 
 Yet is poore Honesty rich Honors ground : 
 Whose eyes unvail'd, like to th' unhoodded Hawke, 
 Looke straight on high, and in the end aspire 36 
 
 To feele the warmth of Princes holy fire. 
 Yet Honor, Wealth, Lands, and who wins the prize, 
 Ohtaines but Vanity of Vanities. 
 Come follow me, my never failing friend. \Exeunt 
 
 Enter Mavortius and Philarchus at severall doores. 
 
 Mavo. The broyles of warre wherein I gloried more 41 
 
 Then Priams Rector, who by burning walls 
 Was traild along (dread victories deepe fall),
 
 HISTKIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 77 
 
 So from these gates myselfe, in meane disgrace, 44 
 
 Am banisht forth, pinch't through with poverty, 
 Who tels us all 'tis true that shoe hath sed 
 Pooreflyes will tickle Lyons heiny ^ dead. 
 
 Phil. The thirst of Honour call'd me to the warres, 48 
 
 Where I have drunke a health (too deepe a draught) 
 My full-mouthd bags may now be fild with ayre, 
 The Divell and Ambition taught it me. 
 
 Mmo. Is that Philarchus that complaines? 'Tis so. 52 
 
 Pliil. See how ■\Iavortius turnes away his face ; 
 To seeke to friends 'tis liolden for disgrace. 
 
 Mam. Time was, I could have din'd amongst my friends ; 
 Now stands at every door a Jack and Apes, 56 
 
 And tels me 'tis too late, his Lord hath din'd. 
 
 Phil. This miserable world would make one mad. 
 1 stept unto a Vintner at the Barre, 
 
 And offered him my Eapier for a pawne ; 60 
 
 The sawcie slave tooke it in such a scome, 
 And flung it in the streets, replying thus ; 
 Meere want brings weapons out of use with us. 
 
 Mavo. See poore Philarchus powring out his plaints 64 
 
 To unrelenting walls, relentlesse men. 
 
 Phil. Are wounds rewards for Souldiers in the field ? 
 What ? sell our lands ? are these the fniits of Wane ? 
 Then dye, Philarchus, let not shame survive 68 
 
 Thy fainting honour, dead and yet alive. 
 
 Maw. Heere come our wives, how wretchedly they looke. 
 
 1 This adage perhaps alluded to by^^Nash.
 
 78 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 
 
 Hiuter Perpetuana and Bellula 
 
 Bell. My Jewels pawiid, my rings are gone to wrack, 
 The greedy Usurer hath gotten all. 72 
 
 Perp. I am a prey to wretched Poverty ; 
 111 featur'd famine will devom*e us up, 
 Whose wrinckled face is like pale deaths aspect. 
 
 Fldl. Eehold my wife, like Winters parramour, 70 
 
 Eob'd and bereav'd of nuptiall Ornaments 
 ' Hide thee Philarchus lower then the (jraxie ; 
 ' The Earth jcill cover though it catinot save. 
 
 Ferp. If men lament, whose wonted yron-hearts SO 
 
 Were harder then the Armour they have worne, 
 And waile the Agent of a woman's voyce, 
 Wliat shall weake women and poor Ladies doe ? 
 Pall to those teares, that we were borne unto. \Exeunt 
 
 Mavo. Could I but learne (with Croesus) to endure 83 
 
 The falling sicknesse of sad Poverty, 
 Who lost a rich commanding Emperie, 
 Patience would proove a tutor to my grieves. 88 
 
 Chri. Thou want's a Solon to consort with thee. 
 To prove affliction is the perfect way 
 That leads to Joves tribunaU dignity. 
 
 II hast thou govern'd thy prosperity, 92 
 
 That canst not smile in meere adversity. 
 Looke uppon me (the poorest slave in shew 
 That ever fortune buried in mishappe :) 
 Yet this is Natures richest JeweU-house, 96
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 79 
 
 And teachcth me to weepe at all your wants. 
 
 Phil. Why thou art farre more wretcheder then wee : 
 How canst thou teach us then tranqmllity ? 
 
 Chris. See'at thou this poore and naked bozome heere ? 100 
 
 Dost thou behold this scom'd uncovered head ? 
 When thou wast rich and Peerelesse in thy pride, 
 Content did never harbour in thy brest, 
 
 Nor ere bad love her residence in thee ; 104 
 
 (I meane the love of perfect happinesse) 
 But skillesse grudging from a haughty spirit 
 Did blind thy senses with a slender merit ; 
 
 Whil'st I (poore man) not subject to such thought, 108 
 
 Gave entertaine to those sweet blessed babes 
 Which Sapience brought from Wisedomes holy brest, 
 And thought me rich to have their company. 
 By nursing them in Peace I shun'd all Sloth ; 112 
 
 Nor yet did Plenty make me prodigall : 
 Pride I abhor'd, and term'd the Beggers shield ; 
 Nor ever did base Envie touch my heart ; 
 
 Yet alwayes loov'd to beare (as Solon sed) 116 
 
 A Turtles eye within an Aspickes head : 
 Nor could the ratling fury of fierce warre 
 Astonish me more than the mid -night clock, 
 
 The Trumpetter to Contemplation : 120 
 
 For Poverty, I shake her by the hand, 
 As welcome Lady to this wofull Land. 
 
 Mav. How might we tread the path's to happy ends, 
 Since foes to Learning are not Vertues friends? 124 
 
 Chris. First entertaine submission in your soules,
 
 8o HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 
 
 To frame true concord in one unity. 
 
 Behold the faire proportion of a man, 
 
 Whorae heavens have created so compleate ; 128 
 
 Yet if the arme make warre against the head, 
 
 Or that the heart rebell against the braine, 
 
 This elementall bodie (thus compact) 
 
 Is but a scattred Cham of revenge. 133 
 
 Toiu" lawes appoincted to be positive 
 
 (By Warre confounded) must be brought againe : 
 
 For law is that which Love and Peace maintaine. 
 
 Fliill. Thou Sonne of knowledge (richer then a man) 136 
 
 We censure thy advice as oracles. 
 
 Cliri. Follow, and lie instruct you what I can. 
 
 Ma. " We followed beasts before, but now a man. \_Exeunt 
 
 Enter Fourcher, Vourcher, Lyon-rash and Velure 
 
 Four. Heavens ! powring high-pryzd favours forth, l-AO 
 
 Like to the honny dew that sweetes the Leaves, 
 Once send us Peace, that fairest Palme-crownd Queene. 
 
 Four. Riiine and Warre, the precedents of Wrath, 
 That crop't the fifty Sonnes of Hecuba, 144 
 
 Have rid their circuit through this fertile soyle, 
 And quite transform'd it to a Wildernesse. 
 
 Fel. Come let us sit and mourne with sad laments 
 The heavy burdens of our discontents. 148 
 
 Lyon. To waile our want let speaking slacke the paine, 
 For words of griefe divide the griefe in twaine. 
 
 Fel. Our Shops (sometimes) were stuft with cloath of gold. 
 But Warre hath emptied them, and Spyders build ^153
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 8i 
 
 Their Cob-web-tents, weaving foule dusty lawne 
 For poore woe-working Poverty to weare. 
 
 Four. O woes ! behold our poore distressed wives. 
 
 Enter Perpetuana and Filisella. 
 
 Ferp. From F overly to Famine, worse and worse. lofi 
 
 Fili. The scurge of Frlde, and Heavens detested curse. 
 
 Ferp. Wher's that excesse consum'd upon the back ? 
 
 Fili. Sunke down to Hell, whil'st hunger feclcs the lackc. 
 
 Ferp. Who now will pity us, that scorn'd the poore? 160 
 
 Fili. Pitty is past when Feace is out of doore. 
 
 Perp. Drineke thou my toares and I will driuke up thine, 
 For nought but teares is miseries salt Aviue. 
 
 Fit We that have scornd to dresse our meate our selves, 164 
 Now would be glad if we had meate to dresse. 
 
 Perp. And if Lament were remedie for want, 
 Their cates were course that in Lament were scant. 
 
 Lyon. Comfort, sweete wife, ill lasts not alwaies so; 168 
 
 And good (sometimes) makes end of lingring woe. 
 
 Perp. My griefe is thine. 
 
 Lyon. And mine is most for thee. 
 
 Per. My care is thine. 172 
 
 Lyon. Be mine for thee and me. \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Country serving-men. 
 
 1. Faith, Poverty hath paid my Avife on the petticoate. 
 
 2. From^ these devowring woormes, eate men alive, 
 
 And swollow up whole Mannours at a bit; 176 
 
 ' Query, For. 
 VOL. II. 6
 
 82 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 
 
 The wHl'st our liungry bodies die for lacke, 
 And honest husbandry must goe to wracke. 
 
 1. Pray, sii's, for Peace, that best may please us aU. 
 
 From citties Pryde the Country takes his fall. 180 
 
 2. Tis Time, for plough-shares (now) are turned to bills; 
 Cart-horses prest to carry Cavalliers ; 
 
 True laboring servants counted Souldiours slaves. 
 
 1. Though Famine hungerstarve, yet heaven saves. 184 
 
 Omn. Then let us pray to heaven all for Peace, 
 For thence comes comfort, plenty, and increase. [Exeunt 
 
 Enter Posthast, with his Hostesse. 
 
 Hod. Post me no posting, pay me the shot. 
 You live by wit, but we must live by money. 188 
 
 Post. Goody Sharp, be not so short. 
 I'll pay you, when I give you money. 
 
 Host. When you give me money ! Go to, I'll bear no longer. 
 
 Post. What, and be under fifty? 192 
 
 Enter Constable. 
 
 Host. Master Constable, ho ! these players wiU not pay their shot. 
 Post. Faith, sir, war hath so pinch'd us we must pawn. 
 Const. Alas, poor players ! Hostess, what comes it to ? 
 Host. The Sharers dinners sixpence a piece. The hirelings — 
 
 pence. 106 
 
 Post. What, sixpence an tg^, and two and two at an &gg ? 
 Host. Faith, famine affords no more. 
 Post. Fellows, bring out the hamper. Choose somewhat out 
 
 o'th' stock.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 83 
 
 Enter the players. 
 
 What, will you luivc this cloak to pawn? What think you it's 
 worth ? _ 200 
 
 Ilod. Some fower groats. 
 
 Omn. The pox is in this age : here's a brave world fellows ! 
 
 Pod. You may see what it is to laugh at the audience. 203 
 
 Hod. Well, it shall serve for a pawn. \_Exit Hodess. 
 
 Cond. Soft, sirs, I must talk with you for tax-money, 
 To relieve the poor ; not a penny paid yet. 
 
 Post. Sir, at few words : we shared but fifteen pence last week. 
 
 Const. But 'tis well known that each maintains his punk, 208 
 And taverns it with drunken suppers still. 
 
 Omn. Alas, they are our wive.?. 
 
 Const. Ye are not all married. 
 
 Post. Who are not are glad to bring such as they can get? 212 
 
 Bel. Before I'll give such a precedent, I'll leave playing. 
 
 Gul. Faith, and I too : I'll rather fall to work. 
 
 Post. Fall to work after playing ? unpossible ! 
 
 Const. Sirs, will you hear the truth ? 216 
 
 Gut. Sii', you may choose. 
 
 Const. But you must all choose whether you'll be shipped, and 
 set a shore no man knows where, as the Komans did, or play for 
 the maintenance of the poor, and yom-selves kept like honest 
 men. 
 
 Omn. We choose neither. 
 
 Post. Saving your sad tale, will you take a pot or two ? 
 
 Const. The dearth of malt denies it. 
 
 Clout. It's a hard world if the constable despise it. 224
 
 84 ' : HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act Y\. 
 
 Gul. Must we be sliipp'd in earnest, or do you make us sheep 
 
 in jest ? 
 Const. Ecce signum. 
 
 Post. Constable, do vou know what vou do ? 
 Const. Aye, banish idle fellows out o'th' land. 228 
 
 Belch. Why, Constable, do you know what you see ? 
 Co7ist. Aye, I see a Madge-howlet, and she sees not me.^ 
 Post. Know you our credit with Sir Oliver ? 
 Const. True, but your boasting hath cracked it, (I fear). 232 
 Gut. Faith, I must fall to making fiddle strings again. 
 Bel. And I to curl horse-tails to make fools beards. 
 Post. I'll boldly fall to ballading again. 
 
 Const. Sirs, those provisos will not serve the turn. 236 
 
 What ho ! sailors ! ship away these players. 
 
 Enter sailors. 
 
 Sail. The wind blows fair, and we are ready, sir. 
 Const. No matter where it blows, away with them. 239 
 
 Post. It's an ill wind blows a man thus clean out of balladins:. 
 
 [_Exeunt. 
 
 . Enter Peace, Bacchus, Cebes and Plenty, bearing the Comu 
 copia?, at tl/e one doore. At the other Poverty with her at- 
 tendants ; who, beholding Peace approach, vanish. 
 
 Peace. Bondage, wan Sicknesse, and bare Poverty, 
 Vanish like clowds before the Easterne light. 
 Now Peace appeares. Hence all to endlesse night ! 
 And you dejected spirits, crusht with want, 24-i 
 
 ' ■ See' in original : evidently should be 'me.' — G.
 
 HIS TRIO-MAS TIX, Act VI. 85 
 
 Mount up your mindes unto the fairest hope, 
 Neede hath nurst Peace within your Horoscope, 
 The warme reflexion of whose cheering beamcs 
 Makes you as rich as bright Pactolm streamcs. 24!8 
 
 Shine plentuous Bountie, crowne the naked world 
 With odourous wreaths of thy aboundant sweetes. 
 Laborious Artizanes, now bustle up 
 Your drouping spirits with alacritie ; 
 Peace gives your toyling sweat a due regard, 
 Crowning your labour with a rich reward. 
 Ceres be lavish, Bacchus swell to brimme. 
 
 And all to Peace sing a propitious himne. 256 
 
 They heghi to sing, and vresently cease. 
 
 A Song. 
 
 With Later ell shall our Altars Jlame, 
 In hotiour of thy sacred name. 
 
 Enter Astr.ea ushered by Fame, supported by Fortitude and 
 'Religion , followed by Virginity and Artes. 
 
 Peace. No more^ : 
 Be dumbe in husht observance at this sight. 260 
 
 Heere comes Amazements object, wonders height. 
 Peaces patronesse, Heavens miracle, 
 Vertues honour, Earths admiration. 
 
 Chastities Crowne, Justice perfection, 264 
 
 Whose traine is unpolute Virginity, 
 Whose Diadem of bright immortall Fame 
 
 1 These lines are quite in another style from any of the rest : but see fur- 
 ther on where the old style recurs.
 
 86 n ISTRIO-MASTIX, Act Yl. 
 
 Is burnislit with unvalued respect, 
 
 Ineffable wonder of remotest lands ; 268 
 
 Still sway thy gratious Scepter ! I resigne ; 
 
 What I am is by Thee, my selfe am thine ! 
 
 Q. Eliza} AsTR^A mounts unto the throne. 
 
 Mount, Emperesse, whose praise for Peace shall mount, 
 Whose glory, which thy solid vertues wonne, 272 
 
 Shall honour Europe whilst there shines a Sunne ! 
 Crown'd with Heavens inward beauties, worlds applause ; 
 Thron'd and reposd within the loving feare 
 
 Of thy adoring Subjects : live as long 276 
 
 As Time hath life, and Fame a worthy tongue ! 
 Still breath our glory, the worlds Empresse, 
 Religmis Gardian, Peaces patronesse ! 
 
 Now flourish Arts, the Queene of Peace doth raigne; 280 
 
 Vertue triumph, now shee doth sway the stemme, 
 Who gives to Vertue honours Diadem. 
 All sing Pceans to her sacred worth. 
 
 Which none but Angels tongues can warble forth : 284 
 
 Yet sing, for though we cannot light the Sunne, 
 Yet utmost might hath kinde acceptance wonne. 
 
 Soncj. 
 
 Eeligion, Arts and Merchandise 288 
 
 triumph, triumph : 
 Astrcea rules, whose gracious eyes 
 
 triumph, triumph. 
 
 ^ This ' Q. Eliza ' is in the margin of the original, and so is quite an 
 exceptional feature in the printing. — G.
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX, Act VI. 
 
 O're Vices conquest whose desires 
 
 triumph, triumph : 
 Whose all to chiefest good aspires, 
 
 then all triumph. 
 
 In the end of the play. 
 
 Plenty 
 Peide 
 Envy 
 Waure and 
 
 POVEUTY 
 
 87 
 292 
 
 296 
 
 To enter and resigne their severall Scepters to 
 Peace, sitting in Maiestie.' 
 
 300 
 301 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 NOTES TO HISTRIO-MASTIX. 
 
 1. The plan of this play is not original. Clement Marot, in a 
 letter to the Duchess Marguerite in Oct. 1521 from the Camp in 
 Hainault, says — ' Minfant bears witness in his comedy of Fatal 
 Destiny, saying 
 
 " Peace begets Prosperity : 
 Prosperity breeds Wealth : 
 Of Wealth come Pride and Luxury : 
 Pride with Contention swell' th : 
 Contention looks to War for health : 
 War begets Poverty : 
 Poverty breeds Humility : 
 
 1 This is an alternative end to the play — the older finale probably.
 
 88 HISTRIO-MASTIX.— NOTES. 
 
 Humility brings Peace again : 
 So turn our deeds in endless cliain." 
 {Clement Marot, by Henry Morley. Vol. i. p. 131.) 
 
 So Lodge, A Fig for Momus, 1595. P4 verso. Satire 5. 
 Briefly, the greatest gifts whereof we boast 
 Are those which do attempt and tire us most. 
 Peace brings in pleasure ; pleasure breeds excess ; 
 Excess procureth want ; want works distress ; 
 Distress contempt, &c. 
 
 Puttenham (p. 217 Arber's reprint) quotes I]iea7i de MeJiune, 
 the French Poet — 
 
 Peace makes plenty, plenty makes pride ; 
 Pride brings quarrel, and quarrel brings war ; 
 War brings spoil, and spoil poverty. 
 Poverty patience, and patience peace : 
 So peace brings war, and war brings peace. 
 
 Simon Harward — Solace for the soldier and sailor, 1592. B3 
 verso — 
 
 ' Peace hath increased plenty, plenty hath wrought pride, pride 
 hath hatched disdain, and disdain hath brought forth such strifes 
 and debates, such suits of law, such quarreUings and contentions, 
 as never were heard of in any age before us.' 
 
 2. The Play witJdn the Play of Histrio-Mastix (pp. 32, 39). — 
 There is the precedent of the Midsummer NigJiVs Dream for the 
 play as rehearsed not corresponding with the play as played. But 
 no precedent for putting Troilus and Cressida into the middle of
 
 HISTRIO-MASTIX.— NOTES. 89 
 
 The Prodigal Child. Was the Midnonmer NighCs Bream the 
 provocative of the Hidrio-Mastix ? Who was the author of the 
 Pyranms and Thisbe there parodied, or rather caricatured ? 
 
 3. [^Characteristics of Post-hast (pp. 33,37). — The theory that 
 Posthast is meant for Shakspere is very well borne out by the 
 limning of the character — due allowance being made for the fact 
 that the limner of Posthast draws in enmity to Shakspere. Post- 
 hast is represented as being — In manners a gentleman (by comparison 
 with his rude fellows) but an ' upstart ' in reality, and somewhat of 
 a bon-vivant. In capacity he is shown as of ready and compre- 
 hensive wit, with great aptness for leading and persuading others. 
 And in his literary style we are told there is — 
 
 ' no new luxury of blandishment. 
 But plenty of Old England's mothers words.' 
 
 All which, allowance being made for the writer's adverse bias, comes 
 very near to what we otherwise know Shakspere to have been. — G.]
 
 IN WHICH DESPAIR AND HOPE ARE VERY ARTIFICIALLY 
 
 INTRODUCED.
 
 91 
 
 Comctiu of tljc ^rotiicjal 5on.^ 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Father of the Prodigal Son. 
 
 Prodigal Son, 
 
 Brother of the PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Hostess or Wife. 
 
 Daughter of Host, 
 
 Despair. 
 
 Hope. 
 
 Citizen. 
 [^Servanf], 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Mnter the Father, an old grey-headed man, with a staff in his hand. 
 The Prodigal Son has a young horsenians switch [or perhaps 
 a childs cockhorse, or staff to ride on'] and is jolly. Afterxcards 
 the Brother, a simple plain man, who goes his own gate. 
 
 Father. Ah my beloved son, wilt thou then so hastily depart from 
 me ? It gives me real pain and grief. With great and mighty toil 
 and care have I brought thee up, that thou art come to thy years 
 of discretion, and now wilt thou , leave me, and forsake me in my 
 old age ? Prythee bethink thee well, dear son, and stay with me. 
 
 Son. My dearest father, I have told you often enough, it cannot 
 be. I must make my essay in the world. For this cause give me 
 my Patrimony. It cannot be otherwise ; I must from hence. 
 
 Fath. Ah my beloved son, be entreated, and go not hence. 
 Thou scest that I, this earthly and corruptible^ being, have now 
 
 1 For account of this play, and how and why it appears in this work, see 
 Introduction to Histrio-Mastix, pp. 11 — lo. 
 
 2 The text says incorruptible, hut it is manifestly wrong.
 
 92 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I. 
 
 past by the greater part of my days. Forsake me not now in mine 
 old age, and stay with me till you see out mine end. 
 
 Son. Dearest father, once more I say, it cannot but be so ; I must 
 from hence. No prayers can remedy it. Dearest father, I ask, 
 what is he for a man, wlio always lies there at home like a wolf in 
 his den, and never comes from his mothers apron-string? Me 
 thinketh he is a very stupid and wretched creature, he has no notion 
 of suiting with others humours (mores), never has he been any where, 
 or come any where, he has seen nothing, heard nothing, learnt nothing. 
 In a word he knows nothing, and is a notorious Geek and Gull (ein 
 alber Geek und Narr) No, I have no liking that way ; ^ it is 
 not in my desires ; No, I will cast the world about my ears, 
 and I will learn its various manners and tongues. And so when I 
 come home again, I shall fill my friends ears with (God's my life) 
 the wonders I have seen. Yes, every man will gladly have me 
 by him ; every one wiU show me great honour, will make legs to 
 me, skink beer in the glass, and ever do the baseles manus before 
 me. But God grant, dearest father, that I may find you once 
 more in life and good health. But if not, as God would part me 
 hence, so my brother is here, whom you will always have by you. 
 He, without me, will see you honestly committed to the earth. 
 
 Fa. Yea, my dearest son, it is a fine thing for a young man 
 who goes to essay the world, to travel and see much. But such 
 essay is of two kinds. One man will go forth and take not a penny 
 
 1 This may be the German equivalent for poetry like that of Arviragus 
 in Cymbeline (Act III. iii. 37) — 
 
 How 
 In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
 The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing. 
 "We are beastly. Subtle as the fox for prey, 
 Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat, &c.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I. 93 
 
 or a mite of his family's own. lie fears God, takes service with 
 honest people, and so sees mucli good, and makes his essay in 
 the world with vast profit. lie sees and experiences much, learns 
 meanwhile liberal sciences, and studies to be virtuous. Others {jo 
 forth taking a great fortune with them, and then they rely on it. 
 But these for the most part lightly go forth to their own loss and 
 ruin, for they have not God before their eyes, and keep not his com- 
 mandments. They live day and night in a din, and live a wild and 
 godless life. They lose the bloom of their youth with good-for- 
 nothing companions, or even witli whores and ingles ; they study 
 every vice till they have spent all their fortune ; and after all they 
 have learnt nothing in their youth, they cannot take sen'ice in good 
 houses, nay, Gods judgment comes down upon them. At last they 
 fall to beggary, and perish in starvation and misery. And so, since 
 my prayers will not now avail to make thee stay with me, but thou 
 wilt from hence and see the world, thou may'st even go whither 
 thou wilt. But now I go in to fetch thee the portion of thy goods 
 that belongeth to thee. {Exit. 
 
 Son. Now may I be joyful, that my father is gone to fetch my 
 Patrimony, with which I go into the world, and make myself jolly 
 and frolic, and am my own master. Here will I not longer bide ; — 
 I could not — For here, if I were with my companions, with pretty 
 women and girls, and did not think any one in the whole town 
 would know it ; Well, the moment I came home, my father knew 
 it, there went old scolding, I warrant I was well plagued. If I said 
 to my father, I am young, and fond of the world — he always gave 
 me answer, yea my Son, but it costs much money. It may cost 
 what it likes, I must have company. I am so jolly that I know 
 not what to do for joy. IIo, hollah, courage ! ho, hollah, courage !
 
 94 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I. 
 
 l_Dance and Su/ffl . But my dearest brother, tell me, how comes it 
 you stand so troubled ? Have you the Cornelium ? 
 
 Brother. Yes in truth I have the Cornelium, but it is for you, 
 because you are so saucy and wild. I am the elder brother and 
 you the younger. You can't have learnt your wild life from me ; 
 you have never seen me pass a single night outside my fathers 
 house, as you often do, but I abide at home, and do my fathers 
 business, and see that his land is well sown and weeded. But now 
 you demand your inheritance, and will go away with it. So I know 
 well you will straight take to this wild life yet more, as soon as you 
 have gone, and you will find yourself a beggar. Therefore bethink 
 you well, leave your portion here, and bide at home, for here you 
 have it always more secure, and may enjoy it with pleasure. But 
 to carry it forth among strangers, you will certainly lose it, and 
 find yourself in poverty. 
 
 Son. What ! brother, will you too preach me a long sermon ? No 
 indeed, let be ; you should rather mount the pulpit if you want to 
 preach, and leave me unmolested. I have been already plagued 
 quite enough. I know there are many such foolish Geeks to be 
 found, like you, who like always to lie in their dens like wolves, 
 and never to move from one spot. Do you think that I too will be 
 such a fool? No indeed, I will have a scuffle (Schloff) in the 
 world, and hunt for joy and health. Now my dear brother, be at 
 peace ; we will see which of us twain gathers fruit the best — I with 
 my going forth, or you with your lying still. I know indeed, 
 when I come back again, you will have to stand at the table, and 
 wait on me like a Lord, when I begin to talk of this and that place, 
 of all the wondrous things I've seen, and where the best and 
 prettiest damsels be; then will you stand, mouth shut, eyes
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I. 95 
 
 fixed, and spit upon yourself that you have never made the like 
 essay. But now there comes my Father, bringing me a heap of money. 
 
 Father. See here, my dearest son, thou hast thy portion. But first 
 observe my words, and ever hold my exhortations, which I now will 
 utter, fiist in thine heart. First, have God for ever before thine eyes ; 
 pray him each night and morn to be thy Guide, and not to let thy 
 foot glide from the right way, lest thou comest to the way of 
 sinners and perdition. Be a foe to tippling and unchastity, for 
 where these two wickednesses be, out of that heart shall God the 
 Holy Ghost be driven. For unchastity drives out the Holy Ghost, 
 who maketh no abode in our hearts with us, like as when we chase 
 away the bees with smoke. And then when one has driven out the 
 pure and holy Spirit, straight there comes the wicked unclean 
 Spirit, makes his dwelling there again, takes the heart and so pos- 
 sesses it that it must act according to his will, to wit, he drives and 
 irritates it all to shame and crime, but keeps it off from God, and his 
 holy word, and so, when he has got it wholly in bis leash, he makes 
 it serve him, aiul dishonour the creator of the heavens and the 
 earth. Beware thee too of wicked women, of dicing and of playing. 
 So thou dost according to my exhortations thou shalt be indeed an 
 honest man, to me and to my friends an honour and a joy. 
 
 Son. My dearest Father I will ever learn to practise your advice 
 while I remain in life, as far as shall be possible. And, now dear 
 Father thus I take my way ; Adieu, adieu, God have you in his 
 keeping ! 
 
 Father. dearest son, our Lord God be thy Guide ; may he con- 
 duct and lead thee that thy foot thou dash not 'gainst a stone ! 
 Once more, beware of wicked and lascivious company. And now, 
 so, go in peace.
 
 96 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Son. Adieu, Adieu, dear brother ; now I go, and do commit thee 
 to the custody of the Angel of God ! 
 
 ^' Brother. Behave thyself, my dearest brother, well, follow thy 
 Fathers love, and so with fruit and profit travel forth. God ever 
 prosper thee in thy journey, and in all thou dost or leavest undone. 
 
 \_Exeunt Father and Elder brother 
 
 Son. Now have I a stately sack full of money ; with it I will live 
 gloriously, like a nobleman. Ho! be merry now, ye pretty maidens! 
 rejoice with me, for I have money enough to live upon a long time. 
 My old father made me a deal of preaching and exhortation, how I 
 must do to get happiness on my travels. But, indeed, I dont re- 
 member a word he preached to me, for I gave no heed to it ; When 
 I saw him bringing the money I thought of this, in what lands I 
 might find the best girls. I have in this an odd turn of mind, that 
 it is a vexation to me when a man stands and makes many cere- 
 monies, and gives me advice. But now I must arise and go forth 
 on my journey. HoUah ! hollah ! my man. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Servant. Dear master, what Avill you ? 
 
 Son. Do you hear, have you made all ready for my journey ? 
 Are the horses groomed and saddled ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, the horses are ready saddled, and all finely pre- 
 pared. 
 
 Son. Good. Now let us go hence 
 
 Farewell — into the world I ride. 
 How, where I like, I do and bide —
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act II. 97 
 
 Father, mother, brother dear 
 May stay at lioiric and serve God here. 
 \_Exeunt. Now the trumpets sound, and theij ride away. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Enter Sox and Servant 
 
 Son. This beautiful happy and lordly town pleases me so extra- 
 ordinarily well, that I would altogether choose to abide here always 
 — But, do you hear, go in quickly aiul find out where is the best 
 Hostelry in the whole town, and especially where there are pretty 
 girls in the house, and command everything to be prepared hand- 
 somely, and then bring me word back anon ; meanwhile I will go 
 walk here. 
 
 Servant. Yes ]\[aster, I go, and order such a lodging after 
 your hearts desire and pleasure [ffoes a atep or two from hwi\ Now 
 I go for it, to look out a lodging for my master ; but I know not 
 Avhere to find it — ah, there goes a man yonder, him will I speak to, 
 and ask whether he cannot direct me to an Inn. Good day Sir. 
 
 Host. It is no help to mc for you to say good day. Don't 
 speak to me now, for I am so worried in my foolish head, that I 
 scarce know what I shall do. 
 
 Servant. I, my dear, be not so peevish. I only wanted to ask 
 you a little question — but now I see you arc not good to be spoken 
 to. I must go farther \_going away'] 
 
 Host. Go not away, tell me what wilt thou ? 
 
 Servant. Tell me first, why you are so worried and foolish in 
 your head ? 
 
 Host. You must know that I entertain guests, and thereby 
 
 VOL. II. 7
 
 98 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act II. 
 
 maintain myself Avitli ray wife and children. But now for a long 
 while I have had no guests, whereupon I have come to be quite 
 mad, for my purse is quite empty, and I know not what will soon 
 become of me ; and thus am I clean grown (gremen) a fool, and so 
 you must know how I come to have the Cornelium, to walk by 
 myself so sulkily. 
 
 Serv. Now is that the reason ? You must know that I have 
 come to you only to ask where the best Inn is, for I have this day 
 come into the Town with my master, and as we are unknown here, 
 we have as yet no lodging. 
 
 Jloat. my good friend, do you want an Tnn ? At ray house 
 yoii shall have as good as you can find in the whole town. But 
 tell me, is your Master a man of worship, and has he much money 
 with him ? 
 
 Serv. Has he not money ! Methinks if he could eat it, he would 
 have. For precious stones, gold, silver and small change he has 
 plenty and store. In the Inns where we have lately been he has 
 truly paid aU double of his own free will, so that all the days of my 
 life I have seen no Lord or Count more free and liberal than my 
 master. 
 
 Most. My good friend, that would be a right guest for me. I 
 pray you heartily bring him here to me in the Inn, and then the 
 profits I make of him you shall enjoy with me. 
 
 Serv. Yes my good friend, may be he Avill lie at your lodgings ; 
 but on condition, you must have pretty girls with you in the house. 
 For he rests in no Inn wherein there are none such. 
 
 Host. Ho, ho, thereof have I no lack ; only see what a beautiful 
 daughter and wife I have. IloUah! Hollah! dear wife and daughter, 
 come out to me anon. .
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act II. 99 
 
 3iier TFife and Daughter. She has a green bunch of grapes (Hcr- 
 ing ? llerling) In her hand. 
 
 Wife. What wilt thou, husband ? pray tell us anon. 
 
 llo&t. My dearest daughter and -wife, now be glad with me. 
 This naan here will bring (foriren) us his master to lodge. He is 
 a rich gentleman, and pays double ; Go to and bid him welcome. 
 
 Wife. Dear husband, this were mortal good for us S^goes to the 
 Servant] O, your Master shall be heartily welcome to me. 
 
 Servant. 1 thank you, virtuous lady. 
 
 [Wife speaks aside to Host. 
 
 Daughter. You strangers are Godly welcome to me. 
 
 Servant. I thank you heartily, fair maid. Methinks if my mas- 
 ter saw you, you would be mortally agreeable to him. 
 
 Dai/gh. Young fellow, prithee tell me, is your master young and 
 handsome, and has he plenty of money ? 
 
 Serv. Pair maiden, he is such a paragon of young and handsome 
 fellows, that if a girl do but see him, he must be held in great love 
 and renown. For gold and goods think not he lacks, he has plenty 
 and store. 
 
 Dang. Ah, my fine young fellow, prithee let him not shy off to 
 any other place for lodging, but bring him here to us. 
 
 Wife. Listen, young fellow ; you said your ]\Iaster woidd like to 
 have maidens with him ; he shall have no lack, for here is my 
 daughter; herself shall be his body servant, and you my young 
 fellow, would you have one too ? you shall always get one, and 
 every night you sleep with me. Wherefore I pray, let not your 
 Master enter any other place, but bring him to us.
 
 loo COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act II. 
 
 Servant. Hostess, well said ; only hold me as you have told me, 
 and we will pass our time in joy and pleasure. No indeed, to no 
 other Inn than this will I bring my master, where a man can have 
 pretty women and maidens — So now I go to bring my Master to 
 his Inn. \_goes a step or two forward'] But were may he be now ? 
 I believe I must spend half a day looking for him. No see where 
 he comes as wanton as a Village Parson. 
 
 Son. How comes it, my man, that you have been so long. I have 
 been anxiously waiting for you. 
 
 Serv. 0, my dear Master, I have found the best Inn in the whole 
 town, where you pay really nothing, and, what will please your 
 heart. There is in the same house a superb maiden so beautiful that 
 in my life I have never seen a prettier, and the Hostess has told me 
 that she shall wait on you, and I shall always have the Hostess 
 when I will. 
 
 Son. 0, my faithful servant, you have lighted on a marvellous 
 good lodging. Is then the concubine I am to have so beautiful ? 
 I am in extraordinary luck. But come straight and show me where 
 this house is, for the beautiful report you give of it makes it im- 
 possible for me to wait here longer. 
 
 Serv. Yes, my dear Master, foUow me now, I wiU bring you to 
 it. [Goes back icith Mm : Host, Hostess, and Daughter are standimj 
 together, speaking asidel See here. Master, there they stand together 
 talking. The Man is the Host, the Woman the Hostess, the maiden 
 their daughter. 
 
 Son. Indeed a more beautiful person than this maiden have I 
 never seen. The longer I stand and look even at this distance, the 
 more and more I fall in love with her, now if I am quite to 
 satisfy my heart, then will I take my Avhole joy and pleasure with
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act II. joi 
 
 the beautiful maiden. But I know not how it may come to pass, 
 that my heart beats and trembles so. Truly I have not courage to 
 dare to go up to a maid and speak to her. 
 
 '[Meanwhile the others are talking secretly together — The Host sees 
 him ; The son goes on tcal/cing.] 
 
 Host. See dear wife and daughter, this is our guest walking 
 yonder. He is indeed a splendid gentleman; methinks he has 
 plenty of money. But daughter, do you hear, you must go to him 
 straight, and fetch him in friendly wise to the house. 
 
 JDaitgh. Ah, dearest father, I dare not go to him. I fetch my 
 breath so short that I cannot speak — ]\Iy heart flutters in my 
 bosom ; I am afraid. 
 
 Mother. But look you, daughter, how you serve us. You must 
 go to him. V/hy is it afraid ? What does your heart beat for ? 
 Why cant you speak to him ? I advise you take care not to be so 
 fearful. See what a handsome youth and splendid fellow it is. 
 No, you shall go, and you must bring us in a rare prize, or our 
 business will be nought. 
 
 Host. Dont stay till we compel you — Go. \_tahes her hy the arm] 
 Potz Valentine, that you should stand like a stuck pig — See, s'blood, 
 how the man stands like a shamefaced virgin — You have been a 
 whore nigh three years ; nm forth, be quick \_goes to hint] 
 
 Bang. Fair young sir, you shall be Godly Avelcome to me. 
 
 Son. Beauteous maiden, I thank you heartily, and specially for 
 coming out here to me. 
 
 Bau. Fair young sir, I have heard that you are on your travels 
 to make trial of the World. Prithee tell me how many tongues 
 you know. 
 
 Son. 'Tis trae fair maiden, I travel to see all beauteous girls, and
 
 I03 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act III. 
 
 to gain experience of the World. But for the tongues, I only know 
 two, my mothers, and Latin. Pray tell me Avhat you can speak in 
 that way. 
 
 Baug. My fair young sir, 1 only speak Italian perfectly, and no 
 other. But pray come with me into my Fathers house, there will 
 we make better acquaintance, and discourse together. \take& Jiim 
 hy the hand ; leads him to the Host and Hostess. "] 
 
 Host. Dear gentleman, you shall have Gods welcome. 
 
 Hostess. 0, the gentleman shall be a welcome guest to us. 
 
 Sou. Thanks, dear Host and Hostess. 
 
 Hostess. Dear daughter, take the gentleman s hand, and go with 
 him into the house. 
 
 Dan. Fair young sir, pray come in with me. 
 
 Son. Fair maiden, I go with you, and where you be, there I abide 
 also. But, dear Host and Hostess, pray make ready quickly a grand 
 feast and dainty banquet, at which your fair- daughter yourself and 
 mine host shall be my guests. Let there be lack of nothing, and 
 provide nobly, for I will pay well and double it. 
 
 Hostess. My dear gentleman, I will do so ; I pray you, only 
 turn in, and play with my daughter, for she only likes you. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 ACT III. 
 
 i^nter the hostess, to cover the table. 
 
 Hostess. Dear Waiter come, let us cover the table straight, for 
 your master wants to have a grand banquet. 
 
 Serv. Yes, my master is a liberal fellow. He is no screw, but 
 orders fresh and lordly feasts. The happier and friskier he is, the 
 better I like him. Give me here one end of the table-cloth.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act III. 103 
 
 Hos. You are a good fellow, that is a fact. Go in anon, and 
 fetch us the wine and the comfits. 
 
 Serv. I go. 
 
 Hostess. Yes, in truth, our guest is a free-handed Cavalier, that 
 I see plainly. And in truth I will reckon all double, for he has bid 
 nic himself. Such openhauded fellows are not often to be found. 
 So we must fasten on hira, till we have stolen and vexed him out of 
 all he has. See, you are quick back with the wine and comfits. 
 You are an active fellow I must say that of you. 
 
 Serv. Hoho ! am I active ? if I have to fetch anything for a 
 pretty girl I am a deal more active. And so I gain their favour, 
 and they praise me, and that feels so soft. 
 
 Hostess. Yes I believe it well, good fellow ; but now we must 
 deck this table supremely handsomely. Only go in and tell your 
 master to come, for all is ready presently. 
 
 Serv. I go and tell him. 
 \_Hostess nieamchile pours the wine into the Rummers, and puts the 
 sugar on the shives (slices)^ 
 
 Hostess. Now it's all ready. And see, here they come all 
 together. 
 
 Enter Son, has the Concubine by the hand. Host, and Servant 
 
 Son. my dear Hostess, how stands it, or how is it with you. 
 I see you have just made all ready. 
 
 Hostess. Dear Gentleman, It is all right with me. All is now 
 ready here. You can be seated when you please. 
 
 Son. Pray, fair damsel, come and sit by me. 
 
 Dau. Yes, fair young Sir, as you like it [They go and sit by one 
 another^
 
 104 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act III. 
 
 Son. Prithee, mine Host and Hostess, sit you down with us, for 
 today we must show ourselves merry and joyful. 
 
 Hod. Yes, my dear gentleman, we will sit \IIost and Hostess sit\ 
 
 Son. Xay, prithee, let us be merry and glad, and you musicians 
 fiddle away, and make your Citherns twang — 
 
 \the players fiddle — The Son drinks to the daughter, and so goes 
 round twice. They eat the comfits — The Prodigal Son has the 
 Daughter in his arms and kisses her\ 
 
 Son. Yooks, holla, lusty, rusty, frisky and frolic. \Tlie players 
 leave off^ Sir Host, drink round, and make yourself jolly with me. 
 
 Host. ]\Iy dear gentleman, I am jolly — I beg to present you with 
 this glass of wine. 
 
 Son. Thanks, mine Host — Prithee more glasses ; Drawer, skink 
 away — My beautiful girl, be but a little jolly. 
 
 I>au. O my fair young sir, I am merry and in good mettle. 
 
 Son. Mine Hostess, be you merry too, and drink to me once more. 
 
 Hostess. my dear gentleman, I am more meiTy and frolic than 
 ever I was in my life. Eut I will drink this glass to you. 
 
 Son. God bless you. Hostess. Now Musicians, make merrj', 
 twang your strings again — [The players begin again, fiddling very 
 piano so that the actors may speak at the same time. The Prodigal 
 Son kisses -the girl ; they whisper together'] 
 
 Daug. Dearest young fellow, I would ask a favour of you if I 
 knew you would not deny me. 
 
 Son. my dearest girl, will I deny you ? no truly ; whatever 
 you shall require of me, so far as I have, shall be yours. 
 
 Daug. Sweetheart, I was going to ask you to give me the gold 
 chain which you wear round your neck, that I may be always re- 
 minded of you, as if you were with me.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act III. 105 
 
 Son. Yes, sweetheart, this is but a slight and small thing. I 
 thouglit you would bid somewhat higher. And this chain, though 
 it came to me from a lover's hand, and she herself, so she regarded 
 me, was promised that it should never leave me, but that I would 
 always wear it for her sake. — Yet as you ask for it, I will not re- 
 gard or keep my vow. There, take it and wear it for my sake, [//e 
 hangs it about her nech\ 
 
 Dau. Sweetheart, I am deeply grateful to you. 
 
 Son. These thanks are not needed ; but now hold out straight 
 the fingers of both your hands. I will present you with these \Jie 
 sticks all her fingers full of rings'] 
 
 Dau. 0, sweetheai't, you give me too much. I am most deeply 
 and earnestly grateful to you [lie pushes her hat off, kisses 
 her, ^c] 
 
 Son. Yooks ! hollah ! jolly gay, frisky, frolic and no mistake 
 (denial). Mine Host, what are we to do to pass the time ; shall we 
 not play some game at cards ? 
 
 Host. Tho' I can't play much, yet I will not deny you, and will 
 wager with you as long as I have a penny in my purse. 
 
 Son. Good mine Host. Youngster, quick, the cards. {_The 
 Youth gives cards'] Now mine Host, say, what shall we play at ? 
 
 Host. Indeed I don't know, believe me ; let us play ' beggar 
 my neighbour,' (arm mach reieh) 
 
 Son. It is all the same to me ; what you will ; play on. 
 
 Host. My dear gentleman, we will first have a glass or two, to 
 get courage to play ; what say you ? 
 
 Son. All is good to me, mine Host, that liketh you; drink away. 
 [They pledge one another once or twice ; the Host never drinks more 
 than half his glass]
 
 io6 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act III. 
 
 Hod. So, now we will begin ; I'll deal tlie cards. How high 
 shall we play ? 
 
 Son. I'll lay 50 crowns. Will yoa play as high? 
 
 Hod. I'U lay always the same as you [They play ; the Host wins.'] 
 See here, dear gentleman, this is mine, I have won it. 
 
 Son. That is nothing. Away once more ; I'll lay the same again, 
 lay you against me. [They wager again. They begin to play] The 
 wine has made me drunk. Sweetheart, help me play, and look to it. 
 
 Host. See, this too is mine; there are the cards. 
 
 Son. Sweetheart, I'm so drunk, that I can't see any more. Look 
 at the cards and tell me, has he won ? 
 
 JDaii, yes, sweetheart, he has won this fairly. 
 
 Son. Go your ways then. There, take you the rest of the money, 
 and play with him for it, for I am sleepy — Then we two w^ill go to 
 sleep. 
 
 Ban. With all my heart, sweetheart. Father, deal the cards, 
 I'm playing now for my paramour \Jie tvins] 
 
 Most. Daughter, I've won this of you 
 
 Bait. Now, Father, I may well say this day you have had Fortune 
 and Luck. 
 
 Son. Traly I'm very drunk, and have no more desires to play. 
 We wiU now leave off and go to bed. Sweetheart, come with me. 
 
 Bang. With pleasure, dearest, as you w^ish. [Exeunt ambo, to bed] 
 
 Host. See here. Wife, what a booty I have here. It was easy to 
 spoil the Churl, for he took no care of his play. If I had as much 
 more I should soon be a rich man. 
 
 Hostess. Dear husband, what a heap of money you have here. 
 Now you must let me have a gown all of velvet. 
 
 Host. Yes wife, you shall have it ; but we must still look to it
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act IV. 107 
 
 well that we get all his silver, gold ami stones from him. Have 
 you instructed your daughter what to do at night ? 
 
 JTostesf. Yes, I'll sec to that. My daughter I have taught well 
 how to do — When he has fallen asleep by her side, she is secretly 
 to rise, and to take his purse out of his hose — There is still a great 
 treasure left in it. 
 
 Host. My dear wife, you have taught her well and rightly. Tis 
 thus the feathers of young prodigals must be plucked. Come, we 
 will go in. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Uuter the Son lioldhuj the daugJders hand, with a nightcap on his 
 head. She has his purse, which she has stolen in the night, and 
 gives it secretly to her Mother, who rejoices over it ; she again 
 gives it to her husband, who goes away with it and hides it. 
 
 Son. Good morning. Hostess. 
 
 Hostess. Thanks, dear gentleman. Tell me, did you sleep well? 
 
 Son. My Hostess, not quite well ; for tliere was a nightingale 
 near me, that always prevented my sleeping. Guess what this 
 nightingale was, and I wiU give you 40 crowns. 
 
 Hostess. Dear gentleman, it is a hard nut, and I cannot so lightly 
 guess. But if I knew that you would really pay me the 40 crowns 
 down I would puzzle my brains a bit over it, and perhaps guess it 
 after long speculation. 
 
 Son. See, Hostess, dont you believe me now ? What the devil 
 do I care for 40 crowns ? [The Host now makes away with the purse"] 
 As soon as you can guess right I will give you the money. 
 
 Hostess. Give me a little respite [respiration'] that I may ponder 
 on it.
 
 io8 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act IV. 
 
 Son. You may take it. But you, Sweetheart, tell me with what 
 jollity shall we jDass the time to-day. 
 
 Dau. I know not — If you like, I would play at tables with you. 
 You shall wager the clotlies you have on, and I my petticoat that 
 I wear, and he that loses shall straight strip himself, and give it to 
 the winner. 
 
 Sou. my fair maiden, and sweet love, you have found out a 
 wonderful play : Tinily my greatest joy is to play with pretty maids 
 for their clothes, and to make them strip before me. 
 
 Hostess. Gentleman, methinks I can read your nightingale. Is 
 it not my daughter that prevented your sleeping ? 
 
 Son. Yes, you have guessed, and for her I have not closed my 
 eyes all night, so sweetly and joyously did she sing to me. 
 
 Hostess. So now I have won the 40 crowns. Prithee give them 
 to me now. 
 
 Son. Yes, Hostess, you have won them honestly, and I wiU give 
 them you soon. But first listen. Once more prepare a splendid 
 and lordly banquet, much more lordly and splendid than yesterday's, 
 for I am going to bid and have a heap of pretty maidens at this 
 feast. Tarts, fine large marchpanes, Sugarbread — In a word, the 
 best you can find in the Town of game fishes and birds — the best 
 drink you can light upon, fetch it, as the best Valteline [Eeinfall] 
 Hungarian and Ehenish, the best Malvoisy to be had, that it may 
 be like a Prince's table, for I have lots of money and I can well pay 
 for it. And when it is out, I will get more, though gold and money 
 had daily to be coined for it. Theres no help for it ; I cannot bear 
 solitude and dump, my humour is always fresh and frolic. Methinks 
 if I were not frolic in the World I must die. Yooks ! HoUa! frisk, 
 courage, allegro ! we will first make ourselves right jolly.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act I\'. 109 
 
 IIoHtess. Yes, dear gentlemen, you have well said ; be frisky, and 
 not like so many other herraitlike fools. They are not really men. 
 I must praise you for being always so merry and freeh, even so 
 early in the morning. But dear, gentleman, give me now my 40 
 crowns, and some gold besides to provide this banquet as you have 
 always done before, when I have got any thing for you. 
 
 Son. Yes mine Hostess, come here, I will give it you [^Goes to the 
 table, looks for his purse hi his pocket ; can't find it ; is much aaton- 
 ished, runs to the daughter^ Ah, sweetheart, you have my purse, and 
 have taken it from me in play to vex me a little. Prithee give it 
 me back. 
 
 Dau. Sweetheart, why do you come upon me, as if I had taken 
 your purse? No indeed, think not so ; know that I have it not. 
 
 Sou. Ah now, why do you vex me ? I know it is your way. Give 
 it here, you certainly have it ; I know you are so rogueish. 
 
 Bau. What the devil do you mean, or what do you imagine, as 
 though I had used you like a thief? Truly I have it not, so I 
 swear. 
 
 Soti. Ah, my dear Hostess, if you have taken it in joke give it me 
 
 agaui. 
 
 Hostess. Why do you talk so to me ? Indeed I have not taken it. 
 
 Enter Host. 
 
 Son. Ah my dear Host, my purse is gone, have you not found it ? 
 
 Host. What the devil do I know of your purse ? did you give 
 it me to keep. I ask you not to speak to me so audaciously. 
 
 Son. I gave it not you to keep; but I must have lost it here, 
 and I only ask, have you not found it ? 
 
 Host. Truly I have found no purse. Who knows where you lost
 
 no COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act IV, 
 
 it ? If you had lost it here, I have such honest servants that they 
 will give it you again. All ray life I have lodged here many great 
 men, and when they lost anything in my House it was always 
 honourably restored to them. Therefore hold in such words, for 
 we are such honest folk that we covet nothing unrightly. 
 
 [Host and Hostess stand and speak toe/ether ; Son is very discon- 
 tented ; goes and sits by the table, lays his head hi his hands'\ 
 
 Son. 0, covet or not, my purse or gold is gone all the same. 
 [sits troxibled and sighs'] 
 
 Dan. Sweetheart, be at peace, and be not so troubled. Who knows 
 but the purse may come back again. 
 
 Son. O caU me no more Sweetheart, for love and joy have an end, 
 and great sorrow has befallen my heart. how should I get it 
 again when it is stolen ; the Thief will keep it and never bring it 
 back. Shall I not therefore be sorrowful ? Ay me what shall I do 
 now ? For not a farthing more do I possess. All my gold silver 
 and jewels were in my purse, which is now stolen from me. 
 
 Bail. Hoho ! no more money ; that is a bad look-out [des siehet 
 iibel auss] [goes to Father'] Dear Father, he sits, and has the Cor- 
 nelium vehemently. He says, and bemoans himself that he has no 
 more money. 
 
 Host. Has he no more money. I cant digest that. So now he 
 is no longer of any use here [_goes to him] Do you hear, what did 
 you say ? Have you no more money ? 
 
 Son. No, not a farthing have I more. Some I have soon spent. 
 The rest I had some thief has stolen from me. 
 
 Host. Yes yes ; no more money, so I am not to be satisfied, it 
 is stolen or taken from vou. What care I for that ? you shall 
 pay me.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act IV. iii 
 
 Uodcss. And, do you hear, you must pay me too, you know 
 that to give me nothing for my pains would not be at all good. 
 
 Dau. Here listen too, you poor prodigal, who is to pay me? you 
 know what you have gclobet and ])roiniscd me 
 
 Son. Why do you torture me ? You know. Host, that I have 
 paid you double for everything, and you too Hostess. You have 
 got enough by me, methinks, and moreover likewise my purse fuU 
 of gold is stolen away. Therefore leave me at peace, and molest 
 me no more, for you are all paid double, and more than double, and 
 I do not owe you a farthing. 
 
 Host. "What the devil bring you in question ? are we double 
 paid ? No indeed, with all I have not enough. I will be paid more, 
 and so I will take Avhatever I can get, your horses your trunks 
 with your clothes, and everything you have. Wife and daughter, 
 take hold of him, and strip off all his clothes, and then hunt him 
 out of the house. 
 
 Dan. Do you hear rascally knave — if we can't be paid otherwise 
 we take what we can get. Here strip me off straight your hose 
 and doublet [He resists. She tries to strip Jiin{\ 
 
 Hostess. Y'ou cheating knave, the doidjlet I must have. The 
 hose belong to my daughter {They fasten o«] 
 
 Son. AVliat will you do to me ? Will you put me to shame ? 
 \lie resists] 
 
 Hostess. See husband, he will not let himself be stripped. 
 
 Host. Do you hear, cheating rogue and knave, make no resist- 
 ance, and let yourself be stripped Avillingly, or I Avill so dress you 
 with my sword that your guts shall hang at your feet, and you 
 shall never depart alive. 
 
 Son. Ay me, is there no pity ? [thej/ slrij) him, search him, and
 
 113 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act V. 
 
 take kis keys and all that he has about him, and then heat him. 
 Enter the servant^ 
 
 Servant. Early this raornins; my master bad me fetch the fiddlers, 
 who are cominnj presently. To day we shall make ourselves right 
 meny. But what the devil are they about ? Hoho ! now I know 
 what that betokens. No, here I bide not, but I go too. I will 
 run the best I know how. [Muus away. They have note strict off 
 the doublet^ 
 
 Son. Ah pity ! and give me an old doublet, that I go not quite 
 naked. 
 
 Ban. No, we will give you nothing, but hunt you out in your 
 skin. 
 
 Host. Yes, this old one will I give you {^Chucks him old hose and 
 doublet~\ Don 'em quick, and then drive you the beggar out of the 
 house, {Hostess and daughter each take a great rod, flog him vio- 
 lently, and hunt him out of the house'] 
 
 Dau. You blackguard knave ! go, run : the longer here the more 
 beating you get, and there pull me off your hose. 
 
 Son. smite me not so sore ! I run. \Jiunt him ouf] 
 
 ACT Y. 
 
 Enter the Son in his beggars clothes. 
 
 Son. Ay me ! why has my luck so turned ? Ah, now I must 
 starve. O my true Father ! if I had followed your precepts I had 
 never come to such misery. God pity me, be gracious to me a 
 Sinner ! Let thy great wrath be somewhat assuaged, and forgive 
 me my sins. 1 can scarce stir for hunger, for these three days I 
 have not seen a piece of bread, much less eaten. how palpably
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act V. 113 
 
 I now see God's justice! If I might but have the bread which I 
 have in my day thrown under foot, or dropped under the table, I 
 could now feast upon it. But now I cannot get a crumb. Dire 
 necessity now constrains me to ask good folks to give me a little 
 bread. Here will I go to this door and beg. Ah, my good kind 
 gentleman, I pray you pity me, and give me an alms, w-herewith I 
 may ward off my grievous hunger. 
 
 [y/ voice behind the hangings ansicers hini] I can give thee 
 nothing ; myself have hardly enough to share with my wife and 
 children their daily bread. There is now a great famine in the 
 land. Therefore go farther ; God help thee. 
 
 Son. Ay me — Miserable man ! what am I to do now, with such 
 rebuffs? I will try once more, and go to another door. Take 
 pity upon a famishing man, who must soon lose his life for hunger. 
 
 \_A voice answer's hint] God comfort thee, thou poor man, gladly 
 would I give thee, if I only had anything — but with all my bitter 
 sweat I can scarce get enough to shield my own from liunger. 
 Therefore go farther, and beg there. 
 
 Son. Alas, poor troubled wretch ! what shall I do now ? No 
 man will take pity on me and give me a little bread. thou 
 Almighty and all-sufficient God, have mercy on me, and take me to 
 thy grace again ! O I know not what now to do, whether to go 
 farther and beg, for they likewise may rebuff me. But necessity 
 compels me, if I would not starve and perish with hunger. Ah, pity 
 me a poor miserable man, and divide Avith me some small alms, 
 that I perish not with hunger. Almighty God will reward you 
 double. 
 
 [^One answers hini] Why do you beg here at my door? Pack off! 
 I hove nothing to give you ; I have scarcely my own daily bread. 
 
 VOL. II. 8
 
 114 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act V. 
 
 For there is such great dearth in the whole country as none alive 
 remembers ; go therefore from my door, and beg of other folk. 
 
 Son. Ay me, ay me, what now shall I try ? Now I must die of 
 hunger, if thou almighty God dost not have mercy on rae. Oh, I 
 am too faint to stand. [He falls on the ground^ 
 
 Enter Satan to Jiim, with a drawn sioord, and speaks to him. 
 
 Despair. See, poor lost wretch, how thou liest, for every man to 
 spit upon and spurn. Thou hast been rich, and now art a poor 
 beggar. Thou knowest thou wast not obedient to thy father j 
 thou madest him give thee thy patrimony, wherewith thou wentest 
 forth into a far country, didst waste and consume it in a twinklinsr, 
 with harlots and wanton companions. In a word, thou art a great 
 sinner, and thy sins can never be forgiven thee. The Judgment 
 of God is now upon thee, and thou shalt never more come into His 
 grace, but must be damned eternally. Thou shalt now utterly 
 perish with hunger, and it woiild be an eternal shame if any man 
 saw thee who knew thee heretofore. Therefore thou must now fall 
 into Despair. Take this sword and cut short thy life. 
 
 Son. Ah how fuU of anguish is my heart ! Tell me, what is thy 
 name? 
 
 Despair. My name's Despair. 
 
 Son. 'Tis time. I am a great sinner — 
 
 As he begins to speak, enter Hope running in haste 
 
 Hope. In this poor man shalt tliou have no part. Begone ! 
 hence, straightway, Satan, Avith thy poison, [joreuches the srcord out 
 of his hand, with which he drives him out, and, throtcs the sword 
 after hini] Be not led astray, miserable man. Though Satan showed 
 thee all thy sins ; repent and mourn them ; have hearty ruth and
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act V. 115 
 
 sorrow for them ; pray God earnestly and fervently to forgive them, 
 and take thee back to grace. Then, though thy sins were as many 
 as the sand of the sea, if thou only hast sorrow and hatcst them in 
 thy soul, and hast a believing and penitent heart, God will indeed 
 forgive them. Bear now thy Cross with patience, and doubt not 
 of God's grace. And though He may turn away from thee a little 
 while, yet hope surely that it will not be long, but that he will 
 relieve thy hunger. 
 
 Son. O tell me, what is thy name ? 
 
 Hope. My name is Hope. 
 
 Son. Hope ! thy sayings I will believe, for thou makest not 
 ashamed. But though the devil violently revisits me, and re- 
 proaches my sins to mo, and tells me that T shall never more be 
 received to grace, since I am so great a sinner, yet will I not 
 doubt of Gods goodness, but fight valiantly against Satan, and 
 hope firmly that God will forgive my great and manifold 
 sins, mitigate this cross and fomishing, and take me back to 
 grace ! 
 
 Hope. Do so. Hold thee fast to his grace, and fight like a good 
 soldier ; for know the devil will not yet yield with his poison, but 
 seek to hold thee tighter. \_Goes away. The Son remai?is lying 
 in great tribulation. Frnter a common citizen^ 
 
 at. I am a citizen of mean condition ; I am just come out of 
 the town and am going to my farm. But what do I see lying 
 here ? a poor miserable man. Do you hear ! m hy lie you here so 
 Avrctchedly ? 
 
 Son. Ah, dear Sir, I am a poor miserable man ; for three days I 
 have not seen bread, much less eaten any. I have bcarjred for alms, 
 but no man would give me any. And here I lie for weakness, and
 
 ii6 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act VI. 
 
 here I must die unless some one has pity upon me, and gives me 
 bread to stay my hunger. 
 
 at. I well believe you. But can you not betake yourself to 
 some one for whom you work ? 
 
 Son. Oh sir, how cheerfidly Avould I work if I could find a Master. 
 I pray thee take pity on me, and take me for a servant ! Day and 
 night will I Avork with you if I only gain just enough to still this 
 crying hunger. 
 
 at. I know not ; I wanted no servant. Moreover, there is at 
 this time so vehement a dearth that a man can scarce maintain him- 
 self. But I will take pity on thee, so follow me now, and go with 
 me to my walled yard, there will I give you something to do. 
 
 Son. I thank you. Our God will reward vou that vou took me 
 in my need, that I should not die of hunger. I will serve you dili- 
 gently and truly. 
 
 ACTUS SEXTUS. 
 
 Enter the Prodigal Sox tvlth a basket on his arm and a staff in 
 
 his hand 
 
 Son. Alas for the poor miserable woeful dearth ; the longer it is, 
 the worse for poor me. Now has my master sent me into the fields 
 to feed his swine. But I am so famished that I can scarce stir ; the 
 famine is so sore that my master himself has no bread. how fain 
 would I now cat with the swine their food of husks, but I cannot get 
 it. , Tor the swine themselves have none, and I must tend them here, 
 where they may grub for roots. O Lord and Father of heaven and 
 earth, how grievously have I sinned against thee ! my sins and trans- 
 gressions are many, I come now with penitent heart before thee.
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act VI. 117 
 
 and bevveep my sins bitterly. ! iUmighty God, this my punish- 
 ment have I well deserved ; but with heart crushed and broken, con- 
 trite and believing I come to thee and pray, be merciful to me a 
 poor sinner, and think no more of my great sins, for I am a 
 bitter foe to them, and am heartily sorry for them. O Lord ! I re- 
 nounce them ; I hope firmly thou wilt help me. 0, my dearest 
 father, had I followed your precepts which you rehearsed to me, and 
 gave me as the best viaticum (zehrp penning) for my journey, alack, 
 it would never have come to this pass with me. But T was wanton 
 and petulant, and would not even listen to advice from him. 0, 
 dearest father, how many hired servants hast thou who have their 
 fill of bread, while I perish here with hunger. 
 
 \siglii violently, toeeps bitterly. Despair comes to him] 
 
 Despair. Poor miserable wretch, lo, where thou liest, there must thou 
 likewise perish of hunger. Thou sayest that if thou hast a penitent 
 heart God will be merciful to you ; but it is quite otherwise. Thy 
 sins are too great to be forgiven. Thou seest now plain enough 
 how God hath forsaken thee, and will no longer help thee ; thou 
 art undone for ever. Only take this sword, and take thy life. 
 
 Hope. Thou shameless devil, how darest thou be so bold, as again 
 to tempt such a penitent ? No thou shalt never get this man into 
 thy claws. His Faith and Hope are too great. Therefore take 
 yourself off to the abyss of hell, and pack hence, for thou shalt have 
 no part in him. [Hope takes tlie sicord, and drives away Despair 
 with it.] Thou miserable man, abide constant in hope, rise up, and 
 go to thy father, and say to him, Father, I have sinned against 
 heaven and before thee, and am henceforth no more woiihy to be 
 called thy son. Make me as one of thy hired servants. 
 
 Son. Hope, thou quickenest me mightily! thou still dwellest in
 
 Ii8 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act VI. 
 
 my lieart. Thy counsel will I at last follow, and I will straight 
 arise to journey to my Father. 
 
 Hope. Follow me. I will show thee the way which thou must go. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Father of the Prodigal Son. 
 
 Tather. O how sore is my heart troubled that I know not where 
 my younger son may be, whether living or dead. I am alas certi- 
 fied that he must be fallen into great poverty, and has run through 
 all his wealth quite improfitably. But I would not care or bestow 
 a thought on this if I could but see him alive, [sits at the table, puts 
 his hands under his head. Enter the Prodigal Son] 
 
 Son. there I see my fathers house ; and do I see aright ? Is 
 that my father himself so malcontent ? Oh I am so fearful ; I 
 know not what to do. 
 
 Father. \_Sees him afar off, arises and runs to hiui] how highly 
 am I rejoiced; thou art my dear son; you touch my heart; wel- 
 come art thou to me [falls on his neck ; kisses him ; So'S falls on his 
 knees before hint] 
 
 Son. O heart-loved father, I have sinned against heaven and be- 
 fore thee, and henceforth I am not worthy to be called thy son ! 
 
 Father. Arise, beloved son [he rises'] HoUah ! hollah ! boy, come 
 here. 
 
 Servant. Here am I, master. whom see I here ; welcome home, 
 welcome. 
 
 Son. Lo, do I find thee here ? when did you come ? 
 
 Serv. 0, I have been long here, I left you when I saw the two 
 harlots stripping off your clothes. 
 
 Father. Do you hear, boy, go in straight, and fetch my son forth
 
 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act VI. 119 
 
 the best clothes, and put tliem on him ; and give him a finger ring 
 for his hand, and shoes on his feet, and bring here a fatted calf and 
 kill it. We will eat and be merry, for this my son was dead and 
 is alive again, he was lost and is found. Now, dear son, follow 
 me into the house. We will be merry. [Ilxeunt. 
 
 Enter the brother; he has a rake in his hand, and a 
 fishermans coat on (Sefjuch). 
 
 Broth. I come straight from my fathers field which I have sown. 
 Now will I go home and tell my father how much I have sown to- 
 day, [f/oes a step or two ; stood still] But what in Gods name 
 is the matter, with this noise and preparation in the house ! They 
 are so jovial, I cannot tell what it means. [Servant comes running 
 out as if he had message to </o.] Hollah ! boy, dont run over me. 
 Stay still and be questionable. Tell me what means the clapping 
 and business in my fathers house — why are they so merry ? 
 
 Serv. Your brother is come, and the father has slain a fatted Calf, 
 because he has him back safe and sound, and therefore they are 
 so jovial. I have to make ready, and carry in these benches and 
 stools, for a great company is to be entertained today. If you had 
 not come, your Father told me to run to the field to you and fetch 
 you to the house. 
 
 Bro. It discontents me grievously ; I am so angry I cannot tell 
 what to do ; shall I go home and be merry because my whore- 
 master brother is come back ? No truly, that is not my mind. Go 
 in straight and tell my father that I do not wish to come home. 
 
 Serv. Yes, I will go and tell him. 
 
 Bro. Do I not well to be angry ? I have worked all on for my 
 father like an ass, and have never had a feast made for me. But
 
 120 COMEDY OF THE PRODIGAL SON, Act VI. 
 
 this my brother, who has wasted all his living with wanton and 
 dishonest companions, and now comes back home as a poor beggar — 
 for him we must be meny and joyful. Me seemeth it is gross in- 
 justice ; were I my father I would have welcomed you with the 
 stick. But here comes my father himself. 
 
 Fath. Ah, dear son, I beseech thee come in with me. "Why 
 standest thou here outside ? For what cause wUt thou not enter ? 
 
 Bro. Dearest father, do you think that it angers me not ? You 
 know how many years I have served you truly and worked like a 
 horse in the ropes. Yes, all your land have I yearly helped to ear. 
 In a word, you never had to blame me that I had transgressed your 
 commandment, yet you have never given me a goat to make merry 
 with my friends. But now this thy son is come, who has flung 
 away his living on harlots, you have killed a fatted calf, and will be 
 merry with your friends and neighbours, only because he has come 
 home in a whole skin. 
 
 Fa. My dearest son, prithee be not so displeased with thy brother, 
 and with our joy. Dearest son, thou art always with me, and all 
 that is mine is thine. Yet consider my dear son, this thy brother 
 was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found. have not 
 so stony a heart. Eejoice with me, for thy brother was in the devils 
 claws, but now has he come to his right mind, and is converted, 
 and is come to us with penitent heart, and now he is heir with us of 
 eternal life and Paradise. Therefore be joyful with us, dearest son. 
 
 Bro. Dearest father, you have rightly corrected me, I am heartily 
 glad that my brother is converted, that he with us may inherit 
 God's kingdom. Now I will go in with you and be merry. 
 
 [End.]
 
 121 
 
 NOTES TO PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 The treatment of the story is the same as in Greene's Moariung 
 Garment, where Philador the Prodigal is conducted by Greene into 
 a Hostelry, where he is fleeced, like the Prodigal in this play, by the 
 Host and his family. It is quite as probable that Greene stole his 
 ideas from this play as that the writer of this play stole his from 
 Greene : Mamillia, Greene's first tale, was probably taken from a 
 play of the same name, performed at Court by the E. of Leicester's 
 servants in 1573. 
 
 In the Prodigal Son it is easy to see that the German translator 
 has imported all the ceremonious words and sentences. Where 
 the English writer put 7uy Son, or mine Host, the German has 
 Mein hertz lieber So/in, or mein lieber Ilerr Wirtli. Some of the 
 dialogue is a mere bandying of such compliments, without any 
 other content. The English must have been quite embowelled here. 
 
 The poetry is all lost ; and where comparisons are introduced 
 they are rather German than English. The English woidd not 
 understand 'to stay at home like a Wolf.' 
 
 The Scripture texts and allusions are well preserved. This gives 
 the last act of the play a simplicity and grandeur which perhaps 
 retains some flavour of the original. 
 
 Greene in one place flouts Shakspere as a theological poet 
 (Pref. to Nexier too late) ; says also that clerks wrote stnff which 
 they made public under his name ; perhaps referring to a piece 
 like this, which is pretty conclusively shown to be Shakspere's by 
 the play Histrio-mastix,
 
 122 STORY OF THE PLAY. 
 
 For other notes upon the Prodiyal Son see lutroductioa to 
 nistrio-mastix, ante, p. 3, 
 
 [STOEY OF THE PLAY.] 
 
 The story of the play is simply that of the New Testament 
 parable, the scene being changed, apparently, to Germany, as the 
 residence of the Prodigal's father, and Italy (see p. 101, 1. 4), as 
 the chief locality of the Prodigal's ' riotous living.' A man has 
 two sons, the elder industrious and contented, who lives with his 
 father and attends well to his father's and the family's affairs 
 generally, in the old patriarchal fashion ; the younger son idle, 
 discontented, and possessed by an insatiable liking for being 'jolly,' 
 and for roaming forth in the world, and enjoying the pleasures 
 of gay company. That the younger son may indulge his likings 
 without stint, he demands of his father his patrimony, and tells the 
 old man frankly that it is to furnish him with the means for going 
 forth to see and enjoy the world, as he cannot longer bide at home 
 to be, as he expresses it, in somewhat of the language of Arviragus 
 in Cymbeline (p. 91, 1. 5), like a wolf, only acquainted with his 
 own den. The father tries to dissuade him, and gives him much 
 good advice. But the Prodigal is so bent upon enjoying himself 
 in his own ' jolly ' way, that he will not give any heed to his father ; 
 and presently the brother, giving like good advice, is as unsuccess- 
 ful as the father. The father then gives his younger son his fortune, 
 and with it, and much more good counsel, and the old man's bless- 
 ing, the Prodigal goes forth. The 'riotous living' shewn is rather
 
 STORY OF THE PLAY. 123 
 
 sparingly confined to a few scenes only, all enacted in a single inn, 
 and that, seemingly, a very poor one. The only participators, too, 
 in the way of company, are the Innkeeper and his wife and 
 daughter. Tiiese three feast and play cards with the Prodigal, of 
 course at his expense, and they cheat at cards, and otherwise fleece 
 him without stint. The craving of the Prodigal for ' pretty girls 
 and women ' is met by the host and hostess at once giving up 
 their daughter to him ; and the daughter, being at one with her 
 parents in the desire to make money out of the Prodigal, readily 
 assents to the aiTangement, After several feasting bouts, the 
 daughter robs her paramour of his purse, and gives it to her father. 
 The purse being missed, and the Prodigal announcing that he has 
 now no more money, host, hostess, and daughter all set upon him 
 and strip him for alleged unsatisfied debts ; and then they turn 
 him out of doors in rai^s. Starvins:, and begging from door to 
 door, the Prodigal becomes repentant, and calls upon (Jod for 
 forgiveness, and for mercy. Despair, otherwise the Devil, then 
 comes, and suggests suicide ; but Hope drives the Devil off", and 
 persuades the Prodigal to repent. The Prodigal then takes service 
 with a poor citizen, whose swine he tends and feeds with. Despair 
 again tempts him, and is again driven off by Hope, who then 
 counsels the Prodigal to return to his father. The return is a very 
 close rendering of the parable, including the jealousy of the elder 
 brother at the rejoicing over the Prodigal's return, and the final 
 overcoming of that jealousy by the father. — G.
 
 lACKE DRVMS 
 
 Entertainement, 
 
 O R 
 
 THE COMEDIE 
 
 OP^ Pasqvil and 
 Kathp:rine. 
 
 ^s it halk beene fimdry times plaid hy the 
 Children of Powles. 
 
 Newly corrected. 
 
 London, 
 
 Printed by JV. Stansbij, for Philip Knis^ht^ a^nd are 
 to be fold at his fhop in Chancery-Lane, 
 
 OLicr againft the Roles. 
 I 6 I 6.
 
 [THE STORY OF THE PLAY.] 
 
 [Tnis play is a comedy of character and intrigue, whose scene is laid in 
 the London suburb of High-sate. The second title— the Comedie of 
 Pasquil and Katherine — describes the principal story of the play, Jack 
 Drum's doings l)eing quite subordinate. Sir Edwai-d Fortune has two 
 daughters. Tlie eldest, Camelia, is wooed by Brabant junior, a Court 
 gallant, and John Ellis, a doltish, rich yeoman. She is fickle, and tiu'ns 
 from one to the other, and then from both to Planet, a good-natured 
 cynic, and friend to Brabant junior. Katherine, the yovmger daughter, 
 is as constant as her sister is fickle. Two of her suitors are Pasquil, 
 a romantic youth, and Mamon, an old usurer. Mamon, being rejected, 
 hires a Frenchman to murder his rival, Pasquil. The Frencliman dis- 
 closes the plot to Pasquil, who lies down and feigns death. Katherine, 
 thinking her lover dead, leaves home in despair. After a time, Pasquil 
 finds her ; but Mamon now determines to deprive Pasquil of the love he 
 cannot win for himself by destroying Katherine. He throws ' oile of 
 Toades ' over her, upon wliich she warns Pasquil away from her as from 
 a doomed woman. Pasquil tlien tears up Mamon's ' indentm'es and bonds,' 
 and so sends that usurer mad, and into ' Bedlame,' and then goes mad 
 himself. Meanwhile, Camelia, having jilted Biabant junior and John 
 Ellis, fancies she is in love with Planet. Brabant junior, hearing an 
 assignation planned between Camelia and Planet, thinks Camelia false to 
 him. He orders his page to shoot Planet ; and the deed being done, as 
 he thinks, takes Planet's place at the meeting with Camelia, where, dis- 
 guised as his friend, he learns that the latter has only met Camelia 
 to chide her for her treatment of himself (Brabant). Brabant's remorse 
 now leads him to attempt suicide, but he is arrested in the act ; and, 
 Planet presently coming in, a reconciliation follows. At this point 
 Katherine reappears cured ; and Pasquil also appearing, and becoming 
 cured of his madness through the recovery of his mistress, the hands of 
 the lovers are joined by Sir Edward. Camelia now goes successively 
 to Brabant junior, Jolm Ellis, and Planet, who each refuse her, and so 
 punish her ' light inconstancie.' The more broadly-humorous second plot 
 concerns chietly Jack Drum, Sir Edward's man ; Winifride, his daughtei^'s 
 maid ; and the caricature of a Frenchman, John fo de King. Dium is in 
 love with Winifride, but she plays the Frenclnnan off against him. She 
 persuades Drum to get into a sack to be conveyed to her chamber, and 
 so contrives that the Frenchman shall carry off the sack, thinking she is 
 in it. When the sack is opened, the Frenchman, instead of embracing 
 Winifride, gets a beating from Jack Di'um. Several scenes are taken up 
 with wit-combats between the two Brabants, Planet, and M. Puft'e, 
 an exquisite in the use of euphuistical language. Biabant senior, besides 
 being, as he thinks, a great wit and critic, is a great practical joker. A 
 joke he plays upon the Frenchman, who is very lascivious, and always 
 looking out for ' a vench,' is to introduce him to his own wife as a courte- 
 zan. Brabant believes his wife will repulse the Frenchman, but she does 
 not; and, in the end of the play, the arch-censiu'er and gull-maker 
 is crowned with horns as a self-made cuckold. — G.]
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 No anonymous play can bear more satisftictory evidence, either 
 
 of its date or its author, than ' Jack Drums Entertainement, or the 
 
 Comedie of Pasquil and Katherine. As it hath been sundry times 
 
 plaid by the Children of Powles. London, Eichard Olive, 1601. 
 
 Another edition purports to be neicly corrected. London, Printed 
 
 by W. Stansby for Piiilip Kni^^ht 161G.' It was 
 
 written in the time of Elizabeth, after Kemp's Morris had been 
 danced, while ' Peace with Spain ' was the burden of every one's 
 discourse, and in a ' women's year,' i. e. leap year, which must have 
 been 1600. As for the author, the vocabulary of the play betrays 
 him. In the Poetaster, written by Jonson against Marston and 
 Dekker in 1601, the poetry and vocabulary of the former are 
 satirized in the following verses : — 
 
 ' Ramp up thy genius, be not retrograde. 
 But boldly nominate a spade a spade. 
 What, shall thy lubrical and glibbery muse 
 Live as she were defunct, like punk in stews? 
 
 No, teach thy members to poetize, 
 
 And throw abi'oad thy spurious snotteries 
 
 Upon that puft-up lump of barmy froth, 
 
 Or clumsy chilblain'd judgment; that with oath
 
 I2S JACK DRUM. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Magnificates his merit, and bespawls 
 
 The couscious time Avith humorous foam and brawls, 
 
 As if his organons of sense would crack 
 
 The sinews of my patience' 
 
 Jonsou afterwards administers a pill to Crispinus, and makes him 
 vomit out these new terms, peculiar to his poetry — glibbery, chil- 
 blain'd, clumsy, barmy froth, puff, and others. It will be seen 
 that these, and other equally characteristic Marstonian words, 
 abound in the following play, and that the very series of words of 
 one of the above lines — ' clumsy, chilblain'd, judgment ' — is found 
 there, p. 156, 1. 136. 
 
 'Let clumsie judgements, chilblain'd gowtie wits '. 
 
 So we have bespmcle, p. 146, 1. 302 ; harmie froth, p. 136, 1. 35. 
 Polyphemian ^/<^e5, p. 139, 1. 124 ; f/libhery, p. 139, 1. 127. 
 
 ' Cracke not the siuewes of my patience,' 175, 1. 238. 
 
 Besides the words of the play, some of its sentences are ridi- 
 culed in the Poetaster. Thus in Jack Drum young Brabant is 
 evidently Marston himself; now, p. 143, 1. 227, he is described as 
 
 ' a proper man, 
 And yet his legs are somewhat of the least.' 
 
 In the Poetaster, Cloe says to Kufus Crispinus (Marston), ' Tour 
 legs do sufficiently show you are a gentleman bom ; for a man 
 borne upon little legs is always a gentleman born.' Dekker, in the 
 Gull's Horn-book, remembered this fliit at his friend by one who 
 had ' brought either your feather, or your red beard (Ptufus), or 
 yovu' little legs on the stage.' And as in Jack Brum Winifred per-
 
 JACK DRUM. INTRODUCTION. 129 
 
 suades Caraelia that a wise woman always weds a fool, in order to 
 be her own mistress, so Cytiieris tells Cloe in the Poetaater that 
 ' wise women choose not husbands for the eye, merit, or birth, but 
 wealth and soverei{?nty.' 
 
 At p. 172, 1. 157, we have 
 
 ' Some Evcnuch'd vicarage, or some fellowship.' 
 
 A similar phrase is common in Marston's works — e. g. Scourge 
 of Villany, ii.. Sat. v. : 
 
 ' What though pale JMaurus paid huge Simonies 
 For his half dozen gelded vicaries.' 
 
 It is also found in the Return from Parnassus, whicb throughout is 
 written in imitation of Marston's style. 
 
 The comic business of the play, which largely consists in the 
 ridiculous eupliuistic compliments of the gallants to one another, is 
 in this respect exactly similar to much of Jonson's Cynthia s Revels, 
 a play of the same date, and written against Marston and Dekker, 
 who figure in it as Hedon and Anaidcs. 
 
 The likeness of the induction to Jonson's inductions Avill be 
 manifest to all readers. 
 
 The play is one of the series which relate to the quarrel of 
 Jonson ■with ]\Iarston and Dekker. In it young Brabant is ]\Iar- 
 ston himself; while old Brabant, who was first of all intended for a 
 witless patron of wit, a rich gull who spends his wealth in giving 
 suppers to poets, insensibly becomes transformed to the great critic 
 and scourge of the times, and is at last said to be one of those 
 
 ' boml)ast wits 
 That are pull'd up wiih arrogant conceit 
 
 VOL. II. 9
 
 130 JACK DRUM. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Of tlieir own worth, as if Omnipotence 
 
 Had hoised them to such unequall'd height 
 
 That they surveyed our spirits with an eye 
 
 Only create to censure from above ; 
 
 When, good souls, they do nothing but reprove.' — p. 193, 1. 317. 
 
 This phase of Brabant senior, is clearly meant for Jonson ; in his 
 character of a rich gull, and in the punishment which overtakes him 
 in the end of the play, he could hardly be meant for Jonson, even 
 in those days of reckless misstatement, when the satirist did not 
 attempt a likeness, however caricatured, but thought himself most 
 successful when he heaped together the foulest abuse. 
 
 In his Jonsonese character of a critic, who held himself immea- 
 surably above all his contemporaries, Brabant the elder is made to 
 pronounce two pieces of criticism, one on the children of Paul's, 
 who seem to have been set up as rivals to the children of the 
 Queen's Hevels who acted in "^ the Blackfriars theatre, and from 
 thence, chiefly under the guidance of Jonson, ' berattled the com- 
 mon stages,' and drew the chief audience from the men actors. 
 The Paul's boys, says Brabant, 
 
 ' produce 
 Such musty fopperies of antiquity. 
 As do not suit the humorous age's back 
 With clothes in fashion.'— p. 199, 11. 111-14. 
 
 This seems to have been Marston's feeling also, in spite of his re- 
 buke to Brabant — 'you will be censuring still.' For in the in- 
 duction to this play he 
 
 — ' vows not to tonnent your listening ears 
 
 With mouldy fopperies of stale poetry.' — p. 134, 1. 24.
 
 JACK DRUM. INTRODUCTION. 131 
 
 la another place (p. 183, 1. 37) Brabant gives his opinion of ' our 
 modern wits.' First, the 'new poet Mellidus, (Marston, author 
 of Anlonio and MelUda,) is 
 
 ' A slight, bubbling spirit, a cork, a husk.' 
 
 Next, Musus (either Chapman, who, as Chettle says, ' finished sad 
 Musceus' gracious song,' or Daniel, whom Drayton, in Endimion 
 and Phoebe, 1594, calls * the sweet Musceus of these times ') is ' as 
 blunt as Pauls.' This criticism fits Daniel best, whose style, as 
 Bolton says, is more prosaic than poetical, and whom Jonson 
 thought ' a good honest man but no poet,' whereas he thought 
 highly of Chapman. 
 
 Next, instead of commending the ' good, cordial, sappy style ' of 
 Decius (Drayton), Brabant calls him ' a suiTcin'd jaded wit — but a' 
 rubs on.' And then in a collective judgment he says of them, 
 * they are all apes and gulls, vile imitating spirits, dry heathy turfs.' 
 
 Whether any of the other characters in the play were meant for 
 living persons is not easy to decide. There is nothing very charac- 
 teristic in Pasquil, though the name would suggest Nash. Dr 
 Nicholson suggests that, as Nash was just dead, Marston, like 
 Nicholas Breton, might usurp his literary name in order to profit 
 by its popularity. Planet, to whom the sceptre of criticism seems 
 to be tacitly conceded, one hopes may have been meant for Shak- 
 spere.
 
 [From the end of the play, in the original.^ 
 
 The names of all the Men and Women, 
 that Act this Play. 
 
 The Men. 
 
 1. Sir Edward Fortune. 
 
 2. Brabant Signior, and his Page. 
 
 3. Brabant Junior, and his Page. 
 
 4. Planet. 
 
 5. Puffe, and his Page. 
 
 6. John Ellis. 
 
 7. Mammon the Vsurer, with a great nose. 
 
 8. Flawne his Page. 
 
 9. Timothy Twedle. 
 
 10. lacke Drum. 
 
 11. Pasquil. 
 
 12. Mounsicur. 
 
 The Women. 
 
 1. Kafherine. 
 
 2. Cariidia. 
 
 3. Winifrldr. 
 
 4. Market Woman.
 
 lACKE DRVMS 
 
 Entertainement, 
 
 O R 
 
 The Comedie of P a s q v i l, and 
 
 K A T II E R I N E.^ 
 
 I 
 
 The Introduction. 
 
 Enter the Tyer-man. 
 
 N good faith, Gentlemen, I thinke we shall be forced to giue 
 you right lacke Drums entertainement,^ for he that composde 
 the Booke, we should present, hath done vs very vehement 
 wrong, he hath snatched it from vs, vpon the very instance of 
 entrance, and with violence keepes the boyes from camming on 
 the stage. So, God helpe me, if we wrong your delights, His 
 infinitely against our endeuours, vnlesse zee should make a 
 tumult in the Tyring-house. Exit Tyer-man, 
 
 Enter one of the Children. 
 
 You much mistake his Action, Tyer-man ; 9 
 
 His violence proccedes not from a minde 
 That grudgeth pleasure to this generous presence ; 
 
 1 & 2 See p. 140, 1. 135.
 
 134 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 But doth protest all due respect and loue, 13 
 
 Vnto this choise selected influence. 
 
 He vowes, if he could draw the musick from the Spheares, 
 
 To entertayne this presence with delight, 
 
 Or could distill the quintessence of heauen 1 6 
 
 In rare composed Scenes, and sprinkle them 
 
 Among your eares, his Industrie should sweat 
 
 To sweeten your delights : but he was loth. 
 
 Wanting a Frologue, and our selues not perfect, 20 
 
 To rush vpon your eyes without respect : 
 
 Yet if youle pardon his defects and ours, 
 
 Hee'le giue vs passage, and you pleasing scenes, 
 
 And vowes not to torment your listning eares 24 
 
 With mouldie fopperies of stale Poetrie, 
 
 Vnpossihle drie mustie fictions : 
 
 And for our parts, to gratifie your fauour, 
 
 Weele studie till our cheekes looke wan with care, 28 
 
 That you our pleasures, we your loues may share. Exit. 
 
 AcTvs Primvs. 
 
 Enter lacke Drum, and Timothy Twedle, with a 
 Taber and a Pipe. 
 
 Brum. /'"^ Ome Timothy Twedle, tickle thy Pipe on the Greene, as 
 ^- — ' I haue tippled the pot in the celler, and the hey for the 
 honor of High-gate ! you old Troian. 
 
 Tioedle. And a heigh for the honor of Ilggate ! Hem. By my holy 
 dam, tho I say it, that shuld not say it, I thinke I am as perfect in
 
 Act I.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 135 
 
 my Pipe, as Odiccrs in poling, Courtiers in flatterie, or Wenches ia 
 falling : Why, looke you, lucke Brum, 'tis euen as uaturall to rae, 
 as bawdrie to a Somner, knauerie to a Promoter, or damnation to 
 an Vsurer. But is Ilolloioay Morricc prancing vp tlic hill ? 9 
 
 Drum. I, I ; and Sir Edicard, and tlie yellow tooth'd, sunck- 
 eyde, gowtie shankt Vsurer, Mamon, my young Mistresses, and all 
 are comming to the Greene. Lay cushions, lay the cushions ! ha, the 
 IVenchcs ! 12 
 
 Twed. The wenches, ha ! When I was a young man and could 
 tickle the Minikin, and made them crie " thanks, sweet Timothy," I 
 had the best stroke, the sweetest touch, but now (I may sigh to say 
 it) I am falne from the Fiddle, and betooke me to thee. 16 
 
 He playes oh his Pijae. 
 
 Enter Sir Edward Fortune, M. Mamon, Camelia, Kathe- 
 rine, and JFinifride, Camelias maide. 
 
 Sir Ed. Sit, M. Mamon. Ila, here's a goodly day nigh ! 
 
 Mam. I thanke you, sir, and faith, what newes at court ? 
 
 Sir Ed. What newes at Court ? Ila, ha ! Now lesu God ! 
 Fetch me some ^?^rc?e«ar wine. What newes at Court ? 20 
 
 Heprobate fashion, when each ragged clowt, 
 Each Coblers spawne, and yestie, bowzing bench, 
 Heekes in the face of sacred maiestie 
 
 His stinking breath of censure ! Out-vpon't ! He drinks. 
 
 W^hy, by this Burdeux iuyce, 'tis now become 25 
 
 The shewing-horne of Bezelers discourse, 
 The common foode of prate : " what newes at court ? " 
 But in these stitfe neckt times, when euery lade 2S 
 
 Hutfes his vpreared crest, the zealous bent
 
 136 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act I. 
 
 Of Councellors solide cares is trampled on 
 
 By euery hacknies heeles : Oh, I could burst 
 
 At the coniectures, feares, preuentions, 32 
 
 And restles tumbling of our tossed braines : 
 
 Yee shall haue me an emptie caske that's furd 
 
 Witli nought but barmie froth, that ne're traucld 
 
 Beyond the confines of his Mistris lips, 36 
 
 Discourse as confident of peace with Sjia'me, 
 
 As if the Genim of quicke Michiauel 
 
 Vsher'd his speech ! 
 
 Mam. Oh forbeare, you are too sharpe with me. 40 
 
 S. Ed. Nay, M. Mamon, misinterpret not, 
 I onely burne the bauen heath of youth. 
 That cannot court the presence of faire time 
 
 With ought but with, " what newes at Court, sweet sii*? " 44 
 
 I had rather that Kemps Morice were their chat ; 
 For of foolish, actions, may be theyle talke wisely, but of 
 Wise intendments, most part talke like fooles. 
 The summe is this, beare onely this good thought, 48 
 
 The Counsell-charaber is the Phoenix^ nest. 
 Who wastes it selfe, to giue vs peace and rest. 
 
 The Taher and Pipe strike vp a Morrice. 
 A shoute within. 
 A Lord, a Lord, a Lord^ who ! 
 
 Ed. Oh, a MoiTice is come, obserue our country sport. 
 'Tis Whitson-tyde, and we must frolick it. 52 
 
 1 See note 2, p. 208.
 
 Act I.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 137 
 
 lEnter the Morrice. 
 
 The Song. 
 
 SKip it, and trip it, nimhbj, nimblij, tickle it, tickle it, luntily. 
 Strike vp the Tuber, for the toenches fauour, tickle it, tickle it 
 lustily : 
 Let vs be scene, on Hygate-G/-<?<?«e, to dance for the honour of Hollo- 
 way. 
 Since we are come hither, let's spare for no leather, 56 
 
 To dance for the honour of HoUoway. 
 
 Ud. Well said, my boyes, I must haue my Lords liuory. "What 
 is't, a May -pole ? Troth, 'twere a good body for a courtiers imprezza, 
 if it bad but this life, FrustrafloreHcit. Hold Cousin, hold. GO 
 
 lie giues the Foole money. 
 Toole. Thankes, Cousin, when the Lord my Fathers Audit 
 comes, wee'l repay you againe. Your beueuolence too, sir. 
 Mam. What, a Lords sonne become a begger ? 
 Foole. Why not, when baggers are become Lords sons ? Come, 
 'tis but a small trifle. 65 
 
 Mam. Oh, sir, many a small make a great. 
 Foole. No, sir, a few great make a many small. Come, my Lords, 
 poore and neede hath no law. 68 
 
 S. Ed. Nor necessitic no right. Brum, downe with them into 
 the Celler. llcst content, rest content, one bout more, and then 
 away. 
 
 Foole. Speak like a true hart. I kisse thy foot sweet knight. 73 
 
 The Morrice sing and dance, and Exeunt. 
 Mam. Sir Edward Fortune, you keepe too great a house. 
 I am your friend, in hope your sonne in law,
 
 138 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 And from my loue I speake. You kcepe too great a house. 
 
 Goe to, you doe. Yon same drie throated huskes 76 
 
 Will sucke you vp ; and you are ignorant 
 
 What frostie fortunes may bcnumme vour age : 
 
 Pouertie, the Princes frowne, a ciuill warre, or — 
 
 S. Ed. Or what? Tush, tush, your life hath lost his taste. 80 
 Oh, madnesse ! still to sweat in hot pursuit 
 Of cold abhorred sluttish niggardise : 
 To exile ones fortunes from tlieir natiue vse : 
 
 To entertaine a present pouertie, 84 
 
 A willing want, for Infidell mistrust 
 Of gracious prouidence : Oh Lunacie ! 
 I haue two thousand pound a yeere, and but two girles : 
 I owe nothing : Hue in all mens loue : 88 
 
 Why should I now goe make my selfe a slaue 
 Vnto the god of fooles ? Put worst : then, here's my rest — 
 I had rather line rich to die poor e, then line poor e to die rich. 91 
 
 Mam. Oh, but so great a masse of coyne might mount from 
 wholsome thrift, that after your decease your issue might swell out 
 youi' name with pompe. 
 
 8. Ed. Ha. I was not borne to be my cradles drudge : 
 To choke and stifle \^ my pleasures breath : 96' 
 
 To poysou with the venomd cares of thrift 
 My priuate sweet of life : onely to scrape 
 A heape of muck : to fatten and manure 
 
 The barren vertues of my progenie, 100 
 
 And make them sprowt, spight of their want of worth : 
 No, I doe loue my Girles should wish me Hue, 
 Which few doe wish that haue a greedie Syre :
 
 Act I.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 139 
 
 But still expect and gape with hungric lip, I'Jl 
 
 When hee'le giue vp his gowtic stewardship. 
 
 Mam. You touch the quick of sense, but then I wonder 
 You not aspire vnto the eminence 
 
 And height of pleasing life : To Court ! To Court ! 103 
 
 There burnish ; there spread ; there stick in pompe, 
 Like a bright Diamond in a Ladies brow ; 
 There plant your fortunes in the flowring spring, 
 And get the Sunne before you of respect : 112 
 
 There trench your sclfc within the peoples lone. 
 And glitter in the eye of glorious grace. 
 What's wealth without respect and mounted place ? 
 
 S. Ed. Worse and worse. I am not yet distraught. 116 
 
 I long not to be squeas'd with mine owne waight : 
 Nor hoise vp all my sailes to catch the winde 
 Of the drunke reeling Commons : I labour not 
 To haue an awfidl presence, nor be fear'd 120 
 
 (Since who is fear'd, still feares to be so fear'd) 
 I care not to be like the Iloreb Calfe, 
 One day ador'd, and next pasht all in peeees : 
 Nor doe I enuie Fohjpliemlan puffes, 124- 
 
 Swizars slept greatnesse : I adore the Sunne, 
 Yet lone to Hue within a temperate zone : 
 Let who will climbe ambitions glibbcry rounds, 
 And leane vpon the vulgars rotten lone, 123 
 
 I'le not corriuall him : The Sunne will giue 
 As great a shaddow to my trunck as his : 
 And after death like Chesmen hauing stood 
 In play for Bishops, some for Knights, and Pawnes, 132
 
 HO A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act I. 
 
 We all together shall be tumbled vp, into one bagge. 
 
 Let hush'd calme quiet, roek my life asleepe : 
 
 And being dead, my owne ground presse my bones, 
 
 Whilest some old Beldame hobbling ore my graue, 136 
 
 May mumble thus : Here lijes a Kn'ujht, lohose money 
 
 Was his slaue. Now lacke, what newes ? 
 
 Enter lacke Drum. 
 
 Drum. And please your worship, the Morrice haue tane their 
 liquor. 140 
 
 Sir Ed. Hath not the liquor tane them ? 
 
 Drum. Tript vp their heeles, or so ? One of them hatb vndertaken 
 to dance the Morrice from Hi/yaie to Holloway, on his heeles, with 
 his hands vp wards. 144 
 
 S. Ed. That's nothing hard. 
 
 Drum. Yes, sir. 'Tis easier for him to dance on his head then his 
 heeles, for indeede his heeles are turn'd ranck rebels, they will not 
 obey, but they are tumbling downe the hill a-pace. 148 
 
 Mam. And I must after them. Farewell,mysoules delight : Sweet 
 Katherine, adieu ! Camelia, good night. 
 
 S. Ed. Nay, not to London, sir, to night, Ifaith, at least stay 
 supper. 152 
 
 Drum. Harke you, sir. There's but two Lambs, a dozen Capons, 
 halfe a score couple of rabbets, three tartes, and foure tansies, for 
 supper, and therefore I beseech you giue him lacke Drums inter- 
 tainment : Let the lehusite depart in peace. 156 
 
 Sir Edw. Why, lacke is not that sufficient ! 
 
 Drum. I, for any Christian, but for a yawning Vsurer, 'tis but a 
 bit, a morsell. If you table him, heele deuoure your whole Lordship.
 
 Act I.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 141 
 
 He is a Quick-sand ; a Uoodwln; a Gulfc : As luingrie as the jawes of 
 a layle. Ilee will waste more substance then Ireland Soultliers ; A 
 Dye, a Drabhe, and a Pannch-swolne-Vsurer, deuoure whole Mon- 
 archies : Let him passe, sweet Knight, let him passe. 
 
 Sir Edw. Peace, knaue, peace ! 164 
 
 Daughter, lay your expresse commandement ^^on the stay 
 of Master Mamon. What, 'tis womens yeere ! 
 Bian doth i^ule, and you must domineere. 
 
 Mam. No, shecle not wish my stay. Oh, I am curst 108 
 
 With her inexorable swiftnesse ! By her loue, 
 
 Which dotes me more then new coin'd glowing gold, 
 
 The vtmost bent of my atl'ection 
 
 Shoots all my fortunes to obtaine her loue ; 172 
 
 And yet I cannot praise, but still am loth'd, 
 
 My presence hated : therefore, Mamon, downe, 
 
 Farewell, Sir Edicard, farewell beauties Crowne. 
 
 Sir. Edw. Faith, as it please you for going, and her for wooing, 
 
 I will inforce ncyther. 177 
 
 Kath. With your pardon, sir, I shal sooner hate my selfe. 
 
 Then loue him. 
 
 Sir Edw. Nay, be free, my daughters, in election. 180 
 
 Oh, how my soule abhors inforced yokes, 
 
 Chiefly in loue, where the affections bent 
 
 Should wholy sway the fathers kind consent. 
 
 'Fore God, when [ was batcheler, had a friend, 184 
 
 Nay, had my father wisht me to a -wife, 
 
 That might haue lik'd me, yet their verie wish 
 
 Made me mistnist my Loue had not true course, 
 
 But had some sway from dutie, which might hold 188
 
 142 A PLEASANT CO ME DIE [Act I. 
 
 For some slight space : but 6, when time shall search 
 
 The strength of lone, then vertue, and your eye, 
 
 Must knit his sinewes : I chusde my selfe a wife, 
 
 Poore, but of good discent, and wee did Hue 192 
 
 Till death diuorc'd vs, as a man would wish : 
 
 I made a woman ; now, wenches, make a man : 
 
 Choose one either of valour, wit, lioncstie, or wealth, 
 
 So he be gentle, and you haue my heart, 196 
 
 Ifaith you haue : "VMiat ! I haue land for you both ; 
 
 You haue loue for your selues. Heeres master Mamon now. 
 
 Brum. A Club-fisted Vsurer. 
 
 Sir Eilw. A wealthie, carefull, thriuing Citizen. 200 
 
 Mam. Carefull, I. I let nothing without good blacke and white, 
 I warrant you. 
 
 Drum. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. No, sir. 204 
 
 Brum. A little backe wind, sauing your Wor. sir. 
 
 Mam. I am scoft at, where's my man there ? Ho ! 
 
 Came. Sir, you need not take the pepper in the nose. 
 Your nose is firie enough. 208 
 
 Mam. What Flawne ! what Christopher ! 'Hart where's the knaue 
 become ? Hold, sirrah, carrie my cloake. 
 
 Unter Flawne. 
 
 Kath. It seemes he can scarce carrie himselfe. 
 
 Brum. He's ouer the shooes, yet heele hold out water, for T haue 
 liquor'd him soundly. 212 
 
 Mam. Why cannot you come where headie liquor is, but you 
 must needs bouze ?
 
 Act I.] OF TASOVIL AND KATHERINE. 143 
 
 "Wliat ! a man may lead a horse to tlic water, but heele cliuso to 
 driiike. 215 
 
 Fiawn. Time, but T am 110 liorse, for I cannot chuse but drinke. 
 
 Mam. A pale weake stripling, yet contend witli Ale? 
 
 Flawn. Wliy, the weakest goe to tlie pot still. 218 
 
 Mam. That jest shall sauc liim. Sir Edward, now good day. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Sir Edw. Nay, sir, weele bring you a little of the way. 
 
 Drum. Rely on me, Chridopher, I will be thy staffe ; 
 And thy Masters nose shalbe tliy lautliorne & candlelight. 222 
 
 Exeunt all. Manent Camelia and TFini/ride. 
 
 TFini. Mistris Camelia, me thinkes, your eye 
 Sparkles not spirit as 't was wout to doe. 
 
 Came. My mind is dull, and yet my thoughts are fixt 
 Vpoa a pleasing obicct, Brabant s lone. 226 
 
 JFini. Indeed young Brabant is a proper man ; 
 And yet his legs are somewhat of the least : 
 And, faith, a chittic, well comph'xiou'd face ; 
 
 And yet it wants a beard : A good, sweet youth; 230 
 
 And yet some say, he hath a valiant breath ; 
 Of a good haire, but oli, his eyes, his eyes I 
 
 Came. Last day thy praise extoki him to the skies. 233 
 
 Wini. Indeed, hee weares good clothes, and throwes his cloake 
 With good discretion vnder his left arme : 
 He curies his boot with judgement, and takes a whiffe 
 With graceful! fashion : sweares a valorous othe ; 
 But, 6 the deuil! hath a hateful fault, he is a yonger brother! 233 
 
 Came. A younger brother ? 6 intolerable ! 
 
 TFini. No, Mistris, no : but there's Master lohn.
 
 144 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Master lohn Ellis .- there's a lad, yfaith. 
 
 Ha, for a vertuous honest good youth ! 243 
 
 Came. Tut, hee is good because hee knowes not how to be bad, 
 Nor wherefore he is good. 
 
 Wini I know not, raee thinkes, not to bee bad, is good inough 
 in these dayes. 246 
 
 Came. Nay, he is a foole, a perfect ideot. 
 
 Wini. Why, all the better. And I'le tell you this : 
 The greatest ladie in the land aflects him, 
 Nay, doates vpon him, I, and lyes with him. 250 
 
 Cam. What ladie, good sweet Wlnifride, what ladie, say ? Faith 
 there bee some good partes about the foole, which I perceiue not, 
 yet another may : what ladie, good sweet TFinifride ? say, quicke, 
 good wench. 254 
 
 Wini. The ladie Fortune. 
 
 Came. Why, my nam's Fortune, too. 
 
 Wini. Then you must needs fauour him ; 
 For Fortune fauours fooles. 258 
 
 Came. Oh, Imt to hugge a foole is odious. 
 
 Wini. Foule water quencheth fire well enough ; 
 And with more liuely pallat, you shall taste 
 
 The juice of pleasures fount, at priuate times : 262 
 
 Pish ! by 'my maiden head, were I to match, 
 I would elect a wealthie foole 'fore all. 
 Then may one hurrie in her chariot. 
 
 Shine in rich pui-pled Tissue, haue hundred loues, 266 
 
 Kule all, pay all, take all, without checke or snib. 
 When being married to a wise man (0 the Lord !) 
 lou are made a foole, a ward, curb'd and controll'd, and
 
 Act I.] OF PASnVIL AND KATHERINE. 145 
 
 (0) out vpoii't ! 270 
 
 Came. Beleeue mc wench, thy words haue fired me. 
 I'le lay me downe vpon a lianke of Piukes, 
 
 And drcamc vpou't. Sweet foole, I, tis most eleere, 273 
 
 A foolish bed-mate, why he hath no peere. Exit Camelia. 
 
 Wini. Ha, ha ! Her lone is as viicertaine as an Almanacke ; as 
 vnconstant as the fashion ; just like a whiffe of Tabacco, no sooner 
 in at the mouth, l)ut out at the nose : I thinke in my heart I could 
 make her enamoured on Timothy Ttcedle. Well, he that fees me 
 best, speeds best. 279 
 
 For as it pleas'd my Ijribed lips to blowe. 
 So turnes her feath'rie fancie to and fro. Exit. 
 
 Enter Brahant Iiinio?' at one doore, Ned Planet 
 at the other. 
 
 Bra. Good speed thee, my good sweet Planet .■ 282 
 
 How doost thou Chuck ? 
 
 Pla. How now, Brahant, where haue you liu'd these three or for ' 
 foure daies ? 
 
 Bra. Ho ! at the glittering Court, my Pytheas. 28G 
 
 Pla. Plague on ye, Pytheas ! Whiit haue you done there ? 
 
 Bra. Why, lane in my Ladies lap ; eat, drinke and sleep. 
 
 Pla. So hath thy Ladies dogge done. What, art in loue 
 With yon JZ^ya^e Maramet still ? 290 
 
 Bra. Still, I still, and still : I, in eternitie. 
 
 Pla. It shalbe chronicled next after the death of Banhes his 
 horse I wonder why thou lou'st her ? 
 
 Bra. Loue hath no reason. 294 
 
 1 for in text, but redundant.— G. 
 VOL. II. 10
 
 146 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Fla. Then is loue a beast. 
 
 Bra. my Camelia is loue it selfe. 
 
 Fla. The deuill shee is : Hart, her lips looke like a dride Neats- 
 toung : her face as richly yellow as the skin of a cold Custard, & 
 her mind as setled as the feet of bald pated Time. 299 
 
 Bra. Plague on your hatefull humour, out vpon't ! 
 Why should your stomacke be so queasie now. 
 As to bespaAvle the pleasures of tlie world ? 
 Why should you ruune an Idle counter-course 
 Thwart to the path of fashion ? Come, your reason ? 304 
 
 O you are buried in Philosophic, 
 And there intomb'd in supernaturals. 
 You are dead to natiue pleasures life. 
 
 Pla. Let me busse thy cheeke, sweet Pugge, 308 
 
 Now I am perfect hate. I lou'd but three things in the world ; Philo- 
 sophic, Thrift, and my selfe. Thou hast made me hate Philosophie. 
 A Vsurers greasie Codpiece made me lothe Thrift : but if all the 
 Brewers jades in the Towne can drugge me from loue of my selfe, 
 they shall doe more then e're the seuen wise men of Greece could : 
 Come, come, now ITe be as sociable as Tivion oi Athens. 314 
 
 Bra. Along with me then, you droming Sacjhut. 
 I'le bring thee to a Crew. 
 
 Bla. Of Pooles wilt not? 317 
 
 Bra. Paith, if you haue any weight of judgement, you may 
 easily sound what depth of wits they draw. There's first my elder 
 brother. 
 
 Bla. Oh, the Prince of fooles ; Ynequal'd Ideot : 320 
 
 He that makes costly suppers to trie wits : 
 And will not sticke to spend some twentie pound
 
 Act I.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 147 
 
 To grope a gull : that same pei-petuall giin, 
 
 That leades his corkic jests, to make them sinke 324 
 
 Into the eares of his deriders, with his owne applause. 
 
 Bra. Indeed, his jests are like Indian beefe, they will not last, 
 & yet he pouders them soundly with his own laughter. Then 
 there's the GoUsh Frenc/i-ma-n, ilounsieur lohnfo de King, know'st 
 thou him? 329 
 
 Pla. Oh, I, to a haire, for I knew him when he had neucr a 
 haire on his head. 
 
 Bra. Ilee is a faithfuU, pure Eogue. 
 
 Pla. I, I, as pure as the gold that hath becne seuen times tryed 
 in the fire. 334 
 
 Bra. Then theres lohn Ellis ; and profound toung'd Master 
 Puffe, hee that hath a perpetuitie of complement, hee whose phrases 
 are as neatly deekt as my Lord Majors hensmen, lice whose throat 
 squeakes like a treble Oi'gan, and speakes as smal and shril, as 
 the Irish-men crie pip, fine pip. And Avhen bis period comes not 
 roundly off, takes tole of the tenth haire of his Bourbon locke : as 
 thus. " Sweet, sir, repute me as a {Pnffe) selected spirit home to hee the 
 admirer of your neaer inougli admired {Pitffe.y 342 
 
 Pla. Oil, wc shall bee ouer-whelm'd with an invndation of 
 laughter ! Come, where are they ? 
 
 Bra. Here, at this taueme. 
 
 Pla. In, in, in, in ! I long to burst my sides, and tyre my splecnc 
 with laughter. Exeunt. 
 
 Enter two Pages, the one laugJiing, the 
 other crying. 
 
 Page 1. Why do'st thou crie? 348
 
 148 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 2. TVhy do'st tliou laugh? 
 
 1. I laugli to see thee crie. 
 
 2. And I crie to see thee laugh. 
 
 Peace be to vs. Heres our Masters. 352 
 
 Enter Brahant Signior, Planet, Brabant lunior, lohn Ellis, 
 Master Puffe, and Monsieur lohnfo de King. 
 
 Bra. Sig. You shall see his humour. I pray you bee familiar 
 with this gentleman, Master Puffe, hee is a man of a well growne 
 spirit, richly worth your. I assure you, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ptoff. Sir, I enrowle you in the Legend of my {_Puffe) intimates. 
 I shall bee infinitely proud if you will deigne to value me worthie 
 the imbracement of your {Puffe) better affection. 358 
 
 Pla. Speake you from your thought, sir ? 
 
 Puffe. I, or would my silke stocke shoidd lose his glosse else. I 
 shall triumph as much in the purchase of your (Puffe) loue, as if I 
 had obtained the great Elixar : Let vs incorporate our affections, I 
 pray you : let mee be forward in your fauour. 
 
 Pla. Sir, I pray you let me beg you for a foole. 364 
 
 Puff. I affect no rudenesse, gentlemen. The heauens stand 
 Propitious to your faire designes : 
 Assoone as next the Sunne shall 'gin to shine, 
 I will salute the eyes of Katherine. 368 
 
 Bra. Sig. Of Katherine ! Master Planet obserue the next : 
 Master lo/in, what makes you so melancholy ? 
 
 Ellis. I doe not vse to answere questions. 
 
 Bra. lu. What are you thinking on now? 372 
 
 Ellis. I doe not vse to thinke.
 
 Act I.] OF PASOVIL AND KATHERINE. 149 
 
 Bra. S'kj. Hce lookes as demurely, as if Lee were asking his 
 father blessing. 
 
 ElUa. I doc not vse to aske my father blessing. 370 
 
 Bra. la. 'Hart, how chance he is out of his similies ? 
 
 Pla. I haue followed Ordinaries this twelue-moueth, onely to 
 find a foole that had lands, or a fellow that would talke treason, 
 that I might beg him. luhn, ])e my Ward, loha, faith, I'le giue 
 thee two coates a yeere and be my foole. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Hee shall bee your foole, and you shall bee his Cox- 
 combe, lla, ha ! I haue a simple wit, ha, ha ! 
 
 Pla. I shall crow o'rc him then. 384 
 
 Enter Winifride. 
 
 TFhiL Is there not one Master lohn Ellis here ? 
 
 Page. There sits the thing so call'd, 
 
 Winifride and Ellis talke. 
 
 Br. Sig. Now to the last course : Monsieur lohnfo de King, 
 I will helpe you to a wench Mounsieur. 388 
 
 Moiin. No point, a burne cliilde fecre de five. 
 
 Ellis. As a hungrie dog waiteth for a mutton bone, or as a 
 tatter' d foot-boy for a cast sute, euen so will I attend on my Mistris. 
 
 Enter Winifride. 
 
 Moun. O my Vinifride ! pree you awe, by gor, me ang de for her. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Nay, stay, stay, I will helpe you to a delicate plump- 
 lipt-wench. 39i 
 
 Moun. Toh, phi, phi, your proffer ware stinke. Stay Vinifride, 
 or by gor die, me die, me die by gor, me ang so desirous, adiew 
 goot sir.
 
 ISO A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Bra. S/ff. Ob, stay Moiinsieur, liow doe you pronounce Be- 
 murra ? Ha, ha ! I'le plague him. 399 
 
 Moun. Grand Sot, my vcncli is gone, and me brule, and me 
 brule, like one mad bule. Me goe into de vater to coole my reine, 
 ang my back made de vater liize agaiue : dus so brale. Me burst vor 
 a vench, and yet, grand poc on you all, pree you adiew. 403 
 
 Mlis. As the ligge is cal'd for when the Play is done, euen so 
 let Mounsieur goe. 
 
 Moun. He, me teach you much French vor dis. I goe to Hi/gate, 
 adiew grand Sots. Exit Mounsieur. 
 
 Ellis. As sore eies cannot indure the Sunne, nor scab'd hands 
 abide salt water, so must I leaue all, and see my Mistris : And as 
 faire Ladies doe vse foule foiles, euen so doe I bid you farewell. 
 
 Exit Ellis. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Why, this is sport Imperial], by my Gentrie! I 
 would spend fortie Crownes, for such another feast of fooles. 
 Ha, ha ! 413 
 
 Bra. III. I wonder who would be the foole then ? 
 
 Bra. SI//. Why, 'tis the recreation of my intellect. I think I 
 speake as significant, ha, ha ! These are my zanyes : I fill their 
 paunches, they feed my pleasures : I vse them as my fooles, faith, 
 ha, ha! 418 
 
 Pla. 'Tis a generous honour ^. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Troth, I thinke you haue a good wit, ha ! Pray you 
 sup with me. I loue good wits, because mine owne is not vnfortu- 
 nate : Pray you sup with me. 422 
 
 Pla. I'le giue God thankes, sir, that hath sent a foole to feed me. 
 
 1 Perhaps should be humour. — G.
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 151 
 
 Bra. Siff. Come along then. Ye shall haue a Capon, a Tansie, 
 and some kick-showes of ray wits, ha, ha ! some toies of my spirit. 
 
 Exit Bra. Slg. and Bra. lunior. 
 
 Pla. I will eate his meate, and spend's monic, that's all the 
 spight r can doe him : but if I can get a Pattent for concealed 
 Sots, that Daw shall troupe among my Ideots. Exit. 
 
 AcTvs Secvndvs. 
 
 Enter M. Puffe with his Page. 
 
 Puff. "T) Oy, what's a clocke ? 
 
 Page. ^~^ Past three, and a faire morning. 
 
 Puff. Burnes not that light within the sacred shrine ? 
 I meane the chamber of bright Kaiherine. 4 
 
 Page. I. Should appeare by these presence, that it doth. 
 
 Piiff. I wonder that the light is vp so soone. 
 
 Page. 0, mistris SnufFe was wearie with sleeping in the socket, 
 and therefore hath newly put on her stammell petticoate, and taken 
 her pewter state, to giue liglit to things are in darknesse. 9 
 
 Puff. I see that women of grauitie and sweetnesse are soone 
 vp. 
 
 Page. And I know that women of leuitie and lightnesse are 
 soone downe. 13 
 
 Puff. Boy cleere thy throte, and mount thy sweetest notes 
 Vpon the bosoms of this sleeke-cheekt aire : 
 That it may gently breathe them in the eare 
 Of my adored Mistris : Come begin. 16
 
 152 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act II. 
 
 The Song. 
 
 ~I \ EUcious beautie that doth lye 
 -* — Wrapt in a skin of luorie, 
 Lye still, lye still vjpon thy hacke : 
 
 And, Fancie, let no sweet dreames lacke 20 
 
 To tickle her, to tickle her with pleasing thoughts. 
 But if thy eyes are open full. 
 Then daine to view an honest gull, 
 
 That stands, that stands, expecting still, 24 
 
 TFhen that thy casement open will, 
 
 And blesse his eyes, and blesse his eyes, with one kind glance. 
 The Casement opens, and Katherine appeares. 
 
 Puff. All happinesse and vnconceiu'd delight 
 Waite on the loue of sweet fac'de Katherine ! 28 
 
 Kathe. Good youth, Amen : I doe returne your wish 
 With ample interest of beatitude. 
 
 Puff. I doe protest, with ceremonious (pufFe) lips. 
 The purest bloud of my affection 32 
 
 Is euen fatally predestinate 
 To consecrate it selfe vnto your (puffe) loue. 
 
 Kaih. Vnto my loue ? Oh, sir, you bind me to you : 
 Eaire Gentleman, I haue a thankefuU heart, 36 
 
 Tho not a glorious speech to sweet my thankes. 
 
 Puff. Keward my loue, then, with your kinder loue. 
 
 Kalh. With my loue, sir ? I relish not your speech. 
 
 Puff. I, with your loue, in pleasing mamage. 40 
 
 Kath. Alas, sir, cannot be : my Loues a man. 
 Who hardly can requite the deare protests
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 153 
 
 Of kiud affection, which you secme to vow 
 
 Vnto his fortunes. Kind youth, you did wish 44 
 
 All happinesse to wait vpon my louc : 
 
 Well he shall know it when we next doc meet, 
 
 And thanke you kindly : now good morrow, sweet. 
 
 Fuff. You take my, my, ray meaning (puffe.) 48 
 
 Pag. Nay, if he be puffing once, tlie fire of his wit is out. 
 
 Viiff. Why, shce is gone. 'Hart, did I rise for this ? 
 
 Page. She cannot indure puffing. O, you puft her away ! 
 
 TuJ}". Let's slinke along vnseene : 'tis yet scarce day. 52 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Enter Mamon with Flawne, hearing a light 
 
 hefore Mamon. 
 
 Flawn. Now, me thinkes I hold the candle to the Deuil. 
 
 Mam. Put out the liglit, the day begins to breake. 
 
 Flawn. AYoidd the day and thy necke were broke together. 
 
 Mam. Oh, how the gowt and loue doe tire me ! 56 
 
 Flawn. Why, sir, loue is nothing but the verie gowt. 
 
 Mam. As how, Flawne ? as how ? 
 
 Flawn Thus, sir : gowt and loue, both come with idlenesse ; 
 both incurable ; both humorous ; oncly this difference : the gowt 
 causeth a great tumour in a mans legs, and louc a great swelling in 
 a womans beUv. 62 
 
 Mam. Why, then Loue, O Gowt, gowtie Loue ! how thou 
 tormentst old Mamon. Good morrow to the sweet-lipt Katherine. 
 Eternall spring vnto thy beauties loue ! 
 
 Kath. Alas, good aged sii", what make you vp ? 6 G 
 
 In faith, I pittie you, good soule to bed. 
 Troth, soone youle crie, Oh God, my head, my head.
 
 154 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II. 
 
 Mam. No, Katherine, the wrinkling print of Time 
 Err'd when it seal'd my forehead vp with age : 70 
 
 I haue as warme an arme to entertainc 
 And hugge thy presence in a nnptiall bed 
 As those that haue a cheeke more liuely red : 
 
 And tho my voice be rude, yet Flawne can sing 74 
 
 Feans of beautie, and of Katherine. 
 List to the Musicke that corrupts the gods, 
 Subverts euen destinie, and thus it shogs. 
 
 The Song. 
 
 ^~~^ Hunch, chiaick, chuuck, chunck, Jus bags doe ring, 78 
 
 ^' — 'A merrie note with chuncks to sing : 
 Those that arefarre more yong and wittie 
 Are wide from singing such a Dittie 
 
 As Chimck, chunck chunck. 
 There's Chunck, that makes the Lawyer prate, 82 
 
 There's Chunck, that makes afoole of Fate : 
 There's Chunck, that if you will be his. 
 Shall make you Hue in all hearts blisse. 
 
 With Chunck, chunck, chunck. 
 
 Kat. 'Tis wel sung, good old man. Hence with your gold. 86 
 Leaue the greene fields, 'tis dewie, youle take cold. 
 
 Mam. The casements shut. Well, here He lurke and stay, 
 To see who beares the glorie of the day. 
 Hence, hence, to London, Flawne, let me alone. 90 
 
 Flawn I can hardly leaue him alone, for the Deuill and double 
 Duckats still associate him : but I am gone. Fxit.
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 155 
 
 Enter Pasquill. 
 
 Pas. The glooming morne with siiining armcs hath chaste 
 The siluer Easigne of the grimrae-cheekt night, 94 
 
 And forc'd the sacred troupes of sparkling stars 
 Into their priuate Tents ; yet cahnc-husht sleepe 
 Strikes dumbe the snoring world : yet frolicke youth, 
 That's lately matcht vnto a wel shapte Lasse, 98 
 
 Clips his sweet Mistris with a pleasing arme ; 
 Whil'st the great power of Imperious Loue 
 Summons ray dutie to salute the shine 
 
 Of my Loues beauties. Vnequald ir«^/im«e / 102 
 
 I bring no Musicke, to prepare thy thoughts 
 To entertaine an amorous discourse : 
 More Musick's in thy name, and sweet dispose, 
 Then in Apollos Lyre, or Orplieus Close. 106 
 
 I'le chaunt thy name, and so inchaunt each eare 
 That Katherinas liappie name shall heare. 
 My Katherine, my life, my Katlier'ine ! 
 
 Kath. My Ned, my Pasqull ! sweet, I come, I come, 110 
 
 Euen with like swiftnesse, tho not with like heart : 
 As the fierce Fawlcon stoupes to rising fowle, 
 I hurrie to thee : doe not goe away, 
 The place is priuate, and 'tis yet scarce day. 114 
 
 Pas. Oh, these kind words imparadize my thoughts. 
 
 Ma. Ha, ha ! young Pasqidl, haue I found you out ? 
 1st you must bore my nose ? I'le bore your heart : 
 Why, this same boy's as bare as naked truth, 118 
 
 A low-eb'd gaUant, yet sheele match with him :
 
 156 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act II. 
 
 lie match him. If his skinne be ponyard proofe, 
 
 He may scape the force of gohl and murder. If not, 121 
 
 As you returne, sir, I will pepper you. Exit. 
 
 Enter Katherlne to Fasrjuill. 
 
 And art thou come, deere heart, first fee be this, 
 
 This kind imbrace, and next this modest kisse. 124 
 
 Fas. This is no kisse, but an Ambrosian bowle. 
 The Nectar dew of thy delicious sowle : 
 Let me sucke one kisse more, and with a nimble lip. 
 Nibble vpon those Eosie bankes, more soft and cleere 128 
 
 Then is the jewell'd tip of Fenus eare. 
 Oh, how a kisse inflames a louers thought ! 
 With such a feweU let me burne and dye. 
 And like to Hercules so mount the skie. 132 
 
 Katk. Come, you grow wanton. Oh, you bite my lip ! 
 
 Fas. In faith you jest, I did but softly sip 
 The Eoseall juice of your reuiuing breath : 
 
 Let clumsie judgements, chilblain'd gowtie wits 136 
 
 Bung vp their chiefe content within the hoopes 
 Of a stuft drie-Fatt : and repose their hopes 
 Of happinesse, and hearts tranquillitie 
 
 Ypon increase of durt : but let me Hue 14-0 
 
 Clipt in the cincture of a faithfull arme, 
 Luld in contented joy, being made diuine 
 With the most precious loue of Katherine. 
 
 Kath. Let the vnsanctified spirit of ambition 144 
 
 Entice the choice of rauddie-minded dames 
 To yoke themselues to swine, and, for vaine hope
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 157 
 
 Of gay ricli trappings, be still spurd and prickt 
 
 With pining discontent for nuptiall sweets; 148 
 
 But let rae Hue lou'd in my husbands eyes, 
 
 Whose thoughts with mine, may sweetly simpathizc. 
 
 P««. The heauens shall melt, the sun shall cease to shine, 
 Before I leaue the loue of Kutherine. 152 
 
 Kalh. Nay, when heauens melted, & the sun strook dead, 
 Euen then my loue shall not be vanquished. 
 
 Fanq. When I turne fickle, vertue shall be vice. 
 
 Kalh. When I prone false. Hell shall be Paradise. 15G 
 
 Pasq. My life shall be maintain'd by thy kinde breath. 
 
 Kalh. Thy loue shall be my life, thy hate my death. 
 
 Fasq. Oh, when I die, let me imbrace thy waste ! 
 
 Kalh. In death let me be counted thine and chaste ! IGO 
 
 Fasq. Heauens graunt, being dead, my soulc may Hue nie thee. 
 
 Kalh. One kisse shall giuc thee mine eternally. 
 
 Faaq. In faire exchange vouchsafe my heart to take. 
 
 Kaih. With all my mind. Weare this, Ned, for my sake. 164 
 But now no more, bright day malings our loue. 
 Farewell, yet stay ! But 'tis no matter too. 
 My father knowes, I thinke, what must ensue. 
 Adieu! Yet harke ! Nay, faith, adieu, adieu! 168 
 
 Fasq. Peace to thy passions, till next enterview ! 'Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mamon, and Monsieur lohnfor the King. 
 
 Mam. Now Monsieur, be but confident and hold. [? bold] 
 There is the price of bloud. This way he comes. 
 Strike home, bold arme^ and thou shalt want no crownes. 172
 
 158 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II, 
 
 Moun. Feare you noting, when lie is die me bring you word. 
 
 Exit Mamon. 
 
 Hee ! by gor braue crowne, braue monney ! 
 Mee haue liere a patent to take vp, one, two, treescore 
 Vench : fine cvowne, fine vencli, vnreasonably fine, 176 
 
 Dis monney is my baude. Mee send a French crowne 
 To fetch a fine vench, de French crowne fetch de 
 Fine vench, de fine vench take de French crowne, 
 And giue me de French poc. He ! excellent. You see 180 
 
 Mee kill a man, you see mee hang like de BnrgnlUan. 
 Hee no poine : Ilee by Gor, mee haue much vitt, 
 Ang me much bald, and me ang much bald wit. 
 Here come de Gentleman metre Fafsriuil. 184 
 
 Enter Fasqidl. 
 
 Pasqull. Is't possible, that sisters should so thwart 
 In natiue humours ? One's as kind and faire, 
 As constant, vertuous, and as debonaire. 
 
 As is the heart of goodnesse : The other, proud, 188 
 
 Inconstant, fantasticke, and as vaine in loues 
 As trauellers in lyes : Blest Katlierine, 
 Camelia's not thy sister, if shee bee, 
 Shee's bastard to the sweets that shine in thee. 192 
 
 Moun. Boniour Metre Pasquil, sauce lest, mee am hired to kill 
 YOU. Mounsieur Mamon, Mestier : lounck, iounck, giue mee money 
 to stab you ; but mee know there is a God that hate bloud, derfore, 
 me no kill. Me know dere is a vench that loue Crowne, derefore 
 me keepe de money. 197 
 
 Fasq. Vnhallowed villaine, that with gold and bloud,
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 159 
 
 Thinkes that almightie loue can be withstood ! 
 Hold, Mourmeur! There are more Crovvnes, onely doe this : rcturne 
 to Mamoti, tell him the deede is done, aiul briiit,^ liim hither, that 
 hee may vainely triumph in my bloud. I haue some painting, 
 whicli I found by chaunce in loose Camelias chamber. With tliat 
 I'le staine my brest, Goe, and rc'tunie with speed. 204 
 
 Moun. He ! by gor, I smell a rat. Me flie, me flie, by gor. 
 
 Exit Mounsieur. 
 
 Pasq. Lewd miscreant ! that through the throat of hell, 
 Wouldst mount to heauen, and enioy loue, 
 
 Invaluably precious : No, rancke churle, 208 
 
 Thou wast not made to slauer her faire lips 
 With thy dead rcwmy chops, nor clip her waste 
 With thy shrunke bloudlesse arme. I heare him come. 
 Now, Pasqail, faigne. u thou eternall li.uht, 212 
 
 Mourne, that thy creatures should in bloud deliffht ! 
 
 He lies downe, and faines hiniselfe dead. 
 
 Elder Mr/wo?/, and Mounaieitr. 
 
 Mam. Now, smug-fac'd boy, now nibble on her lips. 
 Now sippe the dew of her delicious breath. 
 
 Stinke, rot, damne, bake in thy cluttered bloud : 216 
 
 Snakes, Toades, and Earwigs, make thy skull their nest : 
 Insrendring dew-wormes, cling ore-thwart thv brest ! 
 
 Moim. Hush, hush, leaue praying for dead. 'Tis no good Caluian- 
 isme, Furitauisme. Dissemble, here are company. Exit Moun. 
 
 Enter Brab. Sig. and Planet. 
 B rah. Si If. Good morrow, sir. Who lies there murdrcd ? 221
 
 i6o A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II. 
 
 Mam. Oil, Gentlemen! The kindest, vertuoiis youtli 
 That e're adorned London. Damned tlieeues, 
 To sjDoile such hopes. The last words that he spake 224 
 
 Sticks still within the hollow of mine eare. 
 KatJierine, quoth he, hold M. Mamon deare. 
 I know not what he meant, but so he said. 
 
 If that you passe to ILjgate, tell the Knight 228 
 
 Fasqull is sunkc into eternall night. 
 
 Plan. Faith, 'twas a good youth. Come Brabant, come away. 
 
 Exeunt Brabant and Planet. 
 Mam. Dead Kate, dead Kate, dead is the hoy, 
 That kept rich Mamon from his ioy ! 232 
 
 Mamon slugs, Lantara, §'c. Pasquil riseth, and 
 strlketh him. 
 Mam. Oh, the Deuill ! The ghost of Pasquil! I am dead ! If you 
 haue any curtesie in you, beleeue it. I beleeu'd you when you 
 faign'd, beleeue me now, for I am almost dead, numb'd vp with 
 feare. Giue faith, sweet gentle youth ! 236 
 
 Pasq. Old wretch, amend thy thoughts, purge, purge, repent ! 
 I'le hide thy vlcer, be but penitent. Exit. 
 
 Mam. Ha, I thiuke 'twas but his ghost that swept along. 239 
 
 Enter Monsieur singing. 
 
 Grand sot Mamon, Pho, flvj, phj, phj ! a foutra pour vos chunck 
 cliunchl lohn fo de King, teach you a ding, lohn fo de King 
 grand sot, sot, sot ! Exit Monsieur. 
 
 Mam. Death, plague, and hel, how is curst Mamon vext ! 243 
 Scourg'd with the whip of sharpe derision : 
 I'le home, and starue. This crosse, this peeuish hap,
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. i6i 
 
 Strikes dead my spirits like a thunder-clap. Exit Mamon. 
 
 Enter Brabant lunior, and Planet. 
 
 Br ah. Gods precious ! I forgot to bring my Page, 247 
 
 To breathe some Dittie in my Mistris eare. 
 
 Plan. Wouldst haue a Ballet to salute her \\ith ? 
 
 Brab. No, but a song. How wouldst thou court thy Mistris ? 
 
 Plan. Why, with the World, the Flesh, and the Deuill. 251 
 
 Brab. Right dog ! Well thoult sweare, that I am blest 
 Beyond infinitie of happinesse. 
 When thou beholdest admired Camelia. 25-i 
 
 Plan. And God would blesse mee with three such Mistresses, 
 I would giue two of them to the Deuill, that hee would take the 
 third. 
 
 Brab. Oh, when shee clips, and clings about my necke. 
 And sucks my soule forth with a melting kisse — 258 
 
 Plan. Doth shee vse thee so kindly then, ha ? 
 
 Brab. O, I ; and calls me " deare, deare Brabant^'' and (6 lesu 
 God !) 
 I cannot expresse her sweets of entertaine. 
 
 Shee'le so insinuate with chaste amorous speech, 262 
 
 And play the wanton with such prettie grace. 
 And vowcs loue to me : Oh, I'lc make thee mad 
 To see how gracious Brabanfs in her eye. 
 
 Here is her window ; marke but when I call, 266 
 
 How swift shee comes, and with what kind salutes 
 Shee welcomes me. What, ho, Camelia ! 
 "Faith youle be tane ^-p : what in bed so late ? 
 Whvfrlde lool-es from aboue. 
 
 VOL. II. 11
 
 i62 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II. 
 
 Plan. And you take her vp, Brabdt, sheele take you down. 270 
 
 Brah. Hart ! they heare not : My Camelia, wake ! 
 
 Wini. What harsh, vnciuill tongue keeps such a coyle ? 
 
 JBrab. Winifride, 'tis I. Tell my sweet Buck I am here. 
 Now marke, Ned Planet, now obserue her well. 274 
 
 Wini. Shee wonders at your inidenesse, that intrudes 
 Vpon the quiet of her mornings rest ; 
 And shee's araaz'd, that with such impudence 
 You dare presume to intimate some loue to her; 278 
 
 As if shee knew you more then for a youth, 
 A yonger brother, and a stipendarie. 
 
 Enter lohn Ellis. 
 
 Plan. Now marke, Ned Planet, now obserue her kindnes. 
 Good morrow, M. lohn. 282 
 
 Ellis. As the Countrey maid crieth to her Cow to milke her ; or 
 as the Trauailer knocketh with his Hostessc for a reckning ; euen so 
 doe I call to thee, 6 Mistris. 
 
 Camelia, from her windoiv. 
 
 Came. Sweet lohn, my loue, here's thy Camelia: 286 
 
 Hold, weare this fauour, with this kisse vpon't. 
 
 Brah. Plesh and bloud cannot beare such disgrace ! 
 Brabant heates Ellis. 
 
 Ellis. Helpe, helpe, helpe, helpej,. Hee boxes mee, that hee doth. 
 Helpe, helpe ! 290 
 
 Enter Sir Edward, Eatherine, Brum, and Ttvedle. 
 
 Sir Ed. What outrage haue we here so early vp ? 
 Sir, you doe wrong the quiet of my house.
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 163 
 
 Enter Camella. 
 
 Ifaith you doe, and 'tis but rudely done, 
 
 Goe too, 'tis not. Is this a place to brawle ? 294 
 
 Plan. And please thee, knight, Tie tell thee faith & troth. 
 
 Cam. What, did he strike thee, sweet ? 
 
 ElUs. I, in good deed, law, and a my conscience, I thinke he 
 hath made my nose bleede. 298 
 
 Cam. And would not you draw your weapon out, and to it 
 lustily, as long as you could stand ? 
 
 Ellis. I doe not vse to draw. 
 
 Cam. Did he giue thee a boxe on the eare, and woiddst tliou 
 take it? 303 
 
 Ellis. And he be such a foole to giue it me, why shoiUil not I be 
 so wise as to take it ? 
 
 Cam, Pure honestie ! Kinde Ducke ! Kisse me, sweet lohn. 30 G 
 
 Brab. In. Hart ! Sir Edward, will you suffer this ? 
 Now on my life, shee is enamour'd on the fooles bable. 
 
 Sir Ed. Goe too, sir boy, forbearc, you wrong my loue ; 
 And you forget your selfe to vse such iests, 310 
 
 Such nastie ribauldrie, vpon my daughter : 
 I tell you M. Brabant, shee doth loue ^ 
 Any that meriteth the name of man ! 
 
 Bra. III. Why, he's no man, but a very 31-i 
 
 Sir Ed. Wcl, avcI, no more ; m}- house, my selfe, my loue. 
 Opens their hearts with liberall imbrace, 
 To entertaine your presence : I, or any mans, 
 So they'le be ciuill, modest, not prophane ; 318 
 
 1 doth shee — orig.
 
 1 64 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act 1 1. 
 
 Not like to those that make it their chiefe grace 
 To be qiiite graceles. 
 
 Tlan. "Well said, honest Knight. 
 We haue had bloud enough to day abeadie : 322 
 
 Ned PasquiVs slaine by bloudie miu'dering Eogues. 
 
 Sir Ed. Speake softly ! God forbid, my daughter heares : 
 Tell me the circumstance, I pray you, Sir. 
 
 Kath. Eteniall death vnto my happinesse ! 326 
 
 My Pascpdl slaine ? Oh God, oh God, oh God ! 
 
 Exit Katherine, tearing her haire. 
 
 Plan. I, and I thinke the Vsurer made a Tent 
 Euen of his nose, it was so red and neere. 
 
 Sir Ed. God for his mercy, what mischance is here ! 330 
 
 A good youth, a vertuous modest youth, 
 Ifaith, he was. And I can tell you, sir, 
 My daughter Katherine — "Where is shee now ? 
 Whither's shee gone ? Brum, call her hither, strait. 334 
 
 Drum. Your Brum will sound a call, sir, presently. 
 
 Exit Brum. 
 
 Sir Ed. And as I told you, sir, my daughter Katherine 
 Affected him right dearly : by my peace of soule, 
 If he had liu'd, I coidd haue heartily wisht 338 
 
 He had beene my sonne-in-law, Ifaith I could : 
 But see the will of God. How now. Brum, 
 Where's my daughter? 
 
 Brum. Sir, shee is either inuisible, or deafe, for I can neither see 
 her, nor shee heare me. 343 
 
 Sir Ed. Body of mee, my heart misgiues me now ! 
 Looke, call, search, run all about.
 
 Act II.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 165 
 
 My daughter gone ? Goe all and searck her out. 3-46 
 
 Here's Pasquil, ha ? Is this the man that's dead ? 
 
 Enter Pasquil. 
 
 Pasq. Let me intrcat this fauour, doe not search 
 Or be inquisitiue why I fain'de : 
 
 Eepute me worthy your better censure : and thus thinke 350 
 
 My cause was vrgent ; the rest lye buried. 
 
 S. Ed. Well, I would you had not fainde. 
 
 Pasq. Why, would you haue had me dead indeede ? 
 
 S. Ed. Oh no, but I haue lost my child, I feare, 354 
 
 By your strange fayning. Shee no sooner heard 
 The tydings of your death, but gone shee was, 
 And God knowes whither. Ha ! what newes now ? 
 
 Enter Drum. 
 
 Drum. 'Tis easier to finde wit in Ballating, honestie in 358 
 
 Brokers, Virginitie in Shordich, then to heare of my Mistris. 
 
 S. Ed. Broch me a fresh butt of Canary sacke, 
 Let's sing, drinke, sleepe, for that's the best reliefe 
 To di-owne all care, and ouer-whelme all griefe. 362 
 
 Powre wine, sound musicke, let our blouds not freeze. 
 Drinke Dutch, like gallants, let's drinke vpsey freeze. 
 
 Exeunt S. Edward, Planet, Brabant, Drum and Ticedle. 
 
 Came. Seruant, youle goe in too, and stay dinner ? 
 
 Ellis. I, in truth, for as the itch is augmented 36G 
 
 By scratching, so is my loue by seeing my ^Mistris. 
 
 Exeunt Gamclia and Ellis, 
 
 Pasq. How's this, how's this, My Katherine gone hence ?
 
 1 66 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act III. 
 
 Senses awake ! And thou amazed soule 
 
 Vnwinde thy selfe from out the Labyrinth 370 
 
 Of gaping Avonder, and astonishment. 
 
 My Katherine departed ? how ? which way ? 
 
 Foole, foole, stand not debating, but pursue : 
 
 Haste to her comfort, for from thee doth spring 374 
 
 (Wretch that thou art) her cause of sorrowing ! Exit. 
 
 AcTvs Tertivs. 
 
 Enter a Page, solus. 
 
 Page. T T A, ha, ha ! tipsie, tipsie, tipsie ! all turn'd whirlegig ! 
 
 ^ ^ loJmfo de King, Drum, and Timothy Twedle, are rare 
 
 fine, ha ! for the heauens, Ifaith : Drums Lyon drunke, and hee 
 
 dings the pots about, cracks the glasses, swaggers with his owne 
 
 shaddow. Honest Tymothy, is Maiodelin drunke, and he weepes for 
 
 kindnesse, and kisses the hilts of lacke Drums dagger, Mounsieur's 
 
 Goat dranke, and he shmgs, and skrubs, and hee's it for a wench. 
 
 Here they come reeling. I must packe, or wee shall swagger ; for 
 
 they hauing a cracke in their heads, and I a fault in my hands. Wee 
 
 shall ne're agree. 10 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Drum, Mounsieur, and Twedle. 
 
 ' Drum. A seruing-man, quoth you ? Hart ! and if I serue any 
 that's flesh and bloud, would I might ne're taste my liquor more : 
 Stand bare whilst he makes water, out vpon't ! I'le to Ireland, 
 and there I'le Tan, ran, ty, ly, dan ; Sa, sa, sa, sa : Nay, 'tis the 
 onely life. 15
 
 Act III.] OF PASnviL AND KATHERINE. 167 
 
 Twed. Nay, good Tliewtc^ hart: good kind lacke, stay. If you 
 would loue me as I louc vou, wee would Hue and die together : 
 And please God, would I were dead, and^ you are gone. And here's 
 M. loJmfo de Kin//, a very honest man too. 19 
 
 Drum. I, I, hee's a very good honest man : for there's not a 
 haire betwixt him and hcauen. 
 
 Twed. Heele liuc with vs now, and teach vs French. 22 
 
 Mou/i. I, by my trott, ang you hclpe me to a vench now, me 
 teach you French, flue towsaud, towsand yeere. 6, your secke is 
 bote, and make me brule, and brule, and burne, for a (hee) by gor 
 your secke is bote. 36 
 
 Unter Winifride. 
 
 Drum. Welcome, BasiUsco, thou wilt carrie leuell, and knock 
 ones braines out with thy pricking wit. Kisse mee, sweet wench, 
 kisse me. 29 
 
 Moun. Hee ! my Vinifride, by gor you are come, in te verie nick 
 to pleasure mee. Free you kisse mee, cKp mee, loue me, or by gor 
 me ang die, certaine. 
 
 Drum. Out, you French dogge ! touch my Loue, 
 and I'le 34 
 
 Moun. Touch her ! by gor me touch her, and touch her, and 
 touch her ! 
 
 Drum, I'le touch you, I'le flash you, I'le vench yee ! 
 
 Wini. Fut vp, put vp, for the passion of God, put vp ! or if youle 
 needs too it, sheathe both yoiu* weapons in me first ! 
 
 Drum. Hart ! touch my loue, touch my Winifride 1 40 
 
 Winif. Harke you, lack. Come to my chamber an houre hence, 
 and you shall haue what you will aske, and I can graunt. 
 1 Sweet-heart (r)— G. • And = an, if.— G.
 
 i68 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Drum. Why, then my choller's downe. lohnfo de King, 43 
 
 Foutra for you. Exit Drum. 
 
 Moim. Foutra for mee! Futtra, futtra, futtra, fiue towsand futtra's 
 for you ! 46 
 
 Twed. Stay, friend lacke, I'le reele along with you, if youle not 
 swagger. Exit Ttcedle. 
 
 Winif. Sweet, sweet Monsieur ! Hang yon slaues, I loue you 
 infinitely. 50 
 
 Moim. By gor, mee teach you French foure towsand yeere dan ! 
 
 Winif. Well, Mounsieur, I'le giue you pleasure. 
 
 Moun. But will you presently ? quickly, for by gor me am a hot 
 shot. 54 
 
 Winif. 1, so they say, I heard you were vnder the Torred zone 
 last day. 
 
 Moun. Pish ! 'tis no matter, me am like a Tabacco pipe, de more 
 me am burne, de cleaner me am. 58 
 
 Winif Well then, two houres hence come to my chamber, and 
 Timothy Twedle shall giue you me in a sacke. 
 
 Moun. In a sacke ? Ha, very well. 61 
 
 Winif And you shall carrie mee to my Masters house at Hollo- 
 way, for in the house wee cannot be priuate without suspect. Till 
 then, farewell. Exit Winif ride. 
 
 Moun. By my trot, vnreasonably good ! I carrie de vench on my 
 backe, and de vench carrie mee on her (hee !) Fine backe, fine vench, 
 fine Mounsieur, fine, fine, fine Knight, all fine, vnreasonably fine. 
 
 Mee sing vor ioy ! By gor mee sing la, liro, liro, la, lilo ! Exit.
 
 Act III.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 169 
 
 Enter Brabant Signior, Brabant lunior, and Planet. 
 
 Bra. Sir/. Gentlemen, as e're you lou'd wench, obserue M. Pi'ffe, 
 and me. 70 
 
 Bra. lun. What shall we obsei-ue you for ? 
 , Bra. Sig. Oh, for our complement. 
 
 Planet. Complement, what's that ? 
 
 Bra. Sig. Complement, is as much as (what call you it) 'tis 
 deriued of the Greeke word — a pox on't. 75 
 
 Plan. Complement, is as much as — what call you it; 'tis deriued 
 of the Greeke word — a pox on't. 
 
 Enter Pttffe. 
 
 Bra. Sig. You shall see M. Puffe and mee tosse it. Ifaith, marke 
 with what grace I encounter liim. 79 
 
 Plan. Hart ! Thy brother's like the instrument the Merchants 
 sent ouer to the great Turke : You need not play vpon him, hee'le 
 make musicke of himselfe, and hee bee once set going. 83 
 
 Bra. Sig. M. Puffe, I long to doe faire seruice to your loue. 
 
 Puffe. Most accomplisht wit, exquisitely accoutred {Piffe) ludge- 
 ment. I could wish my abilitie worthy your seruice, and my seruice 
 worthy your abilitie. 86 
 
 Plan. By the Lord, fustian, now I vnderstand it : complement 
 is as much as fustian. 
 
 Bra. Sig. I protest, your abilities are infinite, yoi;r perfections 
 matclilesse, your matchlesse perfection infinite in abilitie, and your 
 infiidte abilitie matchlesse in perfection. 91 
 
 Plan. Good againe ! Keioyce Brabant, thy brother wiU not liue 
 long, he talkes idlely alreadie.
 
 170 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 Pi'ffe. Delicious spirit, disparage not your courtesie. Stand not 
 bare to him that was borne to honor you. 95 
 
 Bra. Sig. Let vs presse our haires then, with an vniforme con- 
 sent. 
 
 Pnffe. The pressure of my haires, or the puncture of my heart, 
 stands at the seruice of your soUide perfections : My life is bound 
 to your loue, your loue being my life : Tho my life bee not wortliy 
 your loue, your perfection is the center to which all the paraleUs of 
 my affection are drawne : Your loue my life, your perfection my 
 affection, being 103 
 
 Plan. Your Asse, mv Foole ! 
 
 Pi(ffe. Being chain'd by the mightie coplet of ineuitable destiny. 
 Who seeth the Sunne, but hee must adore it ? Who seeth beautie, 
 but hee must honour it ? Who vieweth gold, but he must couet it ? 
 Then (0 then!) who can behold your sun-like beauteous golden 
 beauties, but he must more then adore, much more then honour, 
 and most infinitely loue to be out — out — out — 110 
 
 Bra. In. Out, he is indeed. 
 
 Plan. He's at a stand, like a resty lade, or a Fidler, when he 
 hath crackt his Minikin. 
 
 Pnffe. Outragiously addicted to the worthy pursuit of such 
 matchlesse worth. 115 
 
 Bra. Slg. Sir, I can rest but truely thankefidl for your more 
 then good conceit of my no lesse then little worth. And now, sir, 
 for the consequent houres of the day, how stands your intention for 
 imployment ? 119 
 
 Puffe. I ha' tane my leaue of Sir Edward ; bid adieu to loue ; my 
 Mistris is gone ; my humour is spent ; my ioyes are at an end, and 
 therefore, Gentlemen, I leaue loue, and fall to the {piffe) Law. I
 
 Act III.] OF PASnVIL AND KATIIERINE. 171 
 
 Avill interrc my sclfc in Ploydens coffin, and take an ctcraall 
 Conge of the world. And so, sweet gallants, farewell. Exit. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Nay, I'le follow you to your graue. Gentlemen, youle 
 not accompanie the coarse ? Exit. 
 
 Plan. No, no. Looke, Ned BraUiut, yon's a pleasing obiect for 
 
 thy eyes. 128 
 
 Enter Camelia, Ellis, and TFinifride. 
 
 Bra. III. My Mistris is turn'd Bucephalus : no body must ride 
 her but Alexander : no bodie kisse her, but lo/m Ellis. 
 Now stand and list, good Planet. 
 
 Cam. Come SAveetest loue, let's giue time pleasing wing, 132 
 "VMiat shall we make, some purposes, or sing ? 
 
 Ellis. I will sing, so you will beare my burthen. 
 
 Cam. Come, lay thy head then in my Virgin lap, 
 And with a soft sleeke hand I'le clap thy cheeke, 136 
 
 And wring thy fingers with an ardent gripe : 
 I'le breathe amours, and euen intrance thy spirit, 
 And sweetly in the shade lie dallying. 
 
 The Song. 
 
 NOio dally, sport, and play, this merry month of May, 140 
 
 This is the merry, merry month, Sioeet time for dallying : 
 The Birds sit chirping, chirping ; the Bones sit billing, billing, 
 Philip is treading is treading, is treading, is treading, is treading. 
 
 All are to pleasures willing. 144 
 
 You that are f aire and wittie, Obserue this easie Bittie, 
 And leatie not Natures, Natures blisse ; Boe not refuse to Jcisse. 
 TJie Birds sit chirping, chirping ; the Boues sit billing, billing, 
 Philip is treading, is treading, ^c. 148 
 
 Bra. lun. Death ! I can holder : Life of loue,
 
 172 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Amazing beautie ! Let not me seeme rude, 
 Tho tlius I seeme to square with modestie — 
 
 'Ellis. Pray you let me goe, for liee'le begin to square : 153 
 
 And euen as some doe weare Muffes for warmth, some for wanton- 
 nesse, some for pride, some for neither, but to hide gowtie fingers, 
 so will I get your Fathers consent, and marrie you. Fare you well. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Cam. Sir, it were good you got a benefice, 156 
 
 Some Evenuch'd Yicaridge, or some Fellowship, 
 To prop vp your weake yonger brothership. 
 Match with your equalls, dare not to aspire 
 My seate of loue : I wisse, Sir, I looke higher. 160 
 
 Bra. Iim. Astonishment of Nature, be not proud 
 Of Fortunes bounties : Bralant is a man, 
 Tho not so clog'd with durt as others are : 
 
 I doe confesse my yonger brothership ; 164 
 
 Yet therein lay no such disparagement 
 As your high scorne imputes vnto my worth. 
 Coach- lades, and Dogs, are coupled still together 
 Only for outward hkenesse, growth and strength, 168 
 
 But the bright modells of eternitie 
 Are ioyn'd together for afi"ection. 
 Which in the soule is form'd. Oh, let this moue. — 
 Loue should make marriage, and not marriage Lone. 172 
 
 Pla. Woo her no more, Brabant : thou'lt make her proud. 
 You Butch Ancient, why shoidd you looke higher ? 
 His birth's as good as yours, and so's his face — 
 Put oif your lengle-Iangles, and be not as faire, (and^) 176 
 
 1 ' And not ' in original. — G.
 
 Act III.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 173 
 
 He shall renounce it, 'for this Audience — 
 
 Put off your clothes, and you arc like a Bayihery cheese, 
 
 Nothing but paring : \Miy should you he proud, 
 
 And looke on none but Weather-cocks, forsooth? 180 
 
 O, you shall haue a thousand pound a yeere ! 
 
 B'ar Ladie, that's a bumming sound. But, harke ! 
 
 Wilt therefore be a slaue, vnto a slaue. 
 
 One that's a bound. Rogue vnto Ignorance ? 1S4 
 
 Well, thou'lt serue to make him gellide broaths. 
 
 And scratch his head, and may be, now and then 
 
 Heele slauer thee a kisse. Plague on such marriages ! 
 
 Cam. Kude, vnciuill Clowne ! 188 
 
 Pla. Tut, raUe not at me ! turn your oie \-pon the leprosie of 
 your owne iudgement. Lothe it, hate it, scorne it, and loue this yong 
 Gentleman ; who is a Foolc in nothing, but in louing thee : 
 mad in nothing, but affecting thee : and curst in eternitie, if he 
 marry thee. 193 
 
 Cam. Sir, you ha' spoke exceeding pleasingly ; 
 For which I loue you, as I loue a dull dead eye. 
 Brabant, I doe coniure thee, court not nie. 19G 
 
 Doe not presume to loue or fancie rae. 
 
 Bra. III. How, not presume to loue or fancie you ? 
 Hart ! I will loue you, by this light I will, 
 
 Whether you will or no, I'le loue you still. 200 
 
 Spight of your teeth I will your loue pursue, 
 I will, by heauen ! and so, sweet soule adieu. Exit Bra. Inn. 
 
 Cam. FareAvell, & neuer view ray face againe. Exit Cam. 
 
 Flan. Harke you, faii-e TTinifride, sweet gentle maid. 204 
 
 1 haue but fained with you all this while,
 
 174 A PLEASANT CO ME DTE [Act III. 
 
 I dote vpon the sweet Camelia ; 
 
 And if your fauour will but second me, 
 
 I vow, when I shall wed Camelia, 208 
 
 To indow you with a hundred pound a yeere ; 
 
 And what I haue shall stand at your command. 
 
 JFin. Sir, I will vndertake to forward your faire loue. 
 So you'le remember what you here doe vow. 212 
 
 Flan. If I forget it, heauen forget me : 
 Doe you but praise me. Let not her once know 
 I loue, or doe affect her, for the world. 
 
 Win. Well, feare no rubs. Farewell, faire bounteous sir. 
 
 Exit TFinifi'ide. 
 
 Plan. It workes, it workes, magnificent delight! 217 
 
 Laughter, triumph ! for e're the Sunne goe downe, 
 Thy forehead shall be wreath' d with pleasures crowne. 
 
 E.vit Planet. 
 
 Enter Pasquil at one doore, and his Page at the other. 
 
 Pas. Now my kind Page, canst thou not heare, nor see, 220 
 Which way my Katherine hath bent her steps ? 
 
 Page. Sir, I can. 
 
 Pas. What, canst thou, my sweet Page ? 
 What, canst thou boy ? 224 
 
 Oh how my soule doth bume in longing hope, 
 And hangs vpon thy lips for pleasing newes ! 
 
 Page. Sir, I can tell ye. 
 
 Pas. What ? ! how my heart doth quake and throb with 
 feare. 229 
 
 Page. Sir, I can teU you nothing of her, in good faith.
 
 Act III.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 175 
 
 Tm. Oh, thou hast tortiir'd mc with lingring hope. 
 Goc, haste away. Flic from the pestilence 232 
 
 Of my contagious griefe ; it will infect thee, boy, 
 Murder thy youth, and poison tliy lifes ioy. 
 Eunne, search out Katherine, in her eies dwell 
 Heauens of joy : but in Fmqidl hell ! 236 
 
 Oil thou omnipotent infinitie ! 
 Cracke not the sinewes of my patience 
 With racking torment : Insist not thus to scourge 
 My tender youtli with sharpe affliction : 240 
 
 If I doe loue that glorie of thy hand, 
 That rich Idea of perfection, 
 With any lustfuU or prophane intent, 
 
 Crost be my louc, murdrcd be all my hopes : 244 
 
 But if witb chaste and vertuous arme I clip 
 The rarest modell of thy workemanship, 
 Be then propitious, O eternall light, 
 And blesse my fortunes, maugre hellish spight ! 248 
 
 Enter Katherine in a petticoate. 
 
 Kat. Blacke soitow, nurse of plaints, of teares and grones, 
 Euaporate my spirit with a sigh, 
 That it may hurrie after his sweet breath, 
 Who made thee dote on life, now hunt for death ! 252 
 
 Pas. What soule is that, that with her teare-fuU eies 
 Seemes to lament with me in miseries ? 
 
 Kath. Here seemes to be the pressure of his truncke : 
 Deare earth confinne my doubt. "Was this the place 256 
 
 Which the faire bodie of my Pasquil prest,
 
 176 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 When he lay murdred ? See, the drooping grasse 
 
 Hangs downe his mourning head, and seemes to say, 
 
 This was the fatall place, where Fasqidl lay. 260 
 
 Oh, thou sweet print, stampt by the fairest limbes, 
 
 The richest Coffin of the purest soule 
 
 That euer prest the bosome of the earth, 
 
 First, drinke my teares, and next sucke vp my bloud. 264 
 
 Now thou immortall spirit of my Loue, 
 
 Thou precious soule of Pascpdl, view this Knife 
 
 ^Tbich once thou gauest me, and prepare thy arme 
 
 To clip the spirit of thy constant Loue ! 268 
 
 Deare Ned, I come, by death T will be thine. 
 
 Since life denies it to poore Katherme. 
 
 She offers to dahhe lier selfe. 
 Pas. Hold ! hold ! thou miracle of constancie. 
 First, let heauen perish, and the craz'de world ninne 272 
 
 Into first Chaos of confusion. 
 Before such cruell violence be done 
 To heir faire brest, whose fame, by vertue wonne, 
 Shall honour women whil'st there shines a sunne. 276 
 
 Kath. Thrice sacred spirit, why do'st thou forsake 
 EUzeimi pleasures, to withhold the arme 
 Of wretched Katherine ? Oh let me die ! 
 
 Eetire, sweet Ghost: doe not pollute thy hand 280 
 
 With touch of mortals. 
 
 Pas. Amazement of thy Sex, Pasquil doth line. 
 And lines to loue thee in eternitie. 
 
 Be not agast, recouer spirit, (Sweet) 284 
 
 'Tis Pasquil speakes, 'tis Pasquil clips thy waste.
 
 Act III.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 177 
 
 'Tis Pasquil prints a kisse on thy faire hand. 
 
 Kaih. What, doe I drcame? or haue I drawne the sluce 
 Of life vp? and thorow streames of bloud 288 
 
 Vnfelt, haue set my prisoned soule at large ? 
 Am I in hcaueu ? or in Pasquih Armes ? 
 I am in hcauen, i'or my Neds imbrace 
 Is Katherhies long wish'd celestiall place. 293 
 
 Pas. Diuinitie of sweetnesse, I protest, 
 If these inferior Orbs were rowlcd vp, 
 And the Imperiall heauen bar'd to my view, 
 'Twere not so gracious, nor so much dcsir'd, 29G 
 
 As my dcare Katherlne is to Pasqidls sight. 
 
 Kaih. Heauen of Content, Paphos of my delight ! 
 
 Pas. MiiTour of Constancie, life-bloud of loue ! 
 
 KatJi. Center to whom all my attections moue ! .300 
 
 Pas. Kenowne of Virgins, whose fame shall ne're fleet ! 
 
 Kath. Oh, I am maz'd with ioy, I pree-thee, sweet, 
 Vnfold to me, what sad mischance it was, 
 
 Fore'd thy deaths rumour, and such woes disperc'de. 30 i 
 
 Sad sorrow past, delights to be rehearsed. 
 
 Pas. It will be tedious, but, in briefe, thinke thus : — 
 Old Mamons malice was the venomb'd feme 
 That poisoned all the sweets of our content. 308 
 
 Kath. Alas, deare heart, that loue should be so crost. 
 Now good Ned fetch my gowne, 'tis at yon house ; 
 I woidd be loth to turne to Hijgnte thus. 
 
 Pas. I am oblig'd, with infinite respect, to doe you seruice. 312 
 Oh, power diuine, was euer such a loue as Katherine ? 
 
 Ent. Ma. Look, Mamon, search, Mamon, this way she went ; 
 
 VOL. II. 12
 
 178 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 Put on thy spectacles, this way she went : 
 
 Blest, blest, blest, be thy natiuitie ! 316 
 
 Tonder she sits. I'le either haue her now. 
 
 Or none shall e're enioy her with content. 
 
 Kaih. How loue's impatient ! when will Ned returne ? 
 
 Ma. Tut, 'tis no matter when : look where thy Mamon is. 320 
 
 Kath. Good Deuill, for Gods sake do not vex my sight : 
 Did'st not thou plot the death of my deare Loue ? 
 
 Ma. Yes, yes, and would complot ten thousand deaths ; 
 Euen damne my soule, for beauteous Katherine. 324 
 
 My ship shall kemb the Oceans curled backe 
 To furnish thee with braue Abiliaments; 
 Eucks of rich Pearle, and sparkling Diamonds 
 Shall fringe thy garments with Imbroadrie : 328 
 
 Thy head shall blaze as bright with Orient stone, 
 As did the world being burnt by Phaeton. 
 
 Kath. You make me death, for pitties sake forbeare : 
 Oh, when will Pasquil come ? Good sir, depart. 332 
 
 When wilt returne ? I pray you sir, goe hence, 
 And troth, I will not hate you : nay, I'le speake 
 Against my heart and say, I lothe you not. 
 
 You vex my patience, gentle sir, forbeare, 336 
 
 I begge it on my knee, and with a teare ! 
 
 Mam. Tut ! will you loue me, and detest yon boy ? 
 
 Kath. Heauen detest me first, and lothe my soule. 
 
 Mam. Is it your finall resolution ? 340 
 
 Kath. God knoAves it is. So, good sir, rest content. 
 
 Mam. I, I will rest ; and thou shalt rest thus blur'd ; 
 Thus poison'd ; venora'de with this oile of Toades.
 
 Act III.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 179 
 
 \i Mamon cannot get thee, none shall joy 344 
 
 Which he could not enjoy, I feare no Law ; 
 
 Gold in the firmest conscience makes a flaw. 
 
 Rot like to Helen, Spittle hence, adiew; 
 
 Let Pasquil boast in your next interuiew. 348 
 
 Kath. Be pittifull, and kill me, gentle sir! 
 Heauen, my heart is crackt with miserie : 
 Where shall I hide me ? which way shall I dense 
 The eating poison of this venom'de oile ? 352 
 
 Poore wretch (alas) see where thy Pasquil comes. 
 
 Pas. Here Loue, put on your gowne. How now ? good God ! 
 Heauen giue me patience : Who hath vsd thee thus ? 
 
 Kath. The Deuill in the shape 0^ Mamon. Sweet, 356 
 
 Touch me not. Pasquil, I conjure thee now. 
 By all the power of affection, 
 By that strickt bond of loue that linkes our hearts, 
 Leaue and abandon me eternally. 360 
 
 I merit now no loue, yet prethee, sweet, 
 Vouchsafe to giue me leaue to loue thee still. 
 But I doe binde thee by thy sacred vow, 
 
 Of our once happie, and thrice blessed loue, 364 
 
 Follow not Katherine : Good Ned, doe not grieue : 
 In time iust heauen may our woes releeue. 
 
 Exit Katherine. 
 
 Pas. Fur ens. dirafata, smia, miser anda, horrida, 
 Quis hie Locus ? quce Peyio ? qua; Mundi plaga ? 368 
 
 Vbi sum ? Katherina, Katherina, Eheu Katherina.
 
 I So A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 'Enter Mamon. 
 
 Mam. My spectacles will betraie me. Looke, 
 Mamon, search Mamon ; hereabouts they fell. 
 
 Pas. Welcome Erra Fater, you that make Prognostications for 
 euer. Where's you Almanacke ? 873 
 
 Puis Jus Indentures out of Mamons bosome. 
 Mam. Lord blesse my Obligations ! Lord blesse my bonds ! Lord 
 blesse my Obligations ! Alas, alas, alas ! 
 
 Pas. Let me see, sir ; now when will true valour be at the full ? 
 Oh, there's an opposition. 'Tis eclipsed : Venus, I Venus is 
 mounted. Where's the Goat now ? Kemb'd, hue kein'd. Oh, 
 heere are Dogge dales. Out vpon't ! Dogge dales. Dog dales, Dogge 
 dales, out-vpon't ! 380 
 
 He teares the paper's. 
 Mam. Alas, my Obligations ! my Bonds ! my Obligations ! my 
 Bonds ! Alas, alas, alas ! 
 
 Pas. KatJierlna, Katheriua, Elien Katherina. 
 
 Exit Pasquil. 
 Mam,. Obligations ! Obligations ! Alas, my Obligations ! 384 
 I am vndone, vndone, vndone ! 
 
 Enter Flawne. 
 Flawn. Sir, sir, sir ! 
 
 Mam. What " sir " you for, you Dogge, you Hound, you Crust ! 
 What's best newes with you now ? Out-alas my Obligations ! my 
 Bonds ! I am vndone, vndone ! 389 
 
 Flawn. Sir, the best newes is, your ship (the Hope-well) hath 
 hapt ill, returning from Barharle. 'Tis but sunke, or so : not a 
 scrap of goods sau'de. 392
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. i8i 
 
 Mam. Villaines, llogues, lewes, Turkcs, Infidels ! My nose will 
 rot off with griefe ! the Gowt, the Gowt, the Gowt ! I shall 
 runne mad, niniie mad, runne mad ! 395 
 
 Flcmn. Amen, amen, amen ! But there's other newes to com- 
 fort you withall, sir. 
 
 Mam. Let's heare them, good Flaicne. ]\Iy ship, my bonds, my 
 bonds, my ship ! I shall runne maddc vnlesse thy good newes 
 reclaime me. Let's heare thy newes. 400 
 
 Flawn. Tour house with all the furniture is burnt ; not a ragge 
 left. Tbe people stand warming their hands at the fire, and laugh at 
 your miserie. 403 
 
 Mam. I defie heauen, earth and hell ! renounce my nose ! 
 plague, pestilence, confusion, famine, sword and fire, devoure 
 all ! devoure me, devoure Flawne, devoure all ! Bonds, house, 
 and ship, ship, house, and bonds ! Despaire, Damnation, Hell ! 
 I come, I come, so roome for Mamon, roome for Vsurie, roome 
 for thirtie in the hundred ! I come, I come, I come ! 409 
 
 Exit Mamon. 
 
 FlaiD7i. Why, me thinkes this is right now. I'le euen lay him vp 
 in Bedlame : commit him to the mercie of the whip, the entertain- 
 ment of bread and water, and the sting of a Vsurers Conscience for 
 euer. Exit Flawne. 
 
 ACTVS QVARTVS. 
 
 Enter Drum and Winifride. 
 
 Brum. 'nr^Kuely, mistris Winifride, as I would bee willing to 
 
 -■- be thankefuU, and thankefull to find vou williu"- to 
 
 prostrate your faire parts to my pleasure, so I hope you wil
 
 1 82 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act IV. 
 
 remember your promise, and promise what you now remember. If 
 you liaue forgot, I would bee glad to put you in mind of it. 5 
 
 Wini. Truely, friend lohi, as I would bee loth to breake my 
 promise, so I would be vnwilliug to keepe my word to the dis- 
 honesting of my virginitie. Marie for a nights lodgeing or so, I 
 ■will not be strait lac'd to my friend. Therefore thus it must be. 
 To night I must lye at the Farme at Holloicay. Thither shall 
 you be conueied in this Sacke, and laid in my chamber, from 
 whence you shall haue free accesse to the pleasures of my priuate 
 bed. 13 
 
 Brum. Well then, bee constant, Wiwifride^ and you shall find 
 mee faitlifuU lacke Brum : And so, taking leaue of your bps, I betake 
 me to the tuition of the Sacke. 16 
 
 Enter Tivedle. Exit Brum. 
 
 Tice. Winifride, my mistris Camelia stales for you to attend her 
 to the Greene. I must goe and clap my Tabers cheekes there, for 
 the heauens, Ifaith. 19 
 
 Wini. Stay a little here, and if loJin fo de King come, giue 
 him that Sack. Oh, I could crack my Whalebones, break my 
 Buske, to thinke what laughter may arise from this ! 22 
 
 Enter Motmsieur. Exit Winifride. 
 
 Moun. By my trot, dis loue is a most cleanly lentleman. He 
 is very ful of shift. De fine vench can invent ten towsand tow- 
 sand trick to kisse a men (JteJ) See, by gor, she ha keep her word ! 
 Shee is in de secke alreadie, bee. Braue, by gor ! My bloud das 
 sparkle in my veine for ioy ! Metre Timotty, you must giue me dat 
 secke dere. 28
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 183 
 
 Timo. Owy da, Moimsieur. That is well pronounced, is it not ? 
 
 Moun. Eitt, ritt, ritt, excellan : excellan : adiew Timothy. Me am 
 almost burst for ioy ! Exit Moumieur. 
 
 Tice. Well, I know what the wenches on the Greene are saying 
 now, as well as if I were in their bellies : "When will Timothy come: 
 "When will honest Timothy approch. When will good Timothy 
 draw neere ? "Wei wenches, now reioyce, for Timothy Ticedle doth 
 come. Exit Twedle. 
 
 Enter Pla. Bra. Sig. and Bra. Junior. 
 
 Bra. In. Brother, how like you of our moderne wits? 37 
 
 How like you the new Poet Mellidus ? 
 
 Bra. Sig. A slight bubling spirit, a Corke, a Huske. 
 
 Fla. How like you Musus fashion in his carriage ? 40 
 
 Bra. Sig. O filthilie, he is as blunt as Paules. 
 
 Bra. III. "What thinke you of the lines of Becius ? 
 Writes he not a good cordiall sappie stile ? 
 
 Bra. Sig. A sui-reinde laded wit, but a rubbes on. 4-i 
 
 Pla. Brabant, thou art like a paire of ballance. 
 Thou wayest all sauing thy selfe. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Good faith, troth is, they are all apes and guls, 
 Vile imitating spirits, drie heathie Turffes. 48 
 
 Bra. lu. Nay brother, now I think your iudgement erres. 
 
 Pla. Erre, hee cannot erre, man, for children and fooles speake 
 truth alwaies. 
 
 Enter Mounsieur with a Sacke, and lacks Brum in it. 
 
 Bra. Sig. See who comes yonder sweating with a packe. 52 
 
 Pla. Mounsieur, what doe you beare there, ha ?
 
 1 84 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act IV. 
 
 Moun. Free you away; you breake my glasses der. leshu ! Now 
 me know not what to doe : Zot dat I was to come dis way widd 
 dem. 56 
 
 Pla. Glasses, you salt rlieume. Come Avhat ha you there ? 
 
 Moun. Trike no more for leshu sake ! By gor mee haue brittle 
 vare, if you knocke it it vrill breake presant. Pre you adiew. 
 
 Bra. In. We must know what's in the bag, Ifaith. 60 
 
 Moim. By my trot, mee tell you true : will you no trike me, den ? 
 
 Bra. III. No, faith, but see you tell vs true, or else — 
 
 Moun. Or else, or else, by gor ! Doe wat you please wid me. 
 
 Sweet Vinifride, my verie art dus vurst, he, by gor. Mee did not 
 
 dinke to vrong yow dus : come out sweet Vinifride ; me much 
 
 discredit yow. 66 
 
 He, lacJce Brum ! lesu, vat made you dere ? 
 
 Brum. Gentlemen, my M. desires you to come sup with him. 
 I was sent to inuite you, and this itching Goate, would needes 
 ease my legges and carrie me : I hope you'le come, and so I take 
 my leaue, I, I am guld, but if I quit her not, well — 71 
 
 Bxit Brum. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Come, there's some knot of knauerie in this tricke. 
 
 Pla. His culler is not currant : Avell, let passe. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Come Mounsieur, come, I'le helpe you to a Wench. 
 Goe downe the hill before, I'le follow you. 75 
 
 Moun. Mee dank you : Mor deu, he mon a mee, me ame trooke 
 dead wit griefe ; de cock of my humore is downe, and me may hang 
 my selfe vor a Yench. Exit Moun. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Gentlemen, will you laugh hartily now? 
 
 Pla. 1, and if thou wilt play the foole kindly now. 80 
 
 Bra. Sig. I will strait frame the strongest eternaU iest
 
 Act IV.] OF PASnviL AAD KATHERINE. 185 
 
 That e're was builded by imicntion : 
 
 My wife lies verie priuatc iu the Towne : 
 
 I'le bring the French man to her presently, 84 
 
 As to a loose lasciuious Curtczan. 
 
 Nor he, nor you, nor she, shall know the rest. 
 
 But it shall be imniort;ill for a icst. Exit Bra. Sig. 
 
 Bra. In. Farewell brother, we shall meet at ILjgate soone. 88 
 Pla. The wicked iest be turndc on his owne bead : 
 
 Pray God he may be kindly Cuckolcd. Exeunt both. 
 
 Enter Carnelia and Wbufride. 
 
 Came. Carrie this fauour to ray Ellis straight, 
 I long to see him, prethce : bid him come. 92 
 
 Wini. I would be loth to nourish your defiime. 
 And therefore, Mistris, pray you pardon me. 
 
 Came. What, is thy iudgement of my Ellis ehangde ? 
 
 Wini. No, that is firme : but your estate is ehangde. 96 
 
 You know your sister's strangely vanished, 
 And now the hope and reuenue of all 
 Cals you his sole and faire apparant heire : 
 
 Now, therefore, would I haue you change your loue. 100 
 
 Indeed, I yeeld, 'tis moderne policic. 
 To kisse euen durt that plaisters vp our wants. 
 I'le not denie, 'tis worthic wits applause, 
 
 For women on whom lo wring Fortune squints, 104 
 
 And casts but halfe an eie of due respect, 
 To pinne some amorous Idiot to their eies, 
 And vse him as they vse their Looking-glasse, 
 See how to adorne their beauties by his wealth, 108
 
 1 86 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act IV. 
 
 And then case vp tlie foole and lay him by. 
 
 But for such Ladies as your selfe is now, 
 
 "V^'^lose fortunes are sustain' d by all the props 
 
 That gracious Fortune can aduance you with, 113 
 
 Por such a one to yoke her free sweet youth 
 
 Vnto a Lowne, a Turke-like barbarous Sot, 
 
 A gilden Trunchion, fie ! 'tis slauish vile. 
 
 Oh, what is richer then content in loue ? 116 
 
 And will you now hauing so huge a Kuck 
 
 Of heap'd \^ fortunes, goe and chaine your selfe 
 
 To a dull post, whose verie eyes will blaze 
 
 His base-bred spirit, where so e're he conies, 130 
 
 And shame you with the verie name of wife ? 
 
 No, Mistris, no : I haue found out a man 
 
 That merits you, if man can merit you. 
 
 Came. Lord, what a tide of hate comes creeping on 124 
 
 Vpon my former iudgement ! Come, the man ? 
 
 Wini. The man ? (oh God) the man is such a man. 
 That he is matchlesse ! Oh, I shall prophane 
 His name with vnrespected vtterance. 138 
 
 Came. Oh, thou tormentest me, deare Winifride, the man ? 
 
 JFird. By the sweet pleasures of an amorous bed, 
 I thinke you will be deified by him. 
 
 God, the most accomplish'd man that breathes, 133 
 
 And Planet is the man. 
 
 Came. Out on the, Deuill ! There's a man indeed ! 
 
 JFini. Nay, looke you now : you'le straight oreshoote your selfe. 
 You'le say hee's sowre and vnsociable : 136 
 
 Tush you know him not, that humour's forc'd :
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 187 
 
 But in his natiue spiiit hce's as kind 
 
 As is the life of loue. And, tlicn, Ihe clearest skinne, 
 
 The whitest hand, the cleanest, well shap'd legge : 140 
 
 The quickest eye : Pie, fie ! I shall but bkuTe 
 
 And sulley his bright worth with my rude speech. 
 
 Came Well, if he court nic, Flc not be much coy. 143 
 
 Wini. Court you ? nay, you must court him, for ought I know : 
 You must not thinke, forsooth, that I am fee'd 
 To vrgc you thus. I solemnely protest 146 
 
 I motion this out of my pure vowed loue, 
 Which wisheth all aduancement and content 
 To attend the glorie of your beautious youth. 
 
 Came. 0, I am Flanei stricken, Winifrkle ! 150 
 
 How shall I intimate my loue to him ? 
 
 Wini. I saw him comming vp tlie hiU euen now ; 
 Send him a fauoiu", and I'le beare it to him. 
 
 And tell him you desire to speake with him. 154 
 
 Exit Winifride. 
 
 Came. Do, do, tieare Winifride ; SAVcet wench, make haste ! 
 
 Enter Sir Edward Fortune, and loJm Ellis with 
 a Taper in his hand. 
 
 Ellis. Sir, I haue her good will ; and please you now to giue me 
 your consent. And looke you, sir, here I haue item'd forth what I 
 am worth. 158 
 
 Sir Edio. Tush, shew mee no items ! And shee loue you, a Gods 
 name, I'le not bee curst by my daughter for forcing her to clip a 
 oath'd, abhoiTcd match. And see how fortunate we are. Looke 
 where she stands. 162
 
 iS8 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act IV. 
 
 Came. Sweet Planet, thou onely gouern'st me. 
 
 Sir. Ed. Daughter, giue mee your hand. With your consent I giue 
 you to this gentleman. 
 
 Came. Marie, phoh ! Will you match me to a foole ? 166 
 
 Sir. Ed. God pardon me, not I ! Why M. Ellis, ha ! 
 Had you her consent ? Speake freely, man. 
 
 Ellis. Indeed, law, now : I thought so : By my troth 
 You sed you lou'd me, that you did, indeed. 170 
 
 Came. I, as my foole, my Ideot ; to make sport. 
 
 Sir Ed. Fie daughter ! You are too plaine with him. 
 Alas, my sonne, Siinili/ is out of countenance. 
 
 Ellis. Truely as a IVIill-horse is not a Horse-Mill, and as a Cart- 
 lade is not a lade-Cart, euen so will I goe hang my selfe. 175 
 
 Sir Ed. Marie, God forbid ! What frolicke, frolicke, man. Weele 
 haue a Cup of Sacke and Sugar soone, shall quite expell these 
 mustie humours of stale melancholy. 
 
 Enter Pasquil and a Countrey Wench, with 
 a Basket of Egr/es. 
 
 Pas. Is this the Egge where Castor and Pollux bred ? I'le cracke 
 the Bastard in the verie shell. 180 
 
 Coun. Mayd. Alas, my markets ! my markets are cleane spoilde ! 
 
 Exit Wench. 
 
 Pas. Vhi Hellena, Vbi Troia ? ist not true my Ganimede ? 
 When shall olde Saturne mount his Throne againe ? 
 See, see, alas ! how bleake Religion stands ! 184 
 
 Katherina Katherina ! You damned Titanoies, 
 Why pricke you heauens ribs with blasphemie ? 
 Python yet breathes, olde gray hair'd pietie.
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 189 
 
 8lr Ed. Alas, kind youth, liow oame he thus distraught? 188 
 
 Page. I left liim in pursuit of Kalherine, 
 And found hiui in this strange distemperature. 
 
 Pas. O sir, ist you that stampe 011 litrature ? 
 You are inspii'cd, you, with Prophcsic. 192 
 
 Ellis. Not I, as I shall be sau'd. I am M. loJui Ellis, I. 
 
 Sir Edw. Come, come, let's intice him by some good meanes : 
 rie labour to reclaime him to his wits. 
 
 O, now my daughter Katherine remembers me ! 196 
 
 Where art. thou girle ? Heauen giue me patience ! 
 
 Pas. Poore, poore Astrea ! who blurres thy orient shine ? 
 Come, yons the Capitol! of Iiipiter. 
 
 Let's whip the Senate, els they will not leaue 200 
 
 To haue their Justice blasted with abuse 
 Of flattering Sijcopliants. Come, let's mount the stars. 
 
 Keuerend antiquitie goe you in first 
 
 Dotage will follow. Then comes pale-fac'de lust 204 
 
 Next Sodome ; then Gomorha. Next poore I. 
 
 By heauen my heart is burst with miserie ! Exit Pas. 
 
 Enter Brabant S/f/nior, Moimsieur and tJie Page. 
 
 Moun. I ha tell yow de verie trote of the lagge^ iest. Bv gor, 
 your England Damosels are so feere, so Aattie, so kit ! by my trote, 
 shee tosse mee wish vey shee please der : but pre yow were is de 
 Vench ? Is dis de house ? Ha, is dis de house, pre yow tell me, ha ? 
 
 Bra. Sig. It is, it is, and she is in the inner Chamber : Boy call 
 her forth. Exit Page. 
 
 ^ ? bagge ; in reference to the sack trick Mounsieur has just been subjected 
 to.— G.
 
 I90 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act W . 
 
 Moiin. Sings. By goi\ den, me must needs now sing. 
 Ding, ding, ading. Ding a, ding a, ding, 214 
 
 Tor me am noio at pleasures spring. 
 Dinga, ding, ding, dinga, dinga, dinga, ding, 
 And a Jiee da vench, da vench, da vencJi, 
 Wliicli must my bruling humour quench. Coma, coma, com. 218 
 
 Enter Mistris Brabant. 
 
 Mist. Bra. Now sweet, you kept your promise well last night. 
 
 Maun. By gor, she giue him much kind word alreadie. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Wei, to make thee amends, boy, fetch vs a quart of 
 Canarie Sacke. Pre-thee, Mall, entertaine this French Gentleman. 
 
 Mist. Bra. Sir, you are verie welcome to my lodging. 223 
 
 Mann. Me danck you. And first me kisse vour fingre : next me 
 busse your lip : and last me clip your vaste. And now foutra for de 
 Vinifride ! 
 
 Page. Sir Edwards Caterer passed by, sir. You will'd mee to 
 remember Lemmons. 228 
 
 Bra. Sig. Gods precious, 'tis true ! Boy, goe with mee to BDlings- 
 gate. Mall, I'le returne straight. 
 
 Exit Bra. Sig. and his Page. 
 
 Moiin. Will yow no Vin, sir, he ! He is gone pui-posely, by my 
 trote, most kind Gentleman. Faire Madame, pree you pittie me. By 
 Gor, me languish for your loue. Mee am a pouera French lentleman. 
 Pree shew mee your bed-Chambre. 234 
 
 Mist. Bra. What meane you, sir, by this strange passion ? 
 
 Moun. Nay, noting. By Gor, damosell, you bee so faer, so 
 admirably feer, flesh and bloud cannot indure your countenance. 
 Mee binile, ang mee brule, ang yow ha no compassion : by gor, mee
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 191 
 
 ang quite languish. Last night niee goe to bedde, and mee put 
 de candle behinde mee, and, by my trote, me see cleane torough me, 
 me ang so drie. ]\Iee put a cold plattre at my backc, and my backe 
 melt de plattre quite ; doe so burae. Free you shew me your bed 
 Chambre. Me will bee secret, constant. I loue you vnreasonably 
 veil, vnreasonably veil, by gor ! 244 
 
 Mist. Bra. In faith, you make mee blush. What should I say? 
 
 Moun. Say no, ang take it : Or, arke you one ting. Say neder 
 yea nor no, but take it, ang say noting. 
 
 Mid. Bra. You will be close and secret ? 248 
 
 Monn. Secred, by gor, as secred as your sowle ! mee will tell 
 noting, possible ! 
 
 Mist. Bra. Well, sir, if it please you to see my Chamber, 'tis 
 at your seruice. Exit Mist. Brabant. 
 
 Moun. He ! now me ang braue Mounsieur ! By gor, ang mee had 
 know dis, me woode haue eate some Potatos, or Eingoe : but veil : 
 he! Me will tanck Metre ^/-fliiaw^ vor dis. By gor me am caught 
 in heauen blisse ! Uxit Mounsieur. 
 
 Enter Camelia and Winifride, hanging on 
 Flatlets armes. 
 
 Came. Oh, too vnkiiid! why do'st thou scome my loue? 257 
 Shee that with all the vehemence of speech 
 Hath beene pursued, and kneeled to for loue. 
 Prostrates her selfe, and all her clioicest hopes. 
 As lowe as to thy feet. Disdaiiie me not : 
 To scorne a Virgin is mans odious blot. 262 
 
 Bla. To scorne a man is Virgins odious blot. 
 Wert thou as rich as is the Oceans wombe,
 
 193 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act IV. 
 
 As beautious as tlie glorious frame of lieauen. 
 
 Yet would I lotlie thee worse then varnisht skuls, 266 
 
 Whose riuels are daub'd vp with plaistering paint. 
 
 Came. O Eockie spirit ! 
 
 Flan. Breathe not in vaine. I hate thy flatterings, 
 Detest thy purest elegance of speech, 270 
 
 Worse then I doe the Croking of a Toade. 
 
 Wiinf. Sweet Gentleman ! 
 
 Tlan. Peace ! you Eebato-pinner, Poting-sticke. 
 You bribde corrupters of affection, 274 
 
 I hate you both. By heauen I hate her more 
 Then I doe lone my selfe. Hence, packe away! 
 I'le sooner dote vpon a bleare-eide Witch, 
 A saplesse Beldame, then I'le flatter thee. 278 
 
 Cam. Be not too cruell, sweet Planet, deare relent, 
 Compassionate my amorous languishment ! 
 
 Plan. Ha, ha ! I pree thee kneele, beg, blubber, crie, 
 Whilst I behold thee with a lothing eie, 282 
 
 And laugh to see thee weepe ! 
 
 Cam. Looke, on my knees I creepe, 
 Be not impenetrable, beautious youth ! 
 
 But smile rpon me, and I'le make the aire 286 
 
 Court thy choice eare with soft delicious sounds. 
 Bring forth the VioUs : each one play his part, 
 Musick's the quiuer of young Ciqnds dart. 289 
 
 The Sonff with the Violls. 
 
 Plan. Out, Syren ! Peace, scritch-owle ! Hence, chattering Pie ! 
 The blacke-beakt night-Crow, or the howling Dog, 
 Shall be more gracious then thy squeaking voice :
 
 Act IV.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 193 
 
 Goe sing to M. lohi. I shall be blunt 
 
 If thou depart not. Hence, goe niourne and die : 294 
 
 I am the scourge of light inconstancie. EmI Cam. ^ Winif. 
 
 Thus ray deare Brabant, am I thy reuenge, 
 
 And whip her for the pecuish scorne shee bare 
 
 To thy vvcake yonger birth : 0, that the soules of men 293 
 
 Were temperate like mine ! Then Natures paint 
 
 Should not triumph o're our infirmities. 
 
 I doe adore, with infinite respect, 
 
 Women whose merit issues from their Avorth 302 
 
 Of inward graces ; but these rotten posts 
 
 That are but gilt with outward garnishment, 
 
 0, how my soule abhorres them ! Yon's my friend. 
 
 Enter Brabant lunior. 
 
 I will conceale what I for him baue wrought : 306 
 
 Nice iealousie mistakes a friendly part. 
 
 Now, Brabant, where's thy elder brother, ha ? 
 
 What, hath he built the iest with Mounsieur yet? 309 
 
 Bra. Ik. Faith, I know not, but I heard he left the Frenchman 
 with his wife. 
 
 Planet. Knew shee thy brothers meaning ? 
 
 Bra. lu. Not a whit. Shee's a meere stranger to this merriment. 
 
 Plan. Hit, and be luckie ! 6, that 'twere lawfull, now, 314 
 
 To pray to God that he w^ere Cuckoled. 
 Deare Brabant, I doe hate these bumbaste wits, 
 That are puft vp with arrogant conceit 
 
 Of their owne worth; as if Omnipotence 318 
 
 Had hoised them to such vnequald height, 
 
 VOL. II. 13
 
 194 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act IV. 
 
 That tliey sui'uai'd our spirits with an eye 
 
 Onely create to censure from aboue ; 
 
 WTien good soules they doe nothing but reproue. 322 
 
 See where a Sliallop comes. How now, what newes ? 
 
 Eater Winifrlde, and whispers toitJi Planet. 
 
 Bra. Ik. What might this meane, that Winifride salutes 
 The blunt tongu'd Planet, with such priuate speech ? 
 See with what vehemence shee seemes to vrge 326 
 
 Some priuate matter. Planet is my friend, 
 And yet the strongest linke of friendship's strain'd, 
 When female loue puts to her mightie strength. 
 Marke, marke, shee offers him Camelias scarfe : 330 
 
 Now on my life 'tis so : Planet supplants my Loue ! 
 
 Plan, friend, I must leaue thee, preethee pardon me ; 
 Weele meet at supper soone with the good knight. 
 
 Exeunt Plan, and Winifride. 
 Bra. III. I, I, content : hell to my delight ! 334 
 
 My friend will murder me : Thin Cob-web Lawne 
 Bm"st with each little breath of tempting sweets ! 
 
 Winifride speakes from icitJdn. 
 Shee intreats you, M. Planet, to meet 
 Her at the Crosse stile. 338 
 
 Bra. In. Ha, at the crosse stile ! Well, I'le meet him there. 
 He that's perfidious to me in my loue. 
 
 Confusion take him, and his bloud be spilt, 341 
 
 Without confusion to the murderer. Exit Brabant.
 
 Act v.] of PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 195 
 
 A C T V S Q V I X T V S. 
 
 Enter Bra. lu. and his Page, charging 
 a Pidoll. 
 
 Bra. III. O O ; lode it soundly. Mui-der's great with me. 
 *^ Goe, Boy, discharge it, euen in Planets brest. 
 Shoot him quite through, and through ; thou canst not sin 
 To murder him, that murdered his deare friend 4 
 
 With damned breach of friendship. When he is slainc 
 Biing me his Cloke and Hat. Here I will stay, 
 To be imbrac'd in stead of Planet : Goe : Away ! Exit Bog. 
 
 I had rather die with bloud vpon my head, 8 
 
 Shame and reproeh clogging my heauie houre, 
 Then t'haue my friend still wounding of my soule 
 With reprobate Apostacisme in loue. 
 
 0, this Sophisticate friendship, that dissolues 13 
 
 With euery heate of Fancie : let it melt 
 Euen in Hels Forge ! Harke, the Pistoll is discharg'd ; 
 The Act of goric ranrdcr is perform'd. 
 Haue mercy, heauen : u, my soule is rent 16 
 
 Enter the Page. 
 
 With Planets wound ! Come, Boy, the Ilat and Cloke. 
 
 Goe poste to Scotland: there arc crownes for thee. 
 
 Lcaue Brabant vnto death and obloquie. Exit Page. 
 
 Why, now the vlcerous swelling of my hate 20 
 
 Is broken forth : Oh, that these womens beauties, 
 
 This Natures witchcraft, should inchaunt our sonles
 
 196 A PLEASANT COME DIE [Act V. 
 
 So infinitely vnrecouerable ! 
 
 That hell, death, shame, cternall infamie, 24 
 
 Cannot reclaime our desperate resolues ! 
 
 But we will on spight of damnation. 
 
 Enter Camelia and Winifride. 
 
 Come yee poore garments of my murdered friend, 
 
 Moiirne that you are compeld to hide his limbs 28 
 
 That slue you[r] Master. See, Camelia comes. 
 
 I'le stand thus muffled and deceiue her sight : 
 
 When loue makes head friendship is put to flight. 
 
 Cam. Persist not still, 6 thou relentlesse youth, 33 
 
 To scorne my loue ! What tho I scorn'd thy friend, 
 Doe not vpbraid me still with hating him ; 
 Doe not still view me with a lothing eie. 
 
 For Brabants sake doe you but loue me, sweet, 36 
 
 And I'le not scorne him. Why shouldst be so nice 
 In keeping lawes of friendship ? Didst thou e're heare 
 Of any soule that held a friend more deare 
 Then a faire woman ? 40 
 
 B)'a. III. 0, the sting of death ! How hath Brabant err'd ? 
 Hence thou \^le wombe of my damnation ! 
 Oh, thou wrong'd spirit of my murdred friend, 
 Thou guiltlesse, spotlesse, pure, immaculate : 44 
 
 Behold, this anne thrusting swift vengeance 
 Into the trunck of a curst damn'd wretch ! 
 
 He drawes Jus Rapier. 
 
 Winif. Heele spoile himselfe : Let's run and call for helpe ! 
 
 Exit Camel, and Wini.
 
 Act v.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 197 
 
 Bra. III. Now haue I roome for murder : This vast place, 48 
 Hush'd silence, and dunibe solitude are fit 
 To be obseruers of my Tragedie. 
 Planet, accept the smoke of reeking bloud 
 
 To expiate thy murder. Friend, I come : 52 
 
 Weele troope together to Elizium ! 
 
 Enter Sir Edward, Camelia, TFitii/ride, Ellis, Brabant Sig. 
 Tioedle, Brum, and others. 
 
 Sir Ed. Hold, haire-brain'd youth! what mischiefe mads thy 
 thoughts ? 
 
 Bra. III. Forbearc, good knight. You neuer sinn'd so deep 5 G 
 As in detayning this lust vengeance 
 ■ To light vpon me. But know I will die. 
 I haue infring'd the lawes of God and Man, 
 
 lu shedding of my Planets guiltlesse bloud, 60 
 
 Who I supposde corriuald me in loue 
 Of that Camelia, but iniuriously : 
 And therefore, gentle Knight, let mine owne hand 
 Be mine owne hang-man. 64 
 
 Bra. Sig. Brother, I'le get you pardon, feare it not. 
 
 Bra. I tin. You'le get my pardon, brother ? Pardon me. 
 You shall not ; for I'le die in spight of thee. 
 
 Sir Ed. I am turn'd wilde in wonder of this act ! 63 
 
 Enter Planet, and the Page. 
 
 Plan. Come, Brabant, come, giue me my Cloke and Hat : 
 The euening's raw and danke ; I shall take cold. 
 How now ? turn'd mad ! "Why star'st thou on me thus ?
 
 198 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act \. 
 
 Giue me my Cloke. Hart! is the youth distranglit ? 72 
 
 Bra. In. Ha, doest thou breathe ! Let's see where is thy 
 wound ? 
 
 Plan. Doest breathe, my wound ? what doest thou meane by 
 tliis ? 
 
 Page. Gentlemen, I can direct you forth 76 
 
 This Labyrinth of intricate misdoubts. 
 My Master will'd me kill that Gentleman, 
 Now, I thought he was mad in putting me 
 
 To such an enterprise ; and therefore sooth' d him vp 80 
 
 With I sii', yes sir, and so sir, at each word, 
 Whilst he would shew me how to hold the Dagge, 
 To draw the Cock, to charge, and set the flint. 
 Meane time I had the wit to thinke him mad ; 84 
 
 And therefore went, and as he Avill'd me shoot, 
 Which he, God knowes, thought pearc'd his deare friends heart ; 
 Then went and borrowed that same hat and cloke 
 Of M. Planet ; brought them to my Master ; 88 
 
 And so — 
 
 Plan. No more, no more, Knight, I will make thee smile 
 When I discourse how much my friend hath err'd. 
 
 Sir Ed. I will dissolue and melt my soide to night 93 
 
 In influent laughter. Come, my locund spirit 
 Presageth some vnhop't-for happinesse : 
 Wee'le crowne this euening with triumphant ioy. 
 I'le sup vpon this Greene. Here's roome enough 96 
 
 To draw a liberaU breath, and laugh aloud : 
 Drum, fetch the Table : Twedle, scoure your Pipe, 
 Por my old bones will haue a round to night.
 
 Act v.] of PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 199 
 
 Now, by my troth, and I had thought oii't, too, 100 
 
 I would liaue had a play : Ifaith, I would. 
 
 I saw the Children of FowUh lust night, 
 
 And troth they pleas'd me prettic, prettic well : 
 
 The Apes in time will doe it handsomely. 10^ 
 
 Plan. Ifaith, I like the audience that frequenteth there 
 With much applause : A man shall not be chokte 
 With the stench of Garlick ; nor be pasted 
 To the bannie lacket of a Beer-brewer. 108 
 
 Bra. In. 'Tis a good, gentle audience, & I hope the boies 
 Will come one day into the Court of requests. 
 
 Bra. &ig. I, and they had good Plaies. But they produce 
 Such mustie fopperies of antiquitie, 112 
 
 And doe not sute the humorous ages backs, 
 With clothes in fashion. 
 
 Plan. Well, Brabant, well, you will be censuring still. 
 There lies a iest in steep. Will, whip you for't. 116 
 
 Sir Ed. Gallants, I haue no iudgement in these things, 
 But will it please you sit ? Camelia, 
 CaU these same Gentlemen vnto thee, wench : 
 there with thee my Katherine was wont 120 
 
 To sit with graccfull presence. Well, left passe : 
 Fetch me a cup of Sacke. Come, Gallants, sit. 
 M. Brabant, M. Planet, I pray you sit. 
 
 Young M. Brabant, and, Gods precious ! M. lohn, 12 i 
 
 Sit all, and consecrate this night to mirth. 
 Here is old Neds place : Come, sound Musicke there, 
 What, Gallants, haue you ne're a Page can entertaine 
 This pleasing time with some French brawle, or Song? 128
 
 200 A PLEASANT CO ME DIE [Act V. 
 
 What shall we liaue, a Galliard ? tvotli, 'tis well. 
 
 A Galliard. 
 Good Boy ! Ifaith, I would thou hadst more roome. 
 
 Enter Katherine. 
 
 Kath. Once more the gracious heauens haue renew'd 
 My wasted hopes : Once more a blessed chance 132 
 
 Hath fetcht againe my spirit from the sovvnd 
 And languishing despaire of happinesse. 
 A skilfidl Beldame, with the iuyce of hearbs, 
 Hath cur'd my face, and kild the venoms power. 136 
 
 And now if Pasquil line and loue me stiU 
 Heauen is bounteous to poore Katherine. 
 Yon suppes my Father ; but my Ned's not there. 
 T feare ; and yet I know not what I feare. 140 
 
 Sir Ed. Gallants, I drinke this to Ned Pasquils health. 
 
 Plan. Ifaith, I'le pledge him. Would he had his wits. 
 
 Sir Ed. And I my daughter. Fill me one cup more : 
 No griefe so potent, but neat sparkling wine 144 
 
 Can conquer him : Oh, this is iuyce diuine. 
 
 Katli. Would he had his wits ? Oh, what a numming feare 
 Strikes a cold palsey through my trembling bloud ! 
 
 Enter Pasquil, mad. 
 
 Pasq. Vertue shall burst ope the Iron gates of heU : 148 
 
 I'le not be coop'd vp. Eoome for Phaeton ! 
 Lame Policy, how canst thou goe vpright ? 
 lust, staine not sweet Loue ! Fie, be not lost 
 Vpon the surge of vulgar humours. You Idiot ! 153 
 
 Eiuet my Armour, and Caparison
 
 Act v.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 201 
 
 A miglitie Centaure ; for I'le run at Tilt, 
 
 And tumble downe you Giant in the dust. 
 
 Sit, gentle ludges of great Radamant : 156 
 
 Let not Proserpine rule thee. -^ Oh, shee's dead. 
 
 Now, thou art right Eacus : I appeale to thee : 
 
 Haue pittie on a wretches miserie ! 
 
 Sir Ed. I am quite sunck with griefe. What shall we doe 160 
 To get recouerie of his wits againe ? 
 
 Bra. In. Let Musicke sound ; for I haue often heard 
 It hath such sweet agreement with our soules, 
 That it cori'eets vaine humours', and recalls 164 
 
 His straggling fancies to faire vnion. 
 
 Plan. Why, the soule of man is nought but simphonies — 
 A sound of disagreeing parts — yet faire vnite 
 By heauens hand, diuine by reasons light. 168 
 
 Sir Ed. Sound Musicke, then. Pray God it take effect. 
 The Musicke sounds, and Pasquils eye isjixt vpon 
 Katherine. 
 
 Bra. lu. Marke with what passion he sucks vp the sweets 
 Of this same delicate harmonious breath- 
 
 Plan. Obserue him well. Me thinks his eye is fixt 172 
 
 Vpon some obiect, that seemes to attract 
 His very soule forth with astonishment. 
 Marke with what vehemence his thoughts doe speake, 
 Euen in his eyes. Some creature stands farre off, 176 
 
 That hath intranc't him with a pleasing sight. 
 
 Pasq. Amazement, wonder, stiffe astonishment 
 Stare and stand gazing on this miracle ! 
 Perfection of what e're a humane thought ISO
 
 202 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act V. 
 
 Can reacli with liis discoursiue faculties, 
 
 Thou whose sweet presence purifies my sence 
 
 And do'st create a second soule in me ! 
 
 Deare Katherine, the life of Pasquih hopes ! 184 
 
 KatJi. Deare Pasquil, the life of Katherhies hopes ! 
 
 Pas. Once more let mee imbrace the constant'st one 
 That e're was tearmde her Sex perfection. 
 
 Kath. Once more let me be valued worth his loue, 188 
 
 In decking of whose soide the graces stroue. 
 
 Pas. Spiglit hath out-spent it selfe, and thus, at last, 
 
 Both sjjeake. 
 We clip with ioyfull arme each others wast. 
 
 Sir Edw. 0, pardon me, thou dread omnipotence, 192 
 
 I thought thou could'st not thus haue blessed me ! 
 0, thou hast deaw'd my gray haires with thy loue. 
 And made my olde heart sprout with fertill ioy. 
 
 Kath. Porget, deare father, that my act hath wrong' d 196 
 
 The quiet of your age. 
 
 S. Ed. No more, no more ! I know what thou would'st say. 
 Daughter, there's nothing but saluation 
 
 Could come vnto my heart more gracious 200 
 
 Then is the sight of my deare Katherine. 
 Sonne Pasqidl, now, for thou shalt be my sonne, 
 What ! frolicke ! gentle youth. 
 
 Pas. Is MamoH heere ? 204 
 
 Dritui. Oh sir, M. Mamon is in a Citie of lurie, called Bethlem, 
 alias, plaine Bedlams : The price of whips is mightily risen, since 
 his braiue was pittifully ouertumbled : they ai'e so fast spent vpon 
 his shoulders. 208
 
 Act v.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 203 
 
 Pas. Oil sacred heauens, how iust is thy rcuenge ! 
 
 Sir Ed. Why ? did he cast you in the labyrinth 
 Of these strange crosses ? 
 
 Pasq. Yes, honor'd Knight ; which in more priuate place, 212 
 And fitter time, I will disclose at large. 
 
 Came. Faith, sister, as I am your elder borne, 
 So will I match before, or with you, sure. 
 Young M. Brahant. 216 
 
 Bra. By this light, not I. 
 
 Cam. Honest M. Ellis. 
 
 Ellis. No indeed, law, not I. I doe not vse to marrie. 
 For euen as blacke patches are womc, 220 
 
 Some for pride, some to stay the Ehewme, and • 
 Some to hide the scab, euen so lohn Ellis 
 Scorne her, that hath scorned him. 
 
 Came. Vertuous Master Planet. 22nt 
 
 Plan. EiTant wandi-ing starre, we shall ne'rc agree! 
 
 Came. M. Brabant, M. Planet, M. Ellis, faith, I'le haue 
 any! 
 
 Sir Ed. But no body will haue thee : This is the plague of liglit 
 inconstancie. 
 Goe Tivedle, bid the Butler broch fresh wine : 228 
 
 Set vp waxe lights, and furnish new the boords : 
 Knocke downe a score of Beefes : 
 Inuite my neighbours straight, 
 
 And make my dressers grone with waight of meat. 232 
 
 M. Ellis, pray you let vs heare your high Dutch song, 
 You are aduiired for it : Good, let's heare it. 
 
 Ellis. I doe not vse to sing : and vet euen as when the skie falls
 
 204 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act V. 
 
 we sliall liaue Larkes, euen so, when my voice riseth you shall 
 
 haue a song. 237 
 
 lie singeth, holding a Bowie of dr'inke in Ms hand. 
 
 The Song. 
 
 f~^ lue vs once a drinke, for an the hlacTce Bowie. 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley mo7j ; 
 
 For an the hlaclce howle. Sing gentle Butler, bailey moy. 2-iO 
 
 Giue vs once some drinhe,for an the pinte Pot. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the pinte pot ; 
 
 For an the blacke bowle. Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 
 Glue vs once a drinke, for an the quart Pot. 244 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the quart, the pinte pot; 
 
 For an the blacke boiole. Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 
 Giue vs once some drinke, for an the iwttle pot. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the iwttle, the quart, the pint pot; 248 
 
 For an the blacke howle. Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 
 Giue vs once a drinke, for an the gallon pot. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, 
 the pint pot ; For an the blacke howle. 252 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 
 Giue vs once a drinke, for an the Firkin. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the firkin, the gallon, the pottle, 
 the quart, the pinte pot ; For an the blacke bowle. 256 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy. 
 
 Giue vs once a drinke, for an the Kilderkin. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy, the Kilderkin, the firkin, the gal- 
 lon, the pottle, the quart, the pinte pot ; 260 
 
 For an the blacke bowle. Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. ■.
 
 Act v.] of PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 205 
 
 Giue vs once some drinke,for an the Barrell. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy, the harrcll, the kilderkin, the fir- 
 kin, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pinte pot ; 264 
 For an the blacke howle. Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy. 
 Giue vs once some drinke, for an the Hogshead. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, ballry moy, the hogshead, the barrell, the kil- 
 derkin, the firlcin, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pinte pot / 
 For an the blacke hoiole. Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy. 269 
 
 Giue vs once a drinke, for an the But. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler^ bailey moy, the Butt, the hogshead, the barrell, 
 the kilderkin, the firkin, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the 
 pinte pot ; For an the blacke howle. 273 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 Giue vs once some drinke, for an the Pipe. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy, the Pipe, the butt, the hogshead, 
 the barrell, the kilderkin, the firkin, the gallon, the pottle, the 
 quart, the pinte pot ; For an the blacke howle. 27 S 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, bailey moy. 
 Giue vs once some dnnke, for an the Tunne. 
 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy, the Tunne, the pipe, the butt, the 
 hogshead, the barrell, the kilderkin, the firkin, the gallon, the 
 pottle, the quart, the pinte pot ; For an the blacke boiole. 
 Sing, gentle Butler, halley moy. 284 
 
 Sir Ed. Well done. Ifaitli, 'twas clianted merrily : 
 Wliat, my Gallants, ne're a tickling iest, 
 To make vs sowne with mirth, e're we goe in? 287 
 
 Bra. Sig. Taith, Gent. I ha' brewed such a strong headed iest, 
 Will make you diimke, and reele with laughter :
 
 2o6 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act V. 
 
 You know Moundeur loJmfo de King ? 290 
 
 Sir Ed. Very well : he read French to my daughters. 
 Bra. Sit/. I, to gull the Foole, haue brought him to my wife, as 
 to a loose lasciuious Curtezan, shee being a meere stranger to the 
 iest, and there, some three houres agoe, left him : But I am sure 
 shee hath so cudgeld him with quicke sharpe iests, and so batter'd 
 him with a volley of her wit, as indeed shee is exceeding wittie, 
 and admirable chaste, that in my conscience heele neuer dare to 
 court women more. Would to God he were return'd ! 298 
 
 Enter Mounsieur. 
 
 Sir Ed. See, enen on your wish, he's come, 
 
 Moun. lesu preserue you ! sweet Metre Brabant. By gor, de 
 most delicat, plumpe vench dat euer mee tuche : Mee am your 
 slaue, your peasaunt ; By gor, a votre seruice whil'ste I line vor dis. 
 
 Bra. Sig. He would perswade you now, that hee toncht her 
 with an immodest hand. Ha, ha, ha ! 304 
 
 Moun. Tuch her? By gor, me tuch her, and tuch her, and me 
 tuch her. Me ne're tuch such a venche, De fines foote, de cleanest 
 legge, de sleekest skin : and me tell e sure token ; she hath de 
 finest little varte — you know veare : he ! by gor, mee ne're tuch 
 such a vench. 309 
 
 Sir Ed. Pray God hee haue not brew'd a headie iest indeede. 
 
 Bra. Sig. Why, faith, Gentlemen, I am Cuckold : by this light 
 I am ! 312 
 
 Moun. By gor, mee no know. You tell a mee 'twas a Curtezan. 
 Pray you pardon me. By my trote, me teche you French to t'end 
 of the vorlde. 
 
 Pla. Come, here's thy cap of Maintenance, the Coronet 316
 
 Act v.] OF PASQVIL AND KATHERINE. 207 
 
 Of Cuckolds. Nay, you shall weare it, or wearc 
 
 My E-apier in your guts : by iioaucu ! 
 
 Why, doest thou not well deserue to be thus vs'd ? 
 
 Why should'st thou take felicitie to '^\\\\ 320 
 
 Good honest soules ? And in thy arrogance, 
 
 And glorious ostentation of thy wit, 
 
 Thinke God infused all perfection 
 
 Into thy soule alone, and made the rest 324 
 
 For thee to laugh at ? Now, you Ceusurer, 
 
 J3e the ridiculous subiect of our mirth. 
 
 Why Poole, the power of Creation 
 
 Is still Omnipotent : And there's no man that breathes 328 
 
 So valiant, learned, wittie, or so wise. 
 
 But it can equall him out of the same moidd 
 
 Wherein the first was form'd. Then leaue proud scorne, 
 
 And, honest selfe-raade Cuckold, weare the home ! 332 
 
 Bra. S'kj. Weare the home ? I, spite of all your teeth, 
 rie weare this Crowne, and triumph in this horne. 
 
 Sir Ed. Why, faith 'tis valorously spoke, faire ISii- : 
 Wee'le solemnize your Coronation 33G 
 
 With royall pompe. Now, Gentlemen, prepare 
 A liberall spirit to entertaine a icst. 
 Where free light locuud mirth shall be enthron'd 
 With sumptuous state. Now, Musickc, beat the aire : 340 
 
 Intraucc our thoughts with your harmonious sounds. 
 Our Fortune laughes, and all content abounds. Exeunt omnes. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 [The names of the Actors follow : see p. 132.]
 
 2o8 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1. Jack Drums Entertainment (p. 133, 1. 2 ; p. 140, 1. 15G) 
 was a kind of proverbial expi'essiou for ill-treatment. ' Not like 
 the entertainment of Jacke Brum, who was best welcome when he 
 went away.' — Thos. Coryate, ed. 1776, v. iii. sign. C c 3 : See 
 Nares. See also All '« IFell, iii. fi. 1. 41 .—Y. 
 
 2. Sacred malestie, p. 135, 1. 23. — In the passage containing these 
 words we have the exaggerated reverence for the rulino- class so 
 often indulged in by Shakspere, with its usual accompaniment of 
 expressed disgust for such of the common folk as presume to dis- 
 cuss, even from their poor ale-house benches, ' affairs of State.' — G. 
 
 3. The Counsell-chamber is the Phoenix nest, who wastes it self e to 
 give usi^eace and rest, p. 136, 1. 49. — Jack Drum's Entertainment con- 
 tains no flattery of the sovereign ; but, in the above and accompany- 
 ing lines, we have a passage which may be taken as rather warmly 
 complimentary of what we should in these days call ' the ministry.' 
 In politics, therefore — and Mr Simpson has always insisted upon 
 the political character and connexions of the Elizabethan plays — 
 Jack Drum may be classed as ' ministerial.' — Gr. 
 
 4. Let the Jebuslte depart in peace, p. 140, 1. 156. — By Jebusite, 
 or native of Jenisalem, Jack Drum makes Mavion a Jew. Compare 
 this with the next speech, beginning, — ' I, for any Christian,' and 
 with the three facts that (1) Mamon is a usurer, who lends at 'thirty 
 in the hundred' (p. 181, 1. 409) : (2) He is expressly endowed 
 'with a great nose' (see list of characters, p. 132, and the text, p. 
 142, 1. 208 ; p. 181, 1. 393) ; and (3) In the treatment he gets at 
 the hands of the dramatist there is a likeness to that meted out to 
 Shylock in the Merchant of Venice, more particularly at p. 180, 1. 
 381, et seq., and the intention seems strengthened. Mamon s scenes, 
 with Pasquil first, and Flawne afterwards, at p. 180, 1. 373, et seq., 
 are, in their plan and mode of treatment, very like that of Shylock's 
 outcry over the loss of his daughter and his ducats (as told by 
 Salanio), and that between Shylock and Tidjal : Merchant of 
 Venice, II. 8, 1. 41, and III. 1. Perhaps the stage popularity of 
 Shakspere's Shylock (1596 or 1597) induced the writer, or writers, 
 of Jack Drum (1601) thus to make Mamon a sort of Shylock. — G.
 
 A Warning for Fairc Women, 
 
 containing 
 
 The most Trag'icall and Lamentable Murtlier of 
 
 Master George Sanders, of London, 
 
 Marcliant, nigh Shooters Hill ; consented 
 
 unto by his owne wife, 
 
 acted by M. Browne, Mistris Drewry and Trusty 
 
 Roger, agents tlierin : with 
 
 thier seuerall ends. As it hath beene 
 
 lately diuerse times acted by the right Honorable 
 
 the Lord Chamberlaine his 
 
 Seruantes. 
 
 Printed at London 
 
 by Valentine Sims for \Villiam Asplcy, 
 
 1599. 
 
 VOL. II. 14
 
 [THE STOllY OF THE PLAY BRIEFLY TOLD.] 
 
 [This play is a rendering of a popular London murder of 1573 — arrests, 
 trials, executions, confessions and all complete— done for the stage in a 
 (generally) very servile following of the contemporary accounts by Stowe 
 and others, as given at p. 217, et seq. Captain Browne, a young Irish 
 officer and London gallant, on a visit at the house of Mr George Sanders, 
 a wealthy city merchant living near Billingsgate, falls in love with his 
 host's pretty wife. He importunes Mrs Drury, a widow friend of the 
 Sanderses, to help him plead liis love; wliich Mrs Drury agrees to do, on 
 promise of an ample reward. Mrs Drury claims 'surgery' as her 'pro- 
 fession,' but avows tliat she gets her 'best living' by fortune- telling; and 
 she commences to inveigle Mrs Sanders by ' reading her hand,' and telling 
 her, as the result, (1) That she will soon be a widow ; (2) That she will 
 thereupon marry a gentleman— 'a gallant fellow,' of 'great estates,' &c. ; 
 and (3) That the gentleman destined to be her second husband is the 
 Captain Browne she has met at her own table once, and seen but once 
 since. Mrs Sandeis is at first very sorry to hear this ; but after a time 
 she views it as her destiny. The interviews thereupon procured for 
 Browne by the woman Drury lead the wife further astray, tQl she loves 
 Browne as he loves her. Browne is now seized with the wish to remove 
 Sanders from his and his love's path ; and he plots with Mrs Drury, and 
 her equally unscrupulous man, Roger, the murder of the merchant. Twice 
 Browne waylays Sanders, bat is prevented from striking the blow by the 
 int)-usion of company. His third attempt results in the death of the mer- 
 chant, and the mortal wounding of John Beane, an attendant. Browne 
 sends a handkerchief dipped in Sanders's blood to Ann Sanders as a token 
 that the merchant has been killed. But, coming immediately after to his 
 mistress, he finds her already filled with remorse ; and is repulsed by her. 
 Browne then flies the hue-and-cry, being furnished with money belonging 
 in part to Mrs Sanders and in part to Mrs Drury. Arrested at Rochester, 
 he is recognized as the murderer by the dying John Beane, and is then 
 tried and condemned. He repents, confesses, and implicates Drury and 
 her man Roger ; but, through love, seeks to save Ann Sanders by declar- 
 ing her innocent. And so he is hanged. Then follow the trials, confes- 
 sions, and executions of Mrs Drury, Mrs Sanders, and Roger. At various 
 points in the course of the play, Tragedy appears as a species of Chorus, 
 and with the aid of ' Dumb shows,' in which figure Murther, Lust, 
 Chastity, and other personifications, as well as the chief actors in the 
 drama, indicates the working of such parts of the plot as are not otherwise 
 set forth. — G.]
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 This anonymous play was published by Valentine Sims for 
 William Aspley, in 1599. It was one of the plays acted by the 
 Lord Chamberlain's Company. It is perhaps the most noteworthy 
 of a whole class of plays, those, namely, which dramatized murders 
 wliicli for any special reason attracted great interest. Two plays of 
 this class have been attributed to Shakspere. The Yorkshire 
 Traf/eJi/ was printed with his name on the title-page in 1608, and 
 Arden of Faversham, printed in 1503, was reprinted by Edward 
 Jacob, a Paversham man, in 1770, and by him attributed to Shak- 
 spere. The present play has thus much in common with Arden, 
 that it represents a murder committed many years before the date 
 of the drama, and th.at its materials were taken either from the 
 Chronicles, or from the contemporary accoimts upon wliieh the 
 Chronicles were founded. Holinshed and Stowe give an identical 
 relation, drawn, with slight corrections, from a contemporary ac- 
 count written either by Clearke or Nowell, the two ministers who 
 prepared the murderers for their execution. Other plays of the kind, 
 like the Yorkshire Tragedy and Page of Plymouth, represented the 
 event while it was still fresh in memory. 
 
 The title of tlie play, A toarning for fair women, has much in 
 common with the Alarum for London, and testifies to the didactic 
 and educational intention which the Lord Chamberlain's company 
 wished to be supposed to underlie their efforts to amuse the public.
 
 212 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 The writers or printers of ballads had set this example long before. 
 Thus we find on the registers of the Stationers' Company in 1564, 
 
 ' A warning to wanton wives, 
 
 To flee from folly the lengtli of their lives.' 
 
 In 1565, 
 
 ' A warning to all maids that brews their own bane,' 
 
 and, 
 
 ' A warning for widows that aged be ; 
 
 How lusty young youth and age can agree.' 
 
 The didactic intention of the play assumes quite a controversial 
 form in the conversation between Master James, Master Barnes, 
 and the Mayor of Eochester about the effect of plays upon the con- 
 science of the guilty. The stories are introduced by the head and 
 shoulders, but they have this point of interest : that one of them 
 is evidently a story, which found a place in the Hamlet of 1589, 
 where Hamlet, instead of his vague reference, 
 
 *I have heard 
 That guilty creatures sitting at a play 
 Have, by the very cunning of the scene. 
 Been struck so to the soid, that, presently, 
 They have proclaim'd their malefactions; 
 For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 
 With most miraculous organ.' 
 
 The story told by Hamlet to Horatio in the play of 1589 is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 ' There was a pretty casus in Germany, near Strasburg. A 
 wife had murdered her husband by piercing him through the heart
 
 INTRODUCTION. 213 
 
 with a shoemaker's awl; and then, with the liclp of her paramour, 
 buried hira under the doorstep. So matters stood for as long as 
 nine years : when certain actors came that way, and acted a tragedy 
 containing a similar incident. The wife, who was sitting with her 
 paramour at the play, was so touched in her conscience, and began 
 to ciy aloud and to shriek, " Woe is me ! that touches me ! So it 
 was that I kLUed my husband." She tore her hair, ran out of the 
 theatre to the judge, confessed of her own accord the murder, and, 
 as this was found to be true, she, in deep repentance for her crime, 
 received the consolations of a priest, and in true contrition gave 
 up her body to the executioner, and commended her soul to 
 heaven.' 
 
 This I suppose to be meant for the third example, the one related 
 by Master James in the following play (p. 310, 1. 1060). It is the 
 same incident as the first of the three related by Heywood in his 
 Apology for Actors (Shaks. Society's reprint, pp. 57 — 60) in much 
 greater detail. Heywood, writing in 1612, tells it as 'a domestic and 
 home-born truth, which within these few years happened. At Lin, 
 in Norfolk, the then Earl of Sussex' players acting the old History 
 of Friar Francis, and presenting a woman, who insatiately doting 
 on a young gentleman, the more securely to enjoy his affection, 
 mischievously and secretly murdered her husband, whose ghost 
 haunted her ; and at divers times, in her most solitary and private 
 contemplations, in most horrid and fearful shapes appeared and 
 stood before her. As this was acted, a towns-woman, till then of 
 good estimation and report, finding her conscience at this present- 
 ment extremely troubled, suddenly skritched and cried out, " Oh my 
 husband, my husband ! I see the ghost of my husband fiercely 
 threatening and menacing me ! " At which shrill and unexpected
 
 214 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN 
 
 outciy the people about licr, moved to a strange amazement, inquired 
 the reason of her clamour, when presently, unurged, she told them 
 that, seven years ago, she, to be possessed of such a gentleman, 
 meaning hiin, had poisoned her husband, whose fearful image pre- 
 sented itself in the shape of that ghost, \yhereupon the murdresse 
 was apprehended, before the justices further examined, and by her , 
 voluntary confession after condemned. That this is true, as well 
 by the report of the actors as the records of the town, there are 
 many eye-witnesses of this accident yet living vocally to confirm 
 it.' 
 
 It appears by Henslowe's diary that the Earl of Sussex' men 
 acted Friar Francis at the Rose in 1593. The pi'cdecessor of the 
 then Earl had been Lord Chamberlain ; and perhaps the successor 
 kept up a connection with the company of actors, who may have 
 occasionally appeared under his patronage, as his men. At any 
 rate the complimentary references made to them in the text of the 
 following play lead to the conclusion that there was at least an 
 identity of interest, if not of persons, between the Lord Chamber- 
 lain's men of 1599 and the Earl of Sussex' men of 1593, and per- 
 haps five years earlier. 
 
 The first of the stories, the one told by the Mayor of Eochester, 
 may be identified wii;h Hey wood's third story (pp. 58 — 60) by the 
 incident of the nail in the temples. ' Another of the like wonder 
 happened at Amsterdam, in Holland. A company of our English 
 Comedians (well known) travelling those countries, as they were 
 before the burgers and other the chief inhabitants acting the last 
 part of the Four Sons of Aijmon, towards the last part of the his- 
 tory, where penitent Rinaldo, like a common labourer, lived in dis- 
 guise, vowing, as his last penance, to labour and carry burdens to
 
 INTRODUCTION. 21$ 
 
 the structure of a goodly churcli, then to be erected ; whose dili- 
 gence the labourers envying, since, by reason of his stature and 
 strength, he did usually perfect more work in a day than a dozen of 
 the best — he working for his conscience, they for their lucres — 
 whereupon, by reason his industry had so much disparaged their 
 living, consj)ired among themselves to kill him, waiting some op- 
 portunity to find him asleep, which they might easily do, since the 
 sorest labourers are the soundest sleepers, and industry is the best 
 preparative to rest. Having spy'd their opportunity, they drave a 
 nail into his temples, of which wound immediately he died. As the 
 actors handled this, the audience might on a sodaine understand an 
 out-cry and loud shrike in a remote gallery ; and pressing about the 
 place, they might perceive a woman of great gravity strangely 
 amazed, who with a distracted and troubled brain oft sighed out 
 these words, " Oh my husband, my husband ! " The play, without 
 further interruption, proceeded; the woman was to her own house 
 conducted, without any apparent suspicion ; everyone conjecturing 
 as their fancies led them. In this agony she some few days lan- 
 guished. And on a time, as certain of her well-disposed neighbours 
 came to comfort her, one amongst the rest being church-warden ; to 
 him the sexton posts, to tell him of a strange thing happening to 
 him in the ripping up of a grave : " See here," quoth he, " what I 
 have found " : and shows them a fair skull, with a great nail pierced 
 quite through the brain-pan : " But we cannot conjecture to whom 
 it should belong, nor how long it hath lain in the earth, the grave 
 being confused, and the flesh consumed." At the report of this 
 accident the woman out of the trouble of her afflicted conscience 
 discovered a former murder ; for twelve years ago, by driving that 
 nail into that skull, being the head of her husband, she had treacher-
 
 2i6 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 ously slain him. This being publicly confessed, she was arraigned, 
 condemned, adjudged, and burned.' 
 
 It was in the year 1G03 that Robert Shawe was engaged in 
 writing the Four Sons of Aymon, and the play was revived in 1624. 
 Unless there was an earlier play on the same subject, the mention 
 of the story in the Warning for Fair Women, printed in 1599, shows 
 Heywood's circumstantial details to be mere fudge. It is evident, 
 however, that these stories were common places of the advocates of 
 the stage fronr 1589, when one of them appears in Hamlet, to 
 1G12, when Hey wood wrote. It is interesting, also, to observe 
 that the story of Friar Francis, the play which produced the inci- 
 dent related in the early Hamlet, is itself related to the stoiy of 
 Hamlet by means of the ghost of the murdered man. 
 
 The induction to the Warning is notable also in that it 
 contains what is apparently a fling at Shakspere's Richard III, 
 Henry V, Macbeth and Hamlet, in Comedy's speech beginning — 
 ' How some damned tyrant to obtain a crown ' — It may cause 
 surprise that such open mockery of the method, if not of the very 
 plays, of Shakspere should have been allowed on his own stage. 
 Perhaps it testifies to the large-heartedness of the man, who was 
 tolerant of criticism because he felt how little it touched him. If 
 we could be sure that Jonson's Tprologue to Fverg man in his humour 
 was ever pronounced on the boards of Shakspere's theatre, it would 
 be another case in point. But that prologue is not in the original 
 quartos of the play. A second supposition is that in 1599 Shak- 
 spere was travelling, perhaps in Scotland, and that in his absence 
 he was considered to be fair game. Anyhow, for one reason or 
 another, there can be little doubt that in the induction to the fol-
 
 I NT ROD UCTION. 2 1 7 
 
 lowing play a fling at the great Dramatist, on whose shoulders the 
 fortunes of the Lord Chaml)crlain's men chiefly rested, was permitted 
 to bo pronounced at his own theatre and by his fellow-actors. 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE MURDER OF MR SANDERS 
 FROM STOWE, 
 
 Chron. a.d. 1573, p. 674 (ed. Howes, 1615). 
 
 "TuE 25 of March, being Wednesday in Easter week, and the 
 feast of the Annunciation of our Lady, George Browne cruelly mur- 
 dered two honest men near unto Shooters Hill in Kent, the one of 
 them was a wealthy merchant of London named George Sanders, 
 the other John Beane of Woolwich ; which murder was committed 
 in manner as followeth. 
 
 On Tuesday in Easter week (the four and twentieth of 
 March) the said George Browne receiving secret intelligence by 
 letter from Mistress Anne Drury that Master Sanders should lodge 
 the same night at the house of one Master Barnes in Woolwich, 
 and from thence go on foot to St. Mary Cray the next morning, 
 lay in wait for him by the way, a little from Shooters hill, and there 
 slew both liim and John Beane, servant to Master Barnes : but 
 John Beane having 10 or 11 wounds, and being left for dead, by 
 Gods providence revived again, and creeping away on all four, was 
 found by an old man and his maiden, and conveyed to Woolwich, 
 where he gave evident marks of the murderer. 
 
 Immediately upon the deed doing Browne sent Mistress Diniry 
 word thereof by Roger Clement (among them called trusty Roger) 
 he himself repaired forthwith to the Court at Greenwich, and anon
 
 2i8 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 
 
 after him came thither the report of the murder also. Then de- 
 parted he thence unto London, and came to the house of Mistress 
 Drury, where though he spake not personally with her, after con- 
 ference had with her servant trusty Roger, she provided him twenty 
 pounds that same day, for the which she laid certain plate of her 
 own and of Mistress Sanders to gage. On the next morrow, being 
 Thursday (having intelligence that Browne was sought for) tliey 
 sent him six pounds more by the same Roger, warning him to shift 
 for himself by flight, which thing he foreslowed not to do : never- 
 theless the Lords of the Queens majesty's council caused so speedy 
 and narrow search to be made for him tliat upon the eight and 
 twentieth of the same month he was apprehended in a mans house 
 of his own name at Rochester, and being brought back again to 
 the Court was examined by the Council, to whom he confessed the 
 deed as you have heard, and that he had oftentimes before pre- 
 tended and sought to do the same, by the instigation of the said 
 Mistress Drury, who had promised to make a mamage between 
 him and Mistress Sanders (whom he seemed to love excessively) 
 nevertheless he protested (though untruly) that Mistress Sanders 
 was not privy nor consenting thereunto. Upon his confession he 
 was arraigned at the Kings Bench in Westminster Hall the 18 of 
 April, where he acknowledged himself guilty, and was condemned 
 as principal of the murder, according to which sentence he had 
 judgment, and was executed in Smithficld on Monday the 20 of 
 April, at which time also untruly (as she herself confessed after- 
 ward) he laboured by all means to clear Mistress Sanders of com- 
 mitting evil of her body with him, as also of procuring or con- 
 senting to the murder of her husband, and then beginning to sing 
 a psalm, Lord turn not away thy face Stc, he flung himself be-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 219 
 
 sides tlic ladder, and so shortened his own life ; he was after hanged 
 up in chains near unto the place where he had done the fact. 
 
 In the mean time Mistress Drury and her man being examined, 
 as well by their own confessions as by falling out of the matter 
 (and also by Brownes appcachment thought culpable) were com- 
 mitted to ward. And after Mistress Sanders being delivered of 
 Child and churched (for at the time of her husbands death she 
 looked presently to lie down) was upon ]Mistress Drury's mans 
 confession and other great likelihoods likewise committed to the 
 Tower, and on Wednesday the sixt of May arraigned with Mistress 
 Drury at the Guildhall, the effect of whose indictment was, that 
 they by a letter written had been procurers of the said murder, 
 and knowing tlie murder done had by money and otherwise re- 
 lieved the murderer. Whereunto they pleaded not guilty, 
 howbeit they w-ere both condemned as accessaries to Master 
 Sanders death and executed in Smithfield the 13 of May, 
 being Wednesday in Whitsun week, at which time they both 
 confessed themselves guilty of the fact. Trustie Roger Mis- 
 tress Dnirys man was arraiijncd on Friday the 8 of Mav, and 
 being there condemned as accessary, was executed with his Mis- 
 tress at the time and place aforesaid. Not long after, Anthony 
 Browne, brother to the forenamed George Browne was for notable 
 felonies conveyed from Newgate to York, and there hanged." 
 
 OTHER ACCOUNTS. 
 
 There were probably ballads on the subject, but as the Sta- 
 tioners' register for the years 1571 — 1575 is lost, we are without 
 the means of knowing what they were. 
 
 There is a book — •
 
 A briefe discourse 
 
 of the late murther of ma- 
 ster George Saunders a worsliip- 
 full Citizen of London : and 
 
 of the apprehension, arreignement, 
 and execution of the princi- 
 pal! & accessaries of 
 the same. 
 
 ^ Imprinted at London by 
 
 Henry Bynneman, dwelling in Knight- 
 
 rider Streete, at the Signe 
 
 of the Mermayde. 
 
 Anno 1573. 
 
 [Press Mark in Lambeth Library, 29. 9. 28.]
 
 INTRODUCTION. 221 
 
 FOrasmucli as the late murtbcr of Master Saunders, Citizen and 
 Mcreliant taylor of this citie, rainistreth great occasion of talk 
 among al sorts of men, not onelie here in the Towne, but also farre 
 abrode in the Countrie, and generally through the whole Ecalme : 
 and the sequeles and accidents ensewing thereupon, breede muche 
 diversitie of reports and opinions, while some do justly detest the 
 horriblenesse of the ungratious facte, some lamente the greevous 
 losse of their deare friends, some rejoice at the commendal)le execu- 
 tion of upright justice, the godlye bewayle the unmeasurable in- 
 clination of humane nature to extreame wickednesse, and therewith 
 magnifie Gods iniinite mercie in revoking of folorne sinners to 
 finall repentance, many delight to heare and tell newes, without 
 respect of the certentie of the truth, or regarde of dewe humanitic, 
 every man debating of the matter as occasion or affection leades 
 him, and few folke turning the advised consideration of God's open 
 judgements, to the speedie reformation of their owne secrete faults : 
 It is thought convenient (gentle reader) to give thee a playne 
 declaration of the whole matter, according as the same is come to 
 light by open triall of Justice, and voluntarie confession of the 
 parties, that thou mayst knowc the truth to the satisfying of thy 
 mind, and the avoyding of miscredite, and also use the example to 
 the amendment of thy life. Notwithstanding thou shalt not look 
 for a full diseoverie of every particider bymatter appendant to the 
 presente case, whiche might serve to feede the fond humor of such 
 . curious appetites as are more inquisitive of other folkes offences 
 than hastie to redresse their owne ; for that were neyther expedient 
 nor necessarie. And mens misdoings arc to be prosecuted no fur- 
 ther with open detestation, than till the parties be eyther reclaymcd 
 by reasonable' and godly perswasiou, or punished by orderly and
 
 222 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 lawfull execution, according to tlie qualitie of their offence. When 
 lawc hath once passed upon them, and given them the wages of 
 their wicked deserts ; then christian charitie willeth men eyther to 
 burie the faults with the offcndours in perpetual silence, or else so 
 to speak of them, as the vices and not the parties themselves may 
 seeme to be any more touched. 
 
 But hereof shall more be spoken (God willing) in the winding 
 iip of this matter. Nowc I will set downe, first the murthering of 
 master Saunders by George Brown, with Browne's apprehension, 
 triall and execution ; then the trial and execution of Anne Saun- 
 ders, the wife of the said George Saunders, of AnneDrewrie,Widowe, 
 and of Roger Clement, called among them trustye Roger, the servant 
 of the said Anne Dreurie ; And lastlye a briefe rehearsall of certaine 
 sayings and dealings of the parties convicted, betwene the tyme of 
 their apprehensions and the tyme of their execution, Avhiche are not 
 things propre and peculiar to the very bodie of the case, but yet 
 incident, and therfore necessaric for the hearer, as wherby will 
 appeare the verie originall cause, and first grounde of this ungodlye 
 deede : And this rehearsall shall be sliutte up and concluded with a 
 horte Admonition howe we ought to deale in this and al other 
 such cases. 
 
 The Tuisdaye in Easter weeke last past (which was the xxiiij 
 day of March) the sayde George Browne receyving secrete intelli- 
 gence by letter from mistresse Drewrie that master Saunders shoulde 
 lodge the same nighte at the house of one Master Barnes in Wool- 
 wich and from thence go on foote to Sainte Marie Cray the nexte 
 morning, met him by the way a little from Sliootcrs hill, betwene 
 seven and eight of the clocke in the forenoone, and there slew both 
 him, and also one John Bcane the servant of the said Master Barnes
 
 INTRODUCTION. 223 
 
 Assoonc as master Saunders felt liiniself to have liis deathes 
 wounde (for hce was striken quite and eleane through at the first blowe) 
 he kneeled downc, and liftiiiir up his handesaiid (^yes unto heaven, 
 sayd, (jod have mercie on niee, and forgive me my sinnes, and thee 
 too, (speaking to Browne, whom in deede he knewe not, whatsoever 
 report hath been made of former acquayntance betwixte them) and 
 with that worde he gave up the Ghost. And Browne (as he him- 
 selfe confessed afterward) was thereat striken with suche a terrour 
 and agonie of hart, as he wist not what to doo, but was at the point 
 to have fainted even then and oftentimes else that day, and coulde 
 brookc nother mcate nor cirinke that he receyved of all that day after. 
 He was so abashed afterward at the sight of one of master Saunders 
 little yoong children, as he had much adoo to forbearefrora swownd- 
 ing in the street, a notaljle example of the secret working of Gods 
 terrible wrath in a guiltie and bluddie conscience. But M. Barnesis 
 man having ten or eleven deadly wounds, and being left for dead, 
 did by Gods woonderfull providence revyve againe, and creeping a 
 great waye on all fourc, (fore hce could nother go nor stande) was 
 found by an old man and his maydcn that went that way to secke 
 their kine, and conveyed too Woolwich, when he gave evident tokens 
 and markes of the murlhcrcr, and so continewing still alive till he 
 had bin apprehended and brought unto him, dyed the next Munday 
 after. Immediatly upon the deede doing, Browne sent mistresse 
 Drewrie woorde thereof ijy trustie Eoger, he himself repayred forth- 
 with to the Court at Greenwich, and anone after him came thither 
 the report of the murther also. Then departed he thence unto 
 London streightwaycs, and came to the house of Mistresse Drewrie, 
 howbeit he spake not personally with hir. But after conference had 
 with him, by hir servant lloger, she provided him xx pounds
 
 224 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 the same day, for the which mistress Drewiy layde certaiae plate of 
 hir owne and of mistresse Saunders to gage. And upon the next day 
 beeing Thursday morning (liavyng in the meane tyme had intelligence 
 that Brown was sought for) they sent him sixe pounds more by the 
 sayde Eoger, and warned him to shifte for himselfe by flight, which he 
 forslowed not to do. Neverthclesse the Lordes of the Queenes 
 Majesties CounseU, caused so speedie and narow searche to be 
 made for hym in aU places, that upon the 28 of the same moneth he 
 was apprehended in a mans house of his own name at Eochester, by 
 the Mayor of the towne : and beeing broughte backe again to the 
 Courte, was examined by the Counsell, unto whom he confessed the 
 deede, as you have hearde, and that he had oftentymes before pre- 
 tended and soughte to do the same, by the instigation of the said 
 widowe Drewrie, who (as he says) had promised to make a mariage 
 between him and mistresse Saunders, (whome he seemed to love 
 excessively) the desire of which hope hasted him forwarde to dis- 
 patche the fact. 
 
 Nevertheles he protested, (howbeit untmly) y' mistres Saun- 
 ders was not privie nor consenting therunto. Upon this confession 
 he was arreigned at y"^ Kings Bench in Westminster Hal on friday 
 y^ xvii of April, wher acknowledging himself guiltie, he was c6- 
 demned as principall of the murther of Master Saimders, according to 
 whiche sentence he was executed in Smithfield on monday the xx 
 of the same moneth, at which tyme (thoughe untruely, as she hirself 
 confessed afterwarde) he laboured by all mcanes to clear mistress 
 Saunders of committing evil of hir bodie with him : and afterward was 
 hanged up in chaynes neare unto the place, where he hadde doone 
 the facte. 
 
 Thus much concerning the very case of the murther itselfe, and
 
 INTRODUCTION. 225 
 
 the punishment of the principall doer therof. As for the acknow- 
 ledgement of tlie former wickednesse of his life, and the heartie 
 repentance that he pretended for the same, even to his very death, 
 I deferre them to the last part of this matter, to which place those 
 things do more peculiarly pertain. In the mean time Mistress 
 Drewrie and hir man beeing examined, and as well by their own 
 confessions, as by the falling out of the matter in consequence, and 
 also by T?rowncs appeachment, thought culpable, were committed 
 to warde. And anone after Mistresse Saunders beeing delivered of 
 childe & churched (for at the time of her husband's death she 
 looked presently to lye downe) Avas upon Mistresse Drewries mans 
 confession, and upon other great likelyhoodes and presumptions 
 likewise committed to warde, and on Wednesday, the sixth of May, 
 arreigned with Mistresse Dreurie at the Guildehall, the effecte of 
 whose sevenill inditements is this : That they had by a letter wTitten, 
 been procurers of the sayd murther, and so accessaries before the 
 fact : And knowing the murther done, had by money and otherwise, 
 relieved and been ayding to the murtherer, and so accessaries also 
 after the facte. "Whereunto they both of them pleaded not giltie. 
 And ]\listresse Saunders, notwithstanding the avouchement of 
 Mistresse Drewries man face to face, and the great probabilities of 
 the evidence given in against hir by master Geffry the Quecnes 
 majesties Serjeant, stood so stoutly stil to the deniall of all things 
 (in which stoute deniall she continued also a certain tvme after hvr 
 condemnation) that some were brought in a blinde beliefe, that 
 either she was not giltie at all, or else had but brought hir selfc in 
 danger of lawe through ignorance, and not through pretenced malice. 
 Howbeit forasmuch as bare deniall is no sufficient barre to dis- 
 charge manifest matter, and apparent evidence: they were both 
 VOL. n. 15
 
 226 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 condemned as accessaries to master Saunder's death, and executed in 
 Smithfield the thirteenth of May, beeing the Wednesday in the Whit- 
 sonweeke, at whiche time they both of them, confessed themselves 
 guiltie of the facte, for which they were condemned, and with very 
 greate repentaunce and meakenesse, receyved the rewarde of their 
 trespasse, in the presence of many personages of honor and worship, 
 and of so great a number of people, as the like hathe not bene scene 
 there togither in any mans remembraunce. For almoste the whole 
 fielde, and all the way from Newgate, was as full of folke as coulde 
 well stande one by another : and besides that, great companies were 
 placed bothe in the chambers neere abouts (whose windowes & 
 walles were in many places beaten down to looke out at) and also 
 upon the gutters, sides, and toppes of the houses, and upon the 
 battlements and steeple of S. Bartholmewes. 
 
 Mistresse Drewries man was arreigned at Newgate on Friday tlie 
 viii of Maye, and beeing there condemned as accessarie, was ex- 
 ecuted with his mistresse, at the time and place aforesayd. 
 
 Thus have ye heard the murthering of master Saunders, with 
 the apprehension, arreignement, condemnation, and execution of the 
 principall and of the accessaries to the same. Now let us proceede 
 to the incidents that hapned from the times of their apprehensions 
 to the time of their deathes, and so to the admonition, which is the 
 conclusion and fruito of this whole matter. 
 
 Whereas it was determined that mistresse Saunders & mistresse 
 Drewrie should have suffered upon the nexte Saterday after their 
 condemnation, whiche was Whitson even; the matter was stayde 
 till the Wednesday in Whitson weeke, iipon these occasions ensu- 
 ing. The booke of maister Saunders accomptes and reckenings, 
 wherupon depended the knowlege of his whole state, was myssing.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 227 
 
 Certaine summes of money were sayde to Le in the liandes of 
 parties unknowne, the intelligence whereof was desyred and sought 
 for to the behoofe of master Saunders children. The parties con- 
 victed were to be reformed to Godwarde, and to be broughte to the 
 willing confessing of the things for which they had bene justly con- 
 demned, and whiche as yet they obstinatly concealed. 
 
 And besides al this, one Mell, a minister that had heretofore 
 ben suspended from his Ministerie, accompanying mistresse Saun- 
 ders from hir condemnation to Newgate, and conferring with hir, 
 as it had bene to give hir good counsell and comforte, was so 
 blinded wyth hir solemne asseverations and protestations of inno- 
 cencie, that notwithstanding he had heard hir inditement, with the 
 exact and substantiall triall of hir case : yet notwithstanding, he 
 perswaded himself that she was utterly cleere, and thereuppon falling 
 in love wyth hir, dealte with mistresse Drewrie to take the whole 
 guilt upon hir selfe, undertaking to sue for mistresse Saunders 
 pardon. And so what by his terrifying of hir, with the horroure 
 of mischarging and casting away of an innocent, what with his pro- 
 mising of certaine money to the mariage of hir daughter, and with 
 other perswasions : she was so wholly woone that way, that as wel 
 before certaine personages of honour, as also before the Deane of 
 Paules & others, she utterly cleered mistresse Saunders of the facte, 
 or of consent to the same, taking the whole blame thereof to hir 
 self, and protesting to stande therin to the death, contrarie to 
 hir former confession at the tyme of hir aiTcignement. 
 
 Mistresse Saunders also, after the laying of this plutte, stoode 
 so stoutely to hir tackling, that when the Deane of Paules gave hir 
 godly exhortation for the clearing of hir conscience, and for the 
 reconciling of hir self unto God, as the time and case most needefully
 
 228 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 required, (as other had done before) he coulde obtayne nothing at 
 hir hande. By meanes whereof, he was fayne to leave hir that 
 time, which was the Friday, not without great griefe and indigna- 
 tion of mind to see hir stubborne unrepentauntnesse. In the 
 meane Avhile, the sayd Mell discovering his purpose, and whole 
 platforme to an honest Gentleman, whom he unskilfully toke to 
 have bin a welwiller to obtayne the pardon of mistresse Saunders, 
 was partly by that meanes, and also by other follies of his owne, 
 cut off from his enterprise. For when he came to sue for hir par- 
 don, which thing he did with such outrage of doting affection, that 
 he not only proffered summes of money, but also offered his owne, 
 body and life for the safety of the woman, whom he protested upon 
 his conscience to be unguilty. The Lordes of the Counsell, knowing 
 hir to be rightly condemned by good justice, and being privie to 
 the state of the case beforehand, and also finding him out by his 
 owne unwise dealings (whereof among other one was, that he in- 
 tended to marie hir) not only frustrated his desire, but also adjudged, 
 him to stand upon the pillorie, with apparant notes and significa- 
 tions of his lewde and foolishe demeanour. According to the 
 which appointment, he was set upon a pillorie by the place of 
 execution at the tyme of theyr suffering, with a paper pinned upon 
 hys breast, wherein were written certain wordes in great Letters 
 conteyning the effecte of his fact, to his open shame : videlicet, 
 Tor practisinr/ to colour the detedahle fades of George Saunders wife 
 Which was a very good lesson to teache all persons to refrayne from 
 any devises or practises to deface or discredite the honorable pro- 
 ceedings of Coimsellours, and publike and lawfull forme of trialles 
 and judgementes according to Justice, or to hinder the beneficial! 
 course of so good examples.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 229 
 
 By this occasion Mistresse Sanders was utterly unprovided to 
 die at that time, and therfore as well in respect of mercie, as for 
 the considerations aforesaid, a further respite was given to them 
 unwitting, and a reprivie was sent by !M. Mackwilliams for a time 
 if neede were. In the meane time, (that is to wit upon tlie Saturday 
 morning) tlio constant reporte goeth, that as certaine men came 
 talking through Newgate, one happened to spcake lowde of the 
 gallowes that was set up, and of the greatnesse and strongnes of 
 the same, saying it would hold them both and moe, the sounde of 
 which wordes did so pierce into the watchfull eares of mistresse 
 Saunders, who lay neare hand, that being striken to the heart 
 with the horror of the present death which she loked for that day, 
 she went immediatly to mistresse Drewrie, and telling hir that she 
 knew certainly by the wordes which she had heard, that they should 
 by all likelihode be executed that day, asked hir if she would stand 
 to hir former promise. But mistresse Drewrie after better con- 
 sideration of hirsclf, counselling hir to fall to playne and simple 
 dealing : telling hir, that for hir owne parte she was fully de- 
 termined not to dissemble any longer, nor to hazarde hir owne 
 soule eternally for the safetie of another bodies temporall life. 
 Then mistresse Saunders, who had determined to acknowledge no- 
 thing against hir selfe, so long as she might bee in any hope of 
 life ; howbeit that she always purposed to utter the truth, when- 
 soever she should come to the instant of death, as she hir self con- 
 fessed afterward ; being striken both with feare and remorse, did 
 by the advice of master Cole, (who laboured very earnestly with hir 
 to bring hir to repentance, and was come to hir verye early that 
 morning, because it was thought they should have bene executed 
 presently) send for the Deane of Paules agayne, and bcwayling her
 
 230 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 former stiibburnes, declared unto liim and master Cole, master 
 Charke, and master Yong, that sliee had given hir consent and pro- 
 curement to hir husbands death, through unlawfull lust and liking 
 that she had to Brown, confessing hir sinfulnesse of life committed 
 with him : and humbly submitting hirselfe to her deserved punish- 
 ment, besought them of spirituall comfort and councell, which 
 tiling they were glad to perceyve, and thereupon employed their 
 travell to do them good : and laboured very painfully to instruct 
 them aright : for (God wote) they founde all the three prisoners 
 very rawe and ignorant in all things perteyning to God and to their 
 soule health, yea and even in the very principles of the Christen 
 religion. Neverthelesse through Gods good working with their 
 labour, they recovered them out of Sathans kingdome unto Christ, 
 insomuch that besides their voluntary acknowledging of their late 
 heinous fact, they also detested the former sinfulnesse of their life, 
 and willingly yelded to the death which they had shunned, uttering 
 such certaine tokens of their unfayned repentance, by all kinde of 
 modestie and meekenesse, as no greater could be devised. For 
 Mistresse Saunders the same day sent for hir husbands brothers 
 and their wives and kinsfolke that were in the towne, whiche came 
 unto hir the day before hir death : in whose presence she kneeling 
 mildely on Iiir knees, with abundance of son'owful teares, desired 
 them of forgivenesse for bereving them of their deare brother and 
 friende : whereunto Master Saunders the Lawyer in the name of 
 them al answered, that as they were very sorie both for the losse of 
 theyr friend, and also for hir heinous fault, so they heartily forgave 
 hir, and, in token thereof kneeled downe altogyther, praying to 
 GOD wyth hir and for hir, that hee also woulde remitte hir sinne. 
 Besides this pitiful submission, she also bewayled hir offence
 
 INTRODUCTION. 231 
 
 towardes liir owne kinred, whome she had stayned by hir trespas, 
 and towardes the whole worlde, whom she liad oflended by liir 
 crime, but especially hir children, whome she had not onely berefte 
 bothe of father and mother, but also lefte them a coarsie and shame. 
 "VVherfore, after exhortation given to such of them as were of 
 any capacitie and discretion, that they shoulde feare God, and leame 
 by hir fall to avoyde sinne, she gave eche of those a bookc of maister 
 Bradfordes meditations, wherin she desired the foresayd three 
 preachers to write some admonition as they thought good. Whiche 
 done, she subscribed them with these wordes, Youre sorowfull 
 mother Anne Saunders ; And so blessing them in the name of God 
 and of our Saviour Jesus Christ, she sent them away out of hir 
 sorrowfull sight, and gave hirsclfe wholly to the settling of hir 
 grieved heart, to the quiet receiving of the bitter cup, which she 
 dranke of the next day, as hath bene tolde before. Howbeit, with- 
 out doubt, to hir everlasting comforte. 
 
 And mistresse Dre\vrie, no lesse careful! of hir owne state, be- 
 sides hir humble repentance in the prison, and hir earnest desiring 
 of the people to pray for hir selfe, and the others with hir as they 
 came toward execution, did upon the Carte not onely confesse hir 
 giltinesse of the facte, as mistresse Saunders had don, but also with 
 great lowlinesse and reverence, first kneeling dowue towards the 
 Earle of Bedforde and other noble men that were on horssbacke on 
 the East side of the stage, tooke it upon hir death that whereas it 
 had bin reported of hir that she had poysoned hir late husbande 
 Master Drewrie, and dealt with witchcraft and sorcerie, and also 
 appeached divers raerchante mens wives of dissolute and unchast 
 living, she had done none of all those things, but was utterlie cleare 
 bothe to God and the worlde of all such manner of dealing. And
 
 232 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 then with like obeysance, tm-ning hir self to the Earle of Darbie, who 
 was in a chamber behind hir, she protested unto him before God, 
 that whereas she had bene reported to have bene the cause of 
 separation betwixte him and my Lady his wyfe ; she neither pro- 
 cured nor consented to any suche thing. But otherwise, wheras in 
 the time of hir service in his house, she had offended him, in neg- 
 lecting or contemning hir ductie, she acknowledged hir fault, and 
 besoughte him for Gods sake to forgive hir : who very honorably, 
 and even with teares accepted hir submission, and openly protested 
 himselfe to pray hartily to God for hir. 
 
 Hir servant also, having openly acknowledged his offence, 
 kneeled meekly downe, praying severally with a preacher, as eche 
 of them had done at their first comraing to the place. "Which 
 done they were all put in a readinesse by the Executioner, and at 
 one instant (by drawing away the Cart wheron they stoode) were 
 sent togither out of this worlde unto God. 
 
 And Browne also, a good while afore, during the time of his 
 imprisonment, comming to a better minde than he had bene of in 
 time paste, confessed that he had not heeretofore frequented sermons, 
 nor received the holy sacrament, nor used any calling upon God 
 private or publike, nor given him self to reading of holy Scripture, 
 or any bookes of godlynesse : but had altogither followed the ap- 
 petites and lustes of his sinfull flesh, even with greedinesse and 
 outragious contempt both of God and man. Neverthelesse God 
 was so good unto him, and schooled him so well in that short time 
 of imprisonment, as he cloased up his life with a marvellous ap- 
 parance of heartie repentance, constant trust in Gods mercy through 
 Jesus Christ, and willingnesse to forsake this miserable worlde. 
 
 Now remayneth to shewe what is to be gathered of this terrible
 
 INTRODUCTION. 233 
 
 example, and how we oughte to apply the same to our owne behoofe. 
 First 1 note with S. Paule, that when men regarde not to knowe 
 God, or not to honour him when they know him ; God giveth them 
 over to their own lustes, so as they runne on from sinne to sinne, 
 and from mischiefe to mischiefe, to do suche things as are shame- 
 full and odious, even in the sight of the worlde, to their owne 
 unavoydable perils. And when the measure of their iniquitie is 
 filled up, there is no way for them to escape the justice of God, 
 which they have provoked. Insomuch that if they might eschue 
 all bodily punishment, yet the very hell of their owne conscience 
 would prosecute them, and the sting of their minde would be a 
 coutinuall prison, torment and torture to them, wheresover they 
 went. Agayne on the other side we must marke the infinite great- 
 nesse of Gods wisdome and mercy, who perceyving the perverse 
 wilfulnesse of mans frowarde nature to sinning, sufFreth men some- 
 times to runne so long upon the bridle, till it seeme to themselves, 
 that they may safely do what they liste, and to the worlde, that 
 they be past recoverie unto goodnesse : and yet in the end catching 
 them in their chiefe pride, he rayseth them by their overthrow, 
 amendeth them by their wickednesse, and reviveth them by their 
 death, in such wise blotting out the stayne of their former filthe, 
 that their darknesse is turned into light, and their terrour to their 
 comfort. Moreover, when God bringeth such matters upon the 
 stage, unto y'' open face of the world, it is not to the intent that 
 men should gaze and wonder at the persons, as byrdes do at an 
 Owle, not that they should delight themselves & others with the 
 fond and peradventure sinister reporting of them, nor upbrayd the 
 whole stocke and kinrcd with the faidt of the offenders : no surely, 
 God meaneth no such thing. His pui-pose is that the execution
 
 234 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 of Ms judgements, should by the terrour of the outward sight of 
 the example, drive us to the inward consideration of ourselves. 
 Eeholde, wee bee all made of the same moulde, printed with the 
 same stampe, and indued with the same nature that the offenders 
 are. "We be the impes of the old Adam, and the venira of 
 sinne whiche he received from the olde serpent, is shedde 
 into us all, and woorkcth effectually in us all. Suche as the 
 roote is, such are the braunches, and the twiggs of a thorne 
 or bramble can beare no grapes. That we stande it is the 
 benefite of Gods grace, and not the goodnesse of our nature, nor 
 the strengthe of oure owne will. That they are falne, it was of 
 frayltie : wherfrom we be no more priviledged than they : and 
 that shoulde we oversoone perceive by experience, if we wer left to 
 our selves. He that looketh severely into other mennes faultes, is 
 lightly blynd in his owne : and he that either upbraydeth the re- 
 pentant that hath receyved punishment, or reprocheth the kinred 
 or ofspring Avith the fault of the auncestor or alye, how greate 
 so ever the same hath ben; sheweth himselfe not to have any 
 remorse of his owne sinnes, nor to remember that he himselfe also 
 is a man : but (which thyng he woulde little thinke) he fully 
 matcheth the crime of the misdoer, if he do not surmount it by his 
 presumptuousnesse. 
 
 When it was tolde oure Saviour Chryst that Pylate had mingled 
 the blood of certain men wath their owne sacrifise, what answere 
 made hee ? Did he detest the offenders ? did he declame against 
 their dooings ? Did he exaggerate the fault of the one, or the 
 crueltie of the other ? No. But framing and applying the example 
 too the reformation of the hearer, suppose ye (sayd he) that those 
 Galileans wer greater sinners than all the other Galileans, bycause
 
 INTRODUCTION. 23$ 
 
 they suffered such punishment ? I tell you nay : but except ye 
 repente, ye shall all likewise perish. Or think ye that those eif^htene 
 upon whom the toure in Silo fell, and slew them, were sinners 
 above all y' dwelt in Hicrusalem ? I tol you nay : but except ye 
 repent, ye shall all perishe likewise. Let us applie this to our 
 presente purpose. Were those whom wc saw justly executed in Smith- 
 field greater sinners than al other English people ? were they greater 
 sinners than all Londoners ? Were they greater sinners than all that 
 looked upon them ? No verily : but except their example leade us 
 to repentance, we shall all of us come to as sore punishment in this 
 worlde, or else to sorer in the workle to come. Their faults came 
 into the open Theater, k, therefore seemed the greater to our 
 eyes, and surely they were great in decde : neyther are ours the 
 lesse, bicause they lye hidden in the covert of oure hearte. God 
 the searcher of aU secrets seeth them, and if he list he can also 
 discover them. He hath shewed in some, what al of us deserve, to 
 provoke us al to repentance, that al of us might have mercie at his 
 hand, and shewe mercie one to an other, & with one mouthe, and 
 one hearte glorifie his goodnesse. It is sayde by the Prophete 
 Samuel, that disobedience is as the sinne of Witchcrafte. Lette 
 every of us looke into himselfe (but first lette him put on the spec- 
 tacles of Gods lawe, and carie the lighte of Gods worde with him) 
 and he shall see suche a gulfe of disobedience in himselfe, as he 
 maye well thinke there is none offender but himselfe. I say not this 
 as a cloaker of offences, that white should not be called white, & 
 blacke, blaeke ; or as a patrone of misdoers, that they should [not 
 have their deserved hyre : but to represse our hastie judgementes 
 and uncharitable speeches, that we myght both detest wickednesse 
 with perfect hatred, and rue the persons with christen modestie:
 
 236 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 kaowing that with what measure we met unto others, with the same 
 shall it be moten to us a2:avne. 
 
 Fiually, let al folkes both maried & unmaried, leame hereby 
 to possesse & keepe their vessell in honestie and cleannesse. 
 For if the knot betwene man and wife (whiche ought to be 
 inseparable) be once broken, it is seldome or never knit again. 
 And though it be, yet is not the wound so thoroughly healed, 
 but there appeereth some skarre ever after. But if the sore 
 rancle & fester inwardly (as commonly it doth except the more 
 grace of God be) in the end it bursteth forth to the destruction 
 or hurt of both parties, not lightly without great harme to others 
 also besides themselves, as we see by this example. For when the 
 body which was dedicated to God to be his temple and the taber- 
 nacle of his holy spirite is become the sinke of sinne & cage of 
 uncleannesse, the divill ceasseth not to drive the parties stUl headlong 
 unto naughtinesse, till they be falne eyther into open shame and 
 daunger of temporall law : or into damnable destruction both of 
 body and soule, according as Salomon in his Proverbes sayth, that 
 the steps of a harlot leade downe unto death, and hir feete perce 
 even unto heU. Therefore good reader, so heare and reade this 
 present example, as the same may turne to the bettering of thy state, 
 and not to occasion of slaunder, nor to the hurt of thine owne con- 
 science, nor to the offence of thy Chi'istian brethren. I'are well. 
 
 Anne Saunders confession as she spake it at the place of execution. 
 
 Good people, I am come hither to die the deathe, vvhereunto I am 
 adjuged as worthely & as deservedly as ever died any ; I had a good 
 husband, by whom I had manie children, with whom I lived in
 
 INTRODUCTION. 237 
 
 wealth, & might have done stil, had not the devill kindled in my 
 hearte, first the hellish fireljraiid of ualawfull lust & aftenvard a 
 murtherous intent to proeure ray saide husbande to be bereved of 
 his life, which was also by my wicked meanes accomplished, as to 
 the world is known. And as I woulde if he coulde heare me, if it 
 might be, prostrate upon the ground, at my husbands feete, aske 
 mercy with plentiful teares of him, so that which I may Sc I oughte 
 to doe, I aske mercye of God, I aske mercie of all men and women, 
 of the workl, whom by my deede & example I have oU'ended : and 
 especiallye I bewaile my husband, and aske mercie of my children 
 whom I have bred of so good a father, I aske mercy of his kin- 
 dred and frendcs whom I have hurt, S: of all my frends & kindred, 
 of whom I am abashed and ashamed : as beyng of my selfe un- 
 worthy of pittie, yet I besech them all, & you all, & all the whole 
 worlde of the same, even for Gods sake, and for our Saviour Christs 
 sake. A.nd I thank God with my whole hart, he hathe not suffered 
 me to have the reigne and bridle of sinning gyven me at my will, to 
 the daunger of my eternall damnation, but that he hath founde out 
 my sin, and brought me to punishment in this world, by his fatherly 
 correction, to amend, to spare, and save me in the world to come ; 
 & I beseehe him graimte me his heavenly grace, that all who do 
 behold or shall heare of my death, may by the example therof be 
 frayed from like sinning. And I besech you all to pray for me 
 and with me. 
 
 The Prayer whiche was said by Aime Saunders at the place of 
 execution, the copie wherof, she delivered unto the right honour- 
 able the Earle of Bedforde. 
 
 As I doe confesse wyth great sorrow (0 deare father) that I have 
 grievously, and oftentimes sinned against heaven and against thee,
 
 238 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 
 
 & am nnwortliy to be called thy claugliter, so (0 deare Father) 
 I acknowledge thy mercy, thy grace & love towards me, most 
 wretched sinner, offred me in my Lord & saviour Jesus Christe, 
 in whom thou givest me an heart to repent. And by repentance hast 
 put away my sinnes and throwne them into the bottome of the Sea, O 
 deare Father encrease and continue this grace untill the ende, and in 
 the ende. I testifie this day (0 Lord my God) thy love, Lorde, thy 
 saving health is life everlasting, and joy without end : and bicause 
 thou hast touched my sinfull heart with the displeasure of my 
 sinne, and with a desire of thy kingdorae, O deare Father, for thy 
 Christes sake, as I hope thou M'ilt, so I beseeche thee to finish that 
 good worke in me. Suffer me not, mercifull & loving Father, to be 
 troubled with death when it layeth hold on me : nor with the love 
 of life when it shall be taken away. Lorde nowe as thou hast, 
 80 still lifte up my soule as it were with an eagles wings unto 
 Heaven, there to beholde thee. Lorde into thy hands I commit my 
 body, that it be not troubled in death, and my soule that it see not 
 damnation. Come Lord Jesu come assiste me with thy holy Spirite, a 
 weake woman in a strong battell, come Lord Jesu, come quickly save 
 thy handmaide that putteth hir trust in thee, beholde me in Christ, 
 receive me in christ, in whose name I pray, saying, Our Father &c. 
 
 Anne Saunders dying to the world, and living to God. 
 
 After this she also said a godly Prayer out of the Service boke 
 which is used to be said at the hour of death. 
 
 A note of a certa'me saying tcJuch Master Saunders had lefte 
 tcritten with his owne hand in his studie. 
 
 Christ shalbe magnified in my body whither it be [Piiii'P- il
 
 INTRODUCTION. 239 
 
 thorouirh life or else death. For Christ is too me life, death is to 
 me advantage. These words were ]\I. Nowels Thearae whicli he 
 preached at the buriaU of my brother Haddon upon Thursday be- 
 ing ye XXV day of Januarie Anno do. 1570, Anno Reginse Elizabeth 
 13. Among other things whieh he preached this saying of his is to 
 be had alwayes in remembrance, that is, that we must all (when we 
 come to pray) first accuse and conderane ourselves for our sinncs 
 committed against God before the seat of his Justice, and then after 
 cleave unto him by faythe in the mercy and merites of our Savioure 
 & Redeemer Jesus Christ whereby we are assured of etemaU salvation. 
 
 There is also a notice of this murder in ' Sundry strange and 
 inhuman murders lately committed.' London, Thos Scarlet. 
 1591. 4° bk letter, 8 leaves. A Copy at Lambeth. And in 
 Munday's ' View of sundry examples,' [1581] p. 79 in the [Old] 
 Shakespeare Society's reprint of ' John a Kent & John a Cumber.' 
 It wUl be noticed that Charke (or Xowell) in the above account 
 aflirms that the ministers converted Browne before his death. 
 This contradicts not only the account in the Chronicles, but the 
 statement at p. 224, that Browne still untruly protested the 
 innocence of Ann Saunders when he was on the scaffold. The 
 prayers and speeches of the tract are all more or less fictitious 
 composed rather for the edification of the pious than to engage the 
 belief of the critical reader.
 
 % WlwimxiQ for Jfairc Wmmn. 
 
 CHARACTEES IN THE INDUCTION. 
 Tragedy, History, Comedy. 
 
 CHARACTEES IN THE DUMB SHOWS. 
 Tragedy. Furies — MuRTHER, Lust, Chastity, and the cJdef actors 
 
 in the drama. 
 
 Justice, Mekcy, Diligence. 
 
 CHARACTEES IN THE DEAMA. 
 
 George Sanders, a Merchant. 
 Anne Sanders, his wife. 
 Mistress Anne Drury. 
 Trusty Eoger, her servant. 
 Captain George Browne. 
 Sanders' little son, and tn-o other 
 
 children of his. 
 Sanders' 7>ia7i, 
 A Draper. 
 A Milliner. 
 A gentleman, friend to Sanders, 
 
 and his ajjprentice. 
 Another (J entle man, attended hy a 
 
 man with a torch — a waterman. 
 Master Barnes, of Woolwich. 
 John Beane, his man. 
 Old John. 
 Joan, his maid, betrothed to John 
 
 Beane. 
 Yeoman of the huttery. 
 Master James. 
 
 Harry, a schoolboy. 
 
 Four Lords. 
 
 Two messengers. 
 
 Waterman, 
 
 Page. 
 
 Browne, a hvtcher of Rochester. 
 
 Mayor of Rochester, Pursuivant, 
 
 Sergeants. 
 Lord Mayor. 
 I^ord. Chief Justice. 
 Clerk. 
 
 Sheriff, and his officers. 
 Anthony Browne, brother of 
 
 George. 
 A 3Iinister. 
 Two carpenters, ToM Peart and 
 
 Will Crow. 
 Keeper of Newgate. 
 Doctor — 
 Halberds, attendants, officers.
 
 ^ SEarniuQ for JTaire iLHomcru 
 
 THE INDUCTION. 
 
 Enter at one door IIystorie tcith Drum and Ensigne : Tragedie 
 at another, in her one hand a tchip, in the other hand a knife. 
 
 Trag. Whither away so fast ? Peace with that drum ! 
 Down with that ensign, which disturbs our stage ! 
 Out with this luggage, with this foppery ! 
 This brawling sheepskin is intolerable. 4 
 
 Hid. Indeed, no marvel though we should give place 
 Unto a common executioner ! 
 Eoom room ! for God's sake let us stand away. 
 Oh, we shall have some doughty stuff to day. 8 
 
 Enter Comedie at the other end. 
 
 Trag. "What, yet more cats guts? oh, this filthy sound 
 Stifles mine ears. More cartwheels creaking yet ? 
 A plague upon 't. I'll cut your fiddle strings 
 If you stand scraping thus to anger me ! 12 
 
 Com. Gup, mistress buskins, with a whirligig ! are you so 
 touchy ? 
 !Madam Melpomene, whose mare is dead, 
 That you are going to take off her skin ? 
 
 VOL. II. IG
 
 2/15 
 
 42 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. INDUCTION. 
 
 Trag. A plague upon these filthy fiddling tricks, 16 
 
 Able to poison any noble wit. 
 Avoid the stage, or I will whip you hence ! 
 
 Com. Indeed thoumay'st, for thou art murther's Beadle; 
 The common hangman unto Tyranny. 20 
 
 But History ! what, all three met at once ? 
 What wonder 's towards, that we are got together ? 
 Hist. My meaning was to have been here to-day, 
 But meeting with my lady Tragedy 24 
 
 She scolds me off : 
 
 And, Comedy, except thou canst prevail 
 I think she means to banish us the stage. 
 
 Com. Tut, tut, she cannot ; she may for a day 28 
 
 Or two, perhaps, be had in some request 
 But once a week if we do not appear. 
 She shall find few that will attend her here. 
 
 Trag. I must confess you have some sparks of wit 32 
 
 Some odd ends of old jests scrap'd up together. 
 To tickle shallow unjudicial ears : 
 Perhaps some puling passion of a lover, 
 
 But slight and childish. What is this to me ? 36 
 
 I must have passions that must move the soul ; 
 Make the heart heavy and throb within the bosom, 
 Extorting tears out of the strictest eyes — 
 
 To rack a thought, and strain it to his form, 40 
 
 Until I rap the senses from their course. 
 This is my office. 
 
 Covi. How some damn'd tyrant to obtain a crown 
 Stabs, hangs, impoisons, smothers, cutteth throats : 44
 
 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. INDUCTION. 243 
 
 And then a Chorus, too, comes howling in 
 
 And tells us of the worrying of a cat : 
 
 Then, too^, a filthy whining ghost, 
 
 Lapt in some foul sheet, or a leather pilch, 48 
 
 Comes screaming like a pig half stick'd, 
 
 And cries, Viudicta ! — Revenge, Ecvenge ! 
 
 With that a little rosin flasheth forth, 
 
 Like smoke out of a tobacco pipe, or a boy's squib. 52 
 
 Then comes in two or three [more] like to drovers, 
 
 With tailors' bodkins, stabbing one another — 
 
 Is not this trim ? Is not here goodly things. 
 
 That you should be so much accounted of? 56 
 
 I would not else — 
 
 Hist. Now, before God, thou'lt make her mad anon ; 
 Thy jests are like a whisp unto a scold. 
 
 Com. "Wliy, say I could, what care I, Ilistoiy ? 60 
 
 Then shall we have a Tragedv indeed : 
 Pure purple buskin, 1)Iood and murther right. 
 
 Trag. Thus, with your loose and idle similies. 
 You have abused me ; but I'll whip you hence : \jhe whips them. 
 I'll scourge and lash you both from off the stage. 
 Tis you have kept the Theatres so long. 
 Painted in play-bills upon eveiy post. 
 
 That I am scoraed of the multitude, 68 
 
 My name profan'd. But now I'll reign as Queen. 
 In great Apollo's name, and all the Muses, 
 By vii'tue of whose Godhead I am sent, 
 
 I charge you to begone and leave this place ! 72 
 
 1 In the origiual, of.
 
 244 A IVARNLXG FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Kid. Look, Comedy, I mark'd it not till now, 
 The stage is hung with black, and I perceive 
 The auditors prepar'd for Tragedy. 
 
 Com. Nay, then, I see she shall be entertain'd. 76 
 
 These ornaments beseem not thee and me. 
 Then Tragedy kill them to-day with soiTow, 
 We'll make them laugh with mirthful jests tomorrow. 
 
 Hist. And, Tragedy, although to-day thou reign, 80 
 
 Tomorrow here I'll domineer again. \Tlxeunt. 
 
 Trarj. \turnw(j to the people. '\ 
 kxt you both gone so soon ? Why then I see 
 All this fair circuit here is left to me. 
 
 All you spectators, turn your cheerful eye : 84 
 
 Give entertainment unto Tragedy. 
 My scene is London, native and your own. 
 I sigh to think my subject too weU known. 
 
 I am not feigned'. Many now in this Round 88 
 
 Once to behold me in sad tears were drown'd. 
 Tet what I am I will not let you know. 
 Until my next ensuing scene shall show. 
 
 Enter Sanders, Anne Sanders, Drury, Browne, Eoger 
 
 and MASTEE Sander's servant. 
 
 Sand. Gentleman, here must we take our leave 92 
 
 Thanking you for your courteous company. 
 And for your good discourse of Ireland, 
 Whereas it seems you have been resident. 
 By youi- well noting the particulars. 96 
 
 1 I, the tragedy or story to be presented, am not feigned, hut true. — G.
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 245 
 
 Browne. True sir, I have been there familiar, 
 And am no better known in London here 
 Than I am there, unto the better sort ; 
 
 Chiefly in Dublin, where, ye heard me say, 100 
 
 Are as great feasts as this we had to-day. 
 
 Sand. So have I heard. The land gives good increase 
 Of every blessing for the use of man ; 
 
 And 'tis great pity the inhabitants 104 
 
 Will not be civil, nor live under law. 
 
 Brojcne. As civil in the English Pale as here, 
 And laws obeyed, and orders duly kept ; 
 And all the rest may one day be reduc'd. 108 
 
 Sand. God grant it so. I pray you what's your name ? 
 
 Br. My name 's George Browne. 
 
 San. God be with ye, good master Browne. 
 
 Br. Many farewells, master Sanders, to your self, 112 
 
 And to these Gentlewomen : Ladies, God be with you ! 
 
 Anne Sand. God be with ye, sir. 
 
 Lru. Thanks for your company ; 
 I like your talk of Ireland so well 116 
 
 That I could wish time had not cut it off. 
 I pray ye, sir, if ye come near my house. 
 Call, and you shall be welcome, Master Browne. 
 
 Br. I thank ye, mistress Drurj- — is 't not so.^ 120 
 
 Dm. My name is Anne Dmry. 
 
 Sand. "Widow, come, will ye go ? 
 
 Dm. I'll wait upon you, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt S.vxders. Anne Sanders makes a courtesy and departs, 
 and all the rest, saving Eoger, whom Browne calls.
 
 246 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Browne. Heark ye, my friend. 124 
 
 Are not you servant unto Mistress Dmry ? 
 
 Bog. Yes, indeed, forsooth. For fault of a better, 
 I have served her, man and boy, this seven years. 
 
 Br. I pray thee do me a piece of favour, then, 128 
 
 And I'll requite it. 
 
 Rog. Any thing I can. 
 
 Bro. Entreat thy mistress, when she takes her leave 
 Of master Sanders and his wife, to make retire 
 Hither again, for I will speak with her. 132 
 
 Wilt thou do 't for me ? 
 
 Rog. Yea, sir, that I will. 
 
 Where shall she find ye ? 
 
 Br. I'll not stir from hence. 
 
 Say I entreat her but a word or two. 
 She shall not stay longer than likes herself. 136 
 
 Rog. Nay sir, for that, as you two can agree. 
 I'U warrant you I'U bring her to ye straight. [Exit Eogek. 
 
 Br. Straight or crooked, I must needs speak with her ; 
 For, by this light, my heart is not my own, 140 
 
 But taken prisoner at this frolic feast, . 
 Entangled in a net of golden wire 
 Which Love had slily laid in her fair looks. 
 
 O, master Sanders, th' art a happy man, 144 
 
 To have so sweet a creature to thy wife — 
 Whom I must win, or I must lose my life. 
 But if she be as modest as she seems. 
 
 Thy heart may break, George Browne, ere thou obtain. 148 
 
 This Mistress Drury must be made the mean,
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN 247 
 
 AVhat e'er it cost, to compass my desire. 
 And I hope well she doth so soon retire, 
 
 \_Enter Eoger and Drurie. 
 Good mistress Drury, pardon this l)old part 152 
 
 That I have play'd upon so small acquaintance, 
 To send for you. Let your good nature hide 
 The blame of my bad nurture for tliis once. 
 
 Bru. I take it for a favour, master Jirowne, 156 
 
 And no offence, a man of your fair parts 
 Will send for me, to stead him any-way. 
 
 Rog. Sir, ye shall find my mistress as courteous a gentlewoman 
 as any is in London, if ye have occasion to use her. 160 
 
 Br. So I presume, friend. Mistress, by your leave — 
 
 [take her aside 
 I would not that your man should hear our speech, 
 For it concerns me much it be concealed. 
 
 Br. I hope it is no treason you will speak. 164 
 
 Br. No, by my faith, nor felony. 
 
 Br. Nay, then. 
 
 Though my man Roger hear it, never care. 
 If it be love, or secrets due to that, 
 
 Eoger is trusty, I dare pawn my life, 168 
 
 As any fellow within London walls. 
 But if you have some secret malady 
 That craves my help, to use my surgery, 
 
 Which, though I say 't, is pretty — he shall hence. 173 
 
 If not, be bold to speak, there 's no offence. 
 
 Br. I have no sore ; but a new inward grief 
 Which by your physic may find some relief.
 
 248 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Dr. What, is 't a surfeit ? 
 
 Br. Aye, at tliis late feast, 176 
 
 Br. Wliy Aqua ccelestis, or the water of balm, 
 Or Rosa soils, or that of Doctor Steevens 
 Will help a surfeit. Now I remember me. 
 
 Mistress Sanders hath a sovereign thing 180 
 
 To help a sudden surfeit presently. 
 
 Br. I think she have. How shall I compass it ? 
 
 Dr. I'll send my man for some on 't. 
 
 Br. Pray ye, stay. 
 
 She '11 never send that which will do me good. 184 
 
 Dr. say not so, for then ye know her not. 
 
 Br. I would I did so well as I could wish. \_Aside 
 
 Dr. She 's even as courteous a gentlewoman, sir. 
 As kind a peate as London can afford. 188 
 
 Not send it, quotha ? yes, and bring 't herself, 
 If need requii-e. A poor woman t' other day. 
 Her water-bearer's wife, had surfeited. 
 
 With eating beans (ye know 'tis windy meat) 192 
 
 And the poor creature 's subject to the stone : 
 She went herself, and gave her but a dram ; 
 It holp her straight ; in less than half an hour 
 She fell unto her business till she sweat, 196 
 
 And was as Avell as I am now. 
 
 Br. But that which helps a woman helps not me — 
 A woman's help wiU rather do me good. 
 
 Dr. V faith, I ha found you ! Are ye such [a] one ? 200 
 
 Well, Master Browne, I warrant, let you alone ! 
 
 Br. But Mistress Drury, leave me not yet alone.
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 249 
 
 For if ye do I never shall alone 
 
 Obtain the company that my soul desires. 204 
 
 Faith, tell me one thing — Can ye not do much 
 
 With Mistress Sanders. Are you not inward with her? 
 
 Br. I dare presume to do as much with her 
 As any woman in this city can. 208 
 
 £r. What.'s your opinion of her honesty ? 
 
 Dr. 0, very honest : Very chaste, i' faith. 
 I will not wrong her for a thousand pound. 
 
 Br. Then all your physic can not cure my wound. 212 
 
 Br. Your wound is love. Is that your surfeit, sir ? 
 
 Br. Yea, and 'tis cureless without help of her. 
 
 Br. I am very sorry that I cannot ease ye. 
 
 Br. Well, if ye can, i' faith, I will well please ye. 21G 
 
 Br. You wear a pretty turkesse there, mcthinks. 
 I would I had the fellow on 't. 
 
 Br. Take ye this — 
 
 Upon condition to effect my bliss. 
 
 Br. Pardon me that, sir : Ko condition ! 220 
 
 For that grief I am no physician. 
 How say'st thou Eoger ? Am I ? 
 
 Bog. Yea, forsooth, mistress, what ? What did ye ask ? 
 
 Br. This gentleman 's in love 224 
 
 With Mistress Sanders, and would have me speak 
 In his behalf. How say'st thou, dare I do 't, 
 And she so honest, wise and virtuous ? 
 
 Br. What ! mean ye mistress Drury to bewray 228 
 
 Unto your man what I in secret spake ? 
 
 Br. Tush, fear not you ; 'tis trusty Roger this :
 
 250 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 I use his counsel in as deep affairs. 
 
 How sayst thou, Hodge? 232 
 
 -ffio/7. Mistress, this say I. Though IMistress Sanders be very hon- 
 est, as in my conscience she is, and her husband wise and subtle, 
 and in all Billingsgate Ward not a kinder couple, yet if you woidd 
 wrong her husband, your dear friend, methinks ye have such a 
 sweet tongue as will supple a stone, and for my Ufe, if ye list to 
 labour, you'll win her. Sir, stick close to my mistress. She is 
 studying the law : and if ye be not strait-laced ye know my mind. 
 She'll do it for ye ; and I'll play my part. 240 
 
 Br. Here Mistress Drury this same ring is yours, 
 
 \j]lve8 her a ring 
 Wear 't for my sake ; and if ye do me good, 
 Command this chain, this hand, and this heart blood. 
 What say ye to me ? speak a cheerful word. 344 
 
 Hog. Faith Mistress, do ; he's a fine gentleman : 
 Pity he should languish for a little love. 
 
 Br. Yea, but thou knowest they are both my friends ; 
 He's very wise, she very circumspect, 248 
 
 Very respective of her honest name. 
 
 Hog. If ye list you can cover as great a blame. 
 
 Br. If I should break it, and she take it ill ? 
 
 Rog. Tut, you have cunning, pray ye use your skiU. 252 
 
 To her Master Browne. 
 
 Br. What say ye to me Lady ? 
 
 Br. This I say 
 I cannot make a man. To cast away 
 
 So goodly a creature as yourself were sin. 256 
 
 Second my onset, for I will begin
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 251 
 
 To break the ice, that you may pass the ford. 
 
 Do your good will ; you shall have my good word. 
 
 Br. But how shall I have opportunity? 260 
 
 Br. That must be watch'd ; but very secretly. 
 
 Br. How ? at her house ? 
 
 Br. There ye may not enter. 
 
 Br. IIow then ? 
 
 Br. By some other fine adventure : 
 
 Watch when her husband goes to the Exchange. 264 
 
 She '11 sit at door : to her, though she be strange ; 
 Spare not to speak, ye can but be denied : 
 Women love most, by whom they are most tried. 
 My man shall watch, and I will watch my turn : 268 
 
 I cannot see so fair a gallant mourn. 
 
 Br. Ye bless my soul by shouang me the way ! 
 Mistress Drury, if I do obtain 
 
 Do but imagine how I'll quit your pain. 273 
 
 But where 's her house ? 
 
 Br. Against St. Dunstan's Church. 
 
 Br. St. Dunstan's in Fleet street? 
 
 Br. No, near Billingsgate, 
 
 St. Dunstans in the East. That 's in the West. 
 Be bold to speak for I will do my best. 276 
 
 Br. Thanks, Mistress Drury. Eoger, drink you that ; 
 And as I speed expect your recompence. 
 
 Ro(j. I thank ye, sir ; nay, I will gage my hand. 
 Few women can my mistress force withstand. 280 
 
 Br. Sir, this is all ye have to say ? 
 
 Br. For this time mistress Drury we will part ;
 
 252 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN [Act I. 
 
 Win mistress Sanders, and ye win my lieart ! 
 
 Br. Hope you the best ; she sliall have mucli ado 284 
 
 To hold her own when I begin to woo. 
 Come Hodge. \_Exit. 
 
 Horj. I trust sir when my mistress has obtained your suit 
 Ton '11 suit me in a cast suit of your apparell. 288 
 
 Br. Cast and uncast shall trusty Koger have, 
 If thou be secret, and an honest knave. {Exeunt omnes 
 
 Enter Anne Sanders with her little son, and sit at her door. 
 
 Boy. Pray ye mother when shall we go to supper ? 
 
 Anne. Why, when your father comes from the Exchange. 292 
 Ye are not hungry since ye came from school ? 
 
 Boy. Not hungry mother, but I would fain eat. 
 
 Anne. Forbear awhile until yom* father come : 
 I sit here to expect his quick return. 296 
 
 Boy. Mother, shall not I have new bow and shafts 
 Against our school go a feasting ? 
 
 Anne. Tes, if ye learn : 
 
 And against Easter new apparel too. 
 
 Boy. You '11 lend me all your scarfs, and all your rings, 300 
 And buy me a white feather for my velvet cap, 
 Will ye mother ? Yea, say ; pray ye say so ! 
 
 Anne. Go, prattling boy, go bid your sister see 
 My closet lockt when she takes out the fruit. 304 
 
 Boy. I will, forsooth, and take some for my pains. \_Exil hoy. 
 
 Anne. Well, sii' sauce, does your master teach ye that ? 
 I pray God bless thee, th'art a very wag.
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 253 
 
 Enter Browne. 
 
 Br. Yonder she sits to light this obscure street, 308 
 
 Like a briglit diamond worn in some dark place : 
 Or like the moon, in a black winters night. 
 To comfort wandering travellers in their way. 
 But so demure, so modest are her looks, 312 
 
 So chaste her eyes, so virtuous lier aspect 
 As do repulse loves false Artillery. 
 Yet must I speak, though chcckt with scornful way ; 
 Desire draws on, but Reason bids me stay. 31 6 
 
 My tutress, Drury, gave me charge to speak. 
 And speak I must, or else my heart will break. 
 God save ye. Mistress Sanders ! All alone ? 
 Sit ye to take the view of passengers? 320 
 
 Anne. No, in good sooth, sir, I give small regard 
 Who comes or goes. My husband I attend, 
 Whose coming will be speedy from th' Exchange. 
 
 Br. A good exchange made he for single life, 324 
 
 That join'd in marriage with so sweet a wife. 
 
 Anne. Come ye to speak with Master Sanders, sir ? 
 
 Br. "\Miy ask ye that ? 
 
 Anne. Because ye make a stay 
 
 Here at his door. 
 
 Br. I stay in courtesy, 328 
 
 To give you thanks for your last company. 
 I hope my kind salute doth not offend ? 
 
 An7ie. No, sir, and yet such unexpected kindness
 
 254 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Is like lierb John in brotli. 
 
 Br. I pray ye how is that ? 332 
 
 Aline. 'T may e'en as well be laid aside as used. 
 If ye have business with my husband, sir, 
 Y'are welcome ; otherwise, I'll take my leave. 
 
 Br. Nay, gentle mistress, let not my access 336 
 
 Be means to drive you from your door so soon : 
 I would be loth to prejudice your pleasure. 
 For my good liking at the feast conceived, 
 
 If Master Sanders shall have cause to use 34-0 
 
 The favour of some noble personage, 
 Let him employ no other but George Browne 
 T'effect his suit, without a rccompence — 343 
 
 I speak I know not what, my tongue and heart ) 
 Are so divided through the force of love. ) '- 
 
 Anne. I thank ye, sir ; but if he have such cause, 
 I hope he 's not so void of friends in court 
 
 But he may speed and never trouble you : 348 
 
 Yet I Avill do your errand, if ye please. 
 
 Br. E'en as 't please you. I doubt I trouble ye ? 
 
 Anne. Resolve your doubt, and trouble me no more. 351 
 
 Br. 'T will never be ; I thought as much before. \_Aside. 
 
 God be with you Mistress 
 
 Anne. Pare ye weU, good sir. 
 
 Br. I'U to Nan Drury yet, and talk with her. [Exit. 
 
 Anne. These errand-making ^ gallants are good men, 
 hat cannot pass, and see a woman sit, 356 
 
 Of any sort, alone at any door, 
 
 1 Gad-abouts. — G.
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 255 
 
 But they will find a 'scuse to stand and prate. 
 Pools tliat they are to bite at every bait ! 
 
 Enter Sanders. 
 
 Here he comes now, whom T have lookt for long. 3fi0 
 
 San. How now, sweet Nan, sit'st thou here all alone ? 
 
 Anne. Better alone, than have bad company. 
 
 Ban. I trust there 's none but good resorts to thee ! 
 
 Anne. There shall not, sir, if I know what they be. SG-i 
 
 Ye have stay'd late sir at th' Exchange to-night. 
 
 San. Upon occasion, Nan. Is supper ready ? 
 
 Anne. An hour ago. 
 
 San. And what good company ? 
 
 None to sup with us? Send one for Nan Drury : 368 
 
 She '11 play the wag, tell tales, and make us meiTy. 
 
 Anne. I think sh' as supt, but one shall run and look. 
 If you[rc] meat be marr'd, blame yourself, not the cook. 
 
 San. Howerc it be, we '11 take it in good part, 372 
 
 For once, and use it not. Come, let's in, sweetheart. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Anne Drury and Trusty Eoger ker man. To them Browne. 
 
 Br. Koger, come hither. Was there no messenger 
 This day from Master Browne, to speak with me ? 
 
 Hog. Mistress, not any ; and that I marvel at. 376 
 
 But I can tell you, he must come and send, 
 And be no niggard of his purse beside, 
 Or else I know how it will go with him. 
 He must not think to anchor where he hopes, 380
 
 256 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Unless you be his pilot. 
 
 Br. Wliere is tluat ? 
 
 The fellow talks and prates he knows not what. 
 I be his pilot ? whither ? canst thou tell ? 
 
 The cause he doth frequent my house, thou see'st, 384 
 
 Is for the love he bears unto my daughter. 
 
 Rog. A very good cloak, Mistress, for the rain ; 
 And therein I must needs commend your -wit. 
 Close dealing is the safest. By that means 388 
 
 The world will be the less suspicious : 
 For whilst 'tis thought he doth aS'ect your daughter, 
 Who can suspect his love to Mistress Sanders ? 
 
 Br. ^^^ly now thou art as I would have thee be 392 
 
 Conceited, and of quick capacity. 
 Some heavy drawlatch Avould have been this month 
 (Though hourly I had instructed him) 
 
 Before he coidd have found my policy. 396 
 
 But, Hodge, thou art my heart's interpreter : 
 And be thou secret still, as thou hast been, 
 And doubt not but we '11 fill gain by the match. 
 George Browne, as thou knowest, is well reckoned of; 400 
 
 A proper man, and hath good store of coin ; 
 And Mistress Sanders, she is yoimg and fair, 
 And may be tempered easily like wax ; 
 Especially by one that is familiar with her. 404 
 
 Rog. True, mistress : nor is she the first by many, 
 That you have won to stoop imto the lure. 
 It is your trade, your living. What needs more ? 
 Drive you the bargain, I will keep the door. 408
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 257 
 
 Dr. Trusty Roger, thou well deservcst thy name ! 
 
 Roff. But, Mistress, shall I tell you what I think? 410 
 
 Dr. Yes, Hodge, what is 't ? 
 
 Rog. If you '11 be ruled by me, 
 
 Let them pay well for what you undertake. 
 Be not a spokeswoman, mistress, for none of them, 
 But be the better for it. Times will change, 411 
 
 And there 's no trusting to uncertainties. 
 
 Dr. Dost think I will ? Then beg me for a fool ! 
 The money I will finger 'twixt them twain 
 
 Shall make my daughter such a dowry 418 
 
 As I will match her better than with Browne ; 
 To some rich Attorney, or Gentleman. 
 Let me alone. If they enjoy their pleasure 
 My sweet shall be to feed upon their treasure. 422 
 
 Ro(/. Hold you there mistress. Here comes Master Browne. 
 
 Enter Bkowne. 
 
 Br. Good morrow, ]\Iistress Drury. 
 
 Dr. What, Master Browne ? 
 
 Now, by my faith, you are the very last man 
 We talkt of. Y'are welcome, sir ; how do you? 426 
 
 And how speed you concerning that you Avot of? 
 
 Rofj. Mistress, I'll void the place, if so you please. 
 And give you leave in private to confer. 
 
 Br. Whither goes Roger ? call him back again. 430 
 
 Dr. Come hither, sirrah. Master Browne wiU have you stay. 
 
 Br. ^Miy, how now Roger ? Avill you shrink from me ? 
 Because I saw you not, do you suppose 
 
 VOL. II. 17
 
 2 58 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 I make no reckoning of your company ? 434 
 
 Wliat, man ! Thy trust it is I build upon. 
 
 Rog. I thank you, sir : nay, pray you be not offended, 
 I would be loth to seem unmannerly. 
 
 Br. Tut, a fig's end ! Thy counsel will do well, 438 
 
 And we must use thee ; therefore tarry here. 
 I have no other secret to reveal, 
 But only this, that I have broke the ice. 
 
 And made an entrance to my love's pursuit. 442 
 
 Sweet Mistress Sanders, that choice argument 
 Of all perfection, sitting at her door 
 Even now I did salute. Some words there pass'd, 
 But nothing to the purpose ; neither time 446 
 
 Nor place consorted to my mind. Beside, 
 Recourse of servants and of passengers 
 Might have been jealous of our conference ; 
 
 And therefore I refraiii'd all large discourse. 450 
 
 Only thus much I gather'd by her speech ; 
 That she is affable, not coy, nor scornful, 
 And may be won, would you but be entreated 
 To be a mediator for me, and persuade her. 454 
 
 iioy. I pray you do so. Mistress ; you do know 
 That Master Browne's an honest gentleman, 
 And I dare swear will recompense you well. 
 
 Br. If she do mistrust me, there 's my purse, 458 
 
 And in the same ten angels of good gold ; 
 And when I can but have access to her, 
 And am in any possibility 
 To win her favour, challenge of me more — 462
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 259 
 
 A hundred pound in marriage vrvVn your daughter. 
 
 JDr. Alas ! how dare I, Master Browne ? Iler husband 
 Is one that I am much beholding to ; 
 
 A man both loving, bountiful, and just ; 466 
 
 And to his wife, in all this city, none 
 More kind, more loyal-hearted, or more firm : 
 What sin were it to do him, then, that wrong ! 
 
 Br. O speak not of his worth, but of her praise ! 470 
 
 If he be firm, she 's fair ; if he bountiful 
 She 's beautiful ; if he loyal, she 's lovely ; 
 If he in all the city for a man 
 
 Be the most absolute, she in all the world 474 
 
 Is for a woman the most excellent. 
 0, earth hath seldom such a creature seen, 
 Nor subject been possessed with such a love ! 
 
 Rog. Mistress, can you hear this and not be mov'd ? 478 
 
 I would it lay in me to help you, sir : 
 I' faith you should not need so many words. 
 
 Br. I know that ; thou hast always been my friend ; 
 And though I never see Anne Sanders more, 482 
 
 Yet for my sake drink this. And, Mistress Dmry, 
 England I must be forced to bid farewell. 
 Or shortly look to hear that I am dead. 
 Unless I may prevail to get her love. 486 
 
 Rog. Good mistress, leave your dumps, and speak to him : 
 You need not study so, 'tis no such laboiu". 
 Alas ! will you see a gentleman cast away ? 
 All is but George, I pray you let be done. 490 
 
 Dr. Well, Master Browne, not for your money's sake
 
 26o A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 So much, as in regard I love you well, 
 
 Am I content to be your orator. 
 
 Mistress Sanders shall be certified 494 
 
 How fervently you love her, and withal, 
 
 Some other words I'll use in your behalf. 
 
 As you shall have access to her at least. 
 
 Br. I ask no more. When will you undertake it ? 498 
 
 Dr. This day : it shall no longer be deferr'd ; 
 And in the evening you shall know an answer. 
 
 Br. Here, at your house ? 
 
 Br. Yea, here, if so you please. 
 
 Br. No better place : I rest upon your promise. 502 
 
 So farewell, mistress Drury. Till that hour 
 What sweet can earth afford will not seem sour ? 
 
 J)r. He 's sped i' faith : come Roger, let us go : 
 m is the wind doth no man profit blow. 506 
 
 Rog. I shall not be the Avorse for it, that I know. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Master Sanders and his man. 
 
 San. Sirrah, what bills of debt are due to me ? 
 
 Man. All that were due, sir, as this day are paid. 
 
 San. You have enough then to discharge the bond 510 
 
 Of master Ashmore's fifteen hundred pound, 
 That must be tendered on the Exchange to night ? 
 
 Man. With that which master Bishop owes, we have. 
 
 San. When is his time to pay ? 
 
 Man. This afternoon. 514 
 
 San. He 's a sure man : thou need'st not doubt of him. 
 In any case take heed unto my credit.
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 261 
 
 I do not use, thou know'st, to break ray word, 
 
 Much less my bond ; I prithee look unto it; 518 
 
 And whenas Master Bishop sends his money, 
 
 Bring the whole sum. I'll be upon the Burse, 
 
 Or, if I be not, thou canst take a quittance. 
 
 Man. What sliall 1 say unto my mistress. Sir? 522 
 
 She bade mc tell out thirty pounds e'en now 
 She meant to have bestowed in linen cloth. 
 
 San. She must defer her market till to-morrow : 
 I know no other shift. My great affairs 526 
 
 Must not be hindcr'd by such trifling wares. 
 
 Man. She told me Sir the Draper would be here; 
 And George the Milliner with other things, 
 Which she appointed should be brought her home. 530 
 
 San. All 's one for that ; another time shall serve. 
 Nor is there any such necessity. 
 But she may very well forbear awhile. 
 
 Man. She will not so be answered at my hand. 534 
 
 San. Tell her I did command it should be so. [Exit. 
 
 Man. Your pleasure shall be done, sir, though, thereby, 
 'Tis I am like to bear the blame away. 
 
 Enter Anne Sanders, Mistress Drury, and Draper and a 
 
 Milliner. 
 
 Anne. Come near, I pray you. I do like your linen, and you shaU 
 have your price. But you, my friend. The gloves you showed me 
 and the Italian purse are both well made, and I do like the fashion ; 
 but trust me, the perfume I am afraid will not continue ; yet 
 upon your word I'll have them too. Sirra, where is your Master?
 
 \_J.side. 
 
 262 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 Man. Forsooth, lie 's gone to tli' Exchange, even now. 
 
 Anne. Have you the money ready which I call'd for ? 
 
 Man. No, if it please you : my master gave me charge 
 I should deliver none. 
 
 Anne. How 's that, sir knave? 546 
 
 Your master charged you should deliver none ! 
 Go to, despatch, and fetch me thirty pound. 
 Or I will send my fingers to your lips ! 
 
 Dr. Good fortune ! Thus incensed against her husband : 
 I shall the better break with her for Browne. 
 
 Man. I pray you, Mistress, pacify yourself ; 552 
 
 I dare not do it. 
 
 Anne. You dare not; and why so? 
 
 Man. Because there 's money to be paid to night 554 
 
 Upon an obligation. 
 
 Anne. What of that ? 
 
 Therefore I may not have to serve my turn ? 
 
 Man. Indeed, forsooth, there is not in the house. 
 As yet, sufficient to discharge that debt. 558 
 
 Anne. 'Tis well that I must stand at your reversion ; 
 Entreat my prentice, curtesy to my man, 
 And he must be purse-bearer when I need ! 
 This was not wont to be your master's order. 562 
 
 Br. No, I'll be sworn of that. I never knew 
 But that you had at all times. Mistress Sanders, 
 A greater sum than that at a command. 
 Marry, perhaps the world may now be changed. 566 
 
 Man. Feed not my Mistress' anger. Mistress Drury ; 
 You do not well. Tomorrow, if she list
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 263 
 
 It is not twice so much but she may have it. 
 
 Anne. So that my breach of credit in tlie while 570 
 
 Is not regarded. I have brought these men 
 To have their money for such necessaries 
 As I have bought, and they have honestly 
 
 Delivered to my hands. And now, forsooth, 574 
 
 I must be thouglit so bare and beggarly 
 As they must be put off until tomorrow. 
 
 1. Good Mistress Sanders, trouble not yourself; 
 
 If that be all your word shall be sufficient 578 
 
 Were it for thrice the value of my ware. 
 
 2. And trust me, Mistress, you shall do me wrong 
 If otherwise you do conceit of me. 
 
 Be it for a week, a fortnight, or a month, 582 
 
 Or when you wUl, I never would desire 
 Better security for all I am worth. 
 
 Anne. I thank you for your gentleness, my friends, 
 But I have never used to go on credit. 586 
 
 There is two crowns betwixt you for your pains. 
 Sirrah, deliver them their stuff again, 
 And make them drink a cup of wine. Farewell. 
 
 1. Good Mistress Sanders, let me leave the cloth: 590 
 I shall be chidden when I do come home. 
 
 2. And I; therefore I pray you be persuaded. 
 Anne. No, no, I will excuse you to your masters ; 
 
 So, if you love me, use no more iutreaty. \Exeunt. 
 
 I am a woman, and in that respect 595 
 
 Am well content my husband shall control me. 
 But that my man should overawe me too,
 
 264 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 And in tlie sight of strangers, Mistress Dniry, 598 
 
 I tell you true, does grieve me to the heart. 
 
 Br. Your husband was to blame, to say the troth. 
 That gave his servant such authority. 
 
 What signifies it, but he doth repose 602 
 
 More trust in a vild boy than in his wife ? 
 
 Anne. Nay, give me leave to think the best of him. 
 It was my destiny, and not his malice. 
 
 Sure I did know as well when I did rise 606 
 
 This morning, that I should be chafed ere noon 
 As where I stand. 
 
 Br. By what, good mistress Sanders ? 
 
 An. Why by these yellow spots upon my fingers. 
 They never come to me but I am sure 610 
 
 To hear of anger ere I go to bed. 
 
 Br. 'Tis like enough, I pray you let me see. 
 Good sooth ! they are as manifest as day. 
 
 And let me tell you, too, I see decyphered 614 
 
 Within this palm of yours, to quit that evil. 
 Fair signs of better fortune to ensue. 
 Cheer up your heart ! you shortly shall be free 
 From all your troubles. See you this character, 618 
 
 Directly fixed to the line of life ? 
 It signifies a dissolution. 
 You must be, mistress Anne, a widow shortly. 
 
 Anne. No, God forbid ! I hope you do but jest. 622 
 
 Br. It is most certain : You must bury George. 
 
 Anne. Have you such knowledge then in palraestry ? 
 
 Br. More than in surgery. Though I do make
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 265 
 
 That my profession, this is my best living. C26 
 
 And where I cure one sickness, or disease, 
 
 I tell a hundred fortunes in a year. 
 
 What makes my house so haunted as it is 
 
 With merchants wives, bachelors, and young maids, 630 
 
 But for my matchless skill in palracstry? 
 
 Lend me your hand again, I'll tell you more. 
 
 A widow, said 1 ? Yea, and make a change, 
 
 Not for the worse, but for the better far. 634 
 
 A gentleman, my girl, must be the next, 
 
 A gallant fellow, one that is beloved. 
 
 Of great estates. 'Tis plainly figured here. 
 
 And this is called, the Ladder of Promotion. 638 
 
 Anne. I do not wish to be promoted so. 
 My George is gentle and belov'd beside ; 
 x\nd I have e'en as good a husband of him 
 As any wench in London hath beside. 642 
 
 Br. True, he is good, but not too good for God. 
 He 's kind, but can his love dispense with death ? 
 He 's wealthy, and an handsome man beside. 
 
 But will his grave be satisfied with that ? 646 
 
 He keeps you well, who says the contrary ? 
 Yet better 's better. Now you are arrayed 
 After a civil manner, but the next 
 
 Shall keep you in your hood and go\vn of silk, 650 
 
 And when you stir abroad ride in your coach. 
 And have your dozen men all in a livery. 
 To wait upon you. This is somewhat like. 
 
 Anne. Yet had I rather be as now I am ; 654
 
 266 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act I. 
 
 If God were pleased that it should be so. 
 
 Br. Aye marry, now you speak like a good Christian — 
 ' If God were pleased.' 0, but he hath decreed 
 It shall be otherwise ; and to repine 658 
 
 Against his providence, you know 'tis sin. 
 
 Anne. Your words do make me think I know not what ; 
 And burden me with fear as well as doubt. 
 
 Br. Tut! I could teU ye for a need, his name 662 
 
 That is ordained to be your next husband. 
 But for a testimony of my former speeches 
 Let it suffice I find it in your hand 
 
 That you akeady are acquainted with him. 666 
 
 And let me see, this crooked line derived 
 Prom your ring-finger shows me, not long since 
 You had some speech [es] with him in the street. 
 Or near about your door I am sure it was. 670 
 
 Amie. I know of none more than that gentleman 
 That supt with us ; they call him Captain Browne, 
 And he, I must confess, against my will, 
 
 Came to my door as I was sitting there, 674 
 
 And used some idle chat, might a been spared, 
 And more, I vris, than I had pleasure in. 
 
 Br. I cannot tell — If Captain Browne it were 
 Then Captain Browne is he must many you. 678 
 
 His name is George I take it ; yea, 'tis so : 
 My rules of palmestry declare no less. 
 
 An. Tis very strange how ye should know so much. 
 
 Br. Nay, I can make rehearsal of the words 682 
 
 Did pass betwixt you, if I were disposed ;
 
 Act I.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 267 
 
 Yet I protest I never saw the man 
 
 Since, nor before the night he supt with us. 
 
 Briefly, it is your fortune, Mistress Sanders; 686 
 
 And there 's no remedy but you must have^ liiin. 
 
 I counsel you to no immodesty : 
 
 Tis lawful, one deceased, to take another. 
 
 In the mean space I would not have you coy ; 690 
 
 But if he come unto your house, or so. 
 
 To use him courteously ; as one for whom 
 
 You were created in your birth a wife. 
 
 An. If it be so, I must submit myself 694 
 
 To that which God and Destiny sets down. 
 But yet I can assure you, Mistress Drury, 
 I do not find me any way inclined 
 
 To change off new affection, nor, God willing, 698 
 
 Will I be false to Sanders whilst I live. 
 By this time he 's return 'd from the Exchange : 
 Come you shall sup with us. \_Exit. 
 
 Dr. I'll follow you. 
 
 Why this is well ; I never could have found 702 
 
 A fitter way to compass Browne's desire. 
 Nor in her woman's breast kindled love's fire : 
 For this will hammer so within her head. 
 
 As for the new she '11 wish the old were dead. 706 
 
 When in the neck of this I will devise 
 Some stratagem to close up Sanders' eyes. 
 
 ^ Orig., leave him. — G.
 
 268 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 ACT II. 
 JEkter Tragedy wllk a bowl of blood in her hand. 
 
 Tr. Till now you have but sitten to behold 
 The fatal entrance to our bloody scene ; 
 And by gradations seen how we have grown 
 Into the main stream of our tragedy. 4 
 
 All we have done hath only been in words : 
 But now we come unto the dismal act. 
 And in these sable curtains shut we up 
 
 The comic entrance to our direful play. 8 
 
 This deadly banquet is prepar'd at hand, 
 Where Ebon tapers are brought up from hell 
 To lead black Murther to this damned deed. 
 
 The ugly Screech-owl, and the night- Raven, 12 
 
 With flaggy wings, and hideous croaking noise, 
 Do beat the casements of this fatal house, 
 Whilst I do bring my dreadful furies forth 
 
 To spread the table to this bloody feast. {TJi-ey come to cover. 
 
 [The while they cover'] 
 
 Come forth and cover, for the time draws on. 
 Dispatch, I say, for now I must employ ye 
 To be the ushers to this damned train. 
 
 Bring forth the banquet, and that lustful wine 20 
 
 Which in pale mazors, made of dead mens skulls, 
 They shaU carouse to their destraction. 
 By this they 're entered to this fatal door.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 269 
 
 Hark ! how the ghastly fearful chiiiu^s of night 24 
 
 Do ring them in : and with a doK fiil peal / Here some itraiuje 
 
 Do fill the roof with sounds of tragedy : \ solemn music, like 
 
 Dispatch, I say, and be their usliers in. I bells, is heard withi7i. 
 
 The furies go the door and meet them. First the Furies enter before 
 
 leading them, dancing a soft dance to the solemn music. Next comes 
 
 Lust, before Browne, leading Mistress Sanders covered with a 
 
 black veil ; Chastity all in white pulling her back softly by the 
 
 arm. Then Drury, thrusting away Chastity ; 'Kog-em following. 
 
 They march about, and then sit to the table. The Furies fill wine. 
 
 Lust drinks fo Browne; he to Mistress Sanders; she pled geth 
 
 him. Lust embraceth her ; she thrusteth Chastity from her ; 
 
 Chastity wrings her hands and departs. Drury and Roger 
 
 embrace one another. The Furies leap and embrace one another. 
 
 Whilst they sit doton Tragedy speaks. 
 
 Here is the Masque unto this damned raurther. 28 
 
 The furies first, the devil leads the dance ; 
 
 Next lawless Lust conduetetli cruel i^rowue, 
 
 He doth seduce this poor deluded soul, 
 
 Attended by unspotted innocence, 33 
 
 A.S yet unguilty of her husbands death. 
 
 Next follows on that instrument of hell, 
 
 That wicked Dmry, the accursed fiend 
 
 That thrusts her forward to destruction. 36 
 
 And last of all is Eoger, Drury's man, 
 
 A. villain expert in all treachery, 
 
 One conversant in all her damned drifts, 
 
 And a base broker in this murderous act. 40 
 
 Here they prepare them to these lustful feasts ;
 
 270 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN [Act II. 
 
 And here they sit, all wicked raurther's guests. 
 
 [Tragedy standing to behold them awhile till 
 
 the show he done, again turning to the people. 
 
 Thus sin prevails ! She drinks that poisoned draught, 
 
 With which base thoughts henceforth infects her soul, 44 
 
 And wins her free consent to this foul deed. 
 
 Now blood and Lust doth conquer and subdue, 
 
 And Chastity is quite abandoned. 
 
 Here enters IMurther into all their hearts, 48 
 
 And doth possess them with the hellish thirst 
 
 Of guiltless blood. Now will I wake my chime. 
 
 And lay this charming rod upon their eyes, 
 
 To make them sleep in their security. {They sleep. 
 
 Thus sits this poor soul, innocent of late, 
 
 Amongst these devils at this damned feast. 
 
 Won and betrayed to their detested sin, 
 
 And thus with blood their hands shall be imbrued. 56 
 
 [MuRTHEE sets down her blood, and rubs their hands. 
 
 Thy hands shall both be touched, for thev alone \ 
 
 ^ ... [lb Browne. 
 
 Are the foul actors of this impious deed. ) 
 
 And thine and thine : for thou didst lay this plot, \ 
 
 And thou didst work this damned witch devise ; > 
 
 Your hands are both as deep in blood as his. j 
 
 Only thou diptst a finger in the same, ^ 
 
 » 1 1 • • . 1 n •„ r [To Anne. 
 
 And here it is. Awake now when you will, V 
 
 For now is the time wherein to work your ill. j 64 
 
 \_Here Browne starts up, draws his sword, and runs out. 
 
 Thus he is gone whilst they are all secure, 
 
 Resolved to put these desperate thoughts in ure ;
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 271 
 
 They follow him. And them will I attend, 
 
 Until I bring them all unto their end. 68 
 
 Enter Sanders, and one or two with him. 
 
 San. You see sir, still I am a daily guest ; 
 But with so true friends as I hold yourself 
 I had rather be too rude than too precise. 
 
 Gent. Sir, this house is yours ; you come but to your own ; 72 
 And what else I call mine is wholly yoiirs, 
 So much I do endear your love, sweet Master Sanders. 
 A light, ho, there ! 
 
 San. Well, sir, at this time I'll rather be unmannerly than cere- 
 monious, 76 
 I'll leave you, sir, to recommend my thanks 
 Unto your kind respective wife. 
 
 Gent. Sir, for your kind patience, she 's much beholding to you ; 
 And I beseech you remember me to Mistress Sanders. 80 
 
 Sa)i. Sir, I thank you for her. 
 
 Gerit. Sin'ah, ho ! who 's within there ? 
 
 Prentice. Sir? 
 
 Gent. Ldght a torch there, and wait and^ M. Sanders home. 
 
 San. If- shall not need, sir, it is light enough ; 84 
 
 Let it alone. 
 
 Gent. Nay, I pray ye. Sir. 
 
 San. V faith, Sir, at this time it shall not need : 
 Tis very light, the streets are fall of people. 
 And I have some occasion by the way, that may detain me. 88 
 
 Gent. Sir, I am sorry that you go alone ; 'tis somewhat late. 
 
 1 Should be ' on '.— G. ■ Probably should be ' I '.— G.
 
 272 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Sand. 'Tis well, sir. God send you liappy rest ! 
 
 Gent. God bless you, Sir ! Passion of me, I liad forgot one tiling ; 
 I am glad I thought of it before we parted : 
 Youi" patience, Sir, a little. 92 
 
 Here enters Browne speaking, in casting one side of his cloak under 
 Ids arm. While Master Sanders a»c? he'^ are in busy talk one 
 to the other, Browne steps to a corner. 
 
 Browne. This way he should come, and a fitter place 
 The town affords not. Tis his nearest way ; 
 And 'tis so late, he will not go about. 
 
 Then stand close, George, and with a lucky arm 96 
 
 Sluice out his life, the hinderer of thy love 
 Oh sable night, sit on the eye of heaven. 
 That it discern not this black deed of darkness ! ^ 
 My guilty soul, burnt with lust's hateful fire, 100 
 
 Must wade through blood t' obtain my vile desire. 
 Be then my coverture, thick ugly night : 
 The light hates me, and I do hate the light. 
 
 Sand. Good night, sir. 
 
 Gent. Good night, good master Sanders ; 104 
 
 Sir, I shall see you on the Exchange to-morrow ? 
 
 Sand. You shaU, God willing, Sir. Good night. 
 
 Brow. I hear him coming fair unto my stand — 
 Murther and death sit on my fatal hand ! 108 
 
 1 ' he ' seems to be the ' Geiit.'— G. 2 Cf. Macbeth, I. v. I. 51, etc.—G.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 273 
 
 Enters a Gentleman tcith a man with a torch before. BiiOWNE draics 
 
 to strike. 
 
 Gent. Wlio 's tlicro ? 
 
 Sand. A friciiil 
 
 Gent. Master Sanders ? well met. 
 
 Sand. Good even gentle Sir, so are you. 
 
 Gent. Where have you been so late Sir ? 
 
 Bro. A plague upon 't, a light and company "j yyI 
 
 E'en as I was about to do the deed. / \ Aside. 
 
 See how the devil stumbles in the nick. / 
 
 San. Sir, here at a friend's of mine in Luraberd Street 
 At supper; where I promise you 116 
 
 Our cheer and entertainment was so great 
 That we have passed our hour. 
 Believe me, Sir, the evening 's stolen away. 
 I see 'tis later than I took it lor. 120 
 
 Gent. SiiTah, turn there at tlie corner : since 'tis late 
 I will go home with master Sanders. 
 
 Sand. No, I pray you sir, trouble not yourself, 
 Sir, I beseech you. 124 
 
 Gent. Sir, pardon me : Sirrah, go on now where we arc 
 !My way lies just with yours. 
 
 Sand. I am beholding to you. \Exeimt. 
 
 Browne cometh out alone. 
 
 Bro. Except by miracle, thou art deliver'd as was never man. 
 My sword unsheathed, and with the piercing steel 129 
 
 Eeady to broach his bosom, and my purpose 
 
 VOL. II. 18
 
 274 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Thwarted by some malignant enuious star! 
 
 Nisflit, I could stab tbee ! I could stab myself, 132 
 
 I am so mad tliat be scaped my bands. 
 
 How like a fatal comet did that li2,bt 
 
 With this portentous vision fright mine eyes ! 
 
 A masque of devils walk along mth thee 136 
 
 And thou the torch-bearer unto them all ! 
 
 Thou fatal brand, ne'er mav'st thou be extinct 
 
 Till thou hast set that damned house on fire 
 
 Where he is lodged that brought thee to this place. 140 
 
 Sanders, this hand doth hold that death alone 
 
 And bears the seal of thy destniction. 
 
 1 Some other time shall serve till thou be dead. 
 
 My fortunes yet are uere accomplished. \Exit. 
 
 \_Scene, Woolwich.] 
 Hiiiter Masteu Barnes and John Beane Im man. 
 
 John Beam. Must I go first to Greenwich, sir? 1-15 
 
 Bar. What else ? 
 
 Beane. I cannot go by water, for it ebbs ; 
 The Wind 's at West, and both are strong against us. 
 
 Bar. My meaning is that you shall go by land, 148 
 
 And come by water ; though the tide be late, 
 Fail not to be at home again this nisht. 
 With answer of those letters which ye have. 
 
 1 Either near, or ne'er— in one case the lines read as above; the other 
 they run thus : 
 
 Some other time shall serve. Till thou be dead 
 My fortunes yet are ne'er accomplished.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 275 
 
 This letter give to Master Codl-rer. 152 
 
 If lie be not at Court when ye come there, 
 
 Leave 't at his chamber in any case. 
 
 Pray Master Sanders to be here next week, 
 
 About the matter at S. Mary Cray. 156 
 
 Beane. Methinks, sir, under your con-ection, 
 Next week is ill appointed. 
 
 Barnes. Why, I pray ye ? 
 
 Beane. 'Tis Easter week, and every holiday 
 Are Sermons at the Spittle. 
 
 Bar. What of that? 160 
 
 Bean. Can Master Sanders then be spared to come ? 
 
 Bar. Well said, Joliu fool. I hope at afternoon 
 A pair of oars may brings him down to Woolwich : 
 Tell him he must come down in any Avise. 16-i 
 
 Bean. What shall I brinir from London ? 
 
 Bar. A fool's head. 
 
 Bea. A calf's head 's better meat. 
 'Tis IMaunday Thursday, sii", and every butcher 
 Now keeps open shop. 
 
 Bar. Well get ye gone, and hie ye home. How now? 1G8 
 
 \Bea7ie stumbles twice. 
 TMiat, art thou drunk, cans't thou not stand ? 
 
 Bea. Yes, sir : 
 
 I did but stumble ; God send nie good luck, 
 I was not wont to stumble on plain ground. 
 
 Bar. Look better to your feet then. [Exit Barnes. 
 
 £ea. Yes, for sooth. 172 
 
 And vet I do not like it. At mv setting: forth.
 
 2/6 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 They say, it does betoken some mischance. 
 
 I fear not drowning-, if the boat be good. 
 
 There is no danger in so short a cut. 176 
 
 Betwixt Blackwall and Woolwich is the worst, 
 
 And if the watermen will watch the anchors 
 
 I'll watch the catches and the hoyes myself. 
 
 Well I must go. Christ's cross, God be my speed! ISO 
 
 Unter old Joiix and Joan Idn maid. 
 
 "Who comes there, a God's name? This woody way 
 Doth harljour many a false knave they say. 
 
 Old John. False knaves, ha ? Where be they ? let me see them. 
 Mass, as old as I am, and have little skill, I'll hamper a false knave 
 yet in my hedging bill. Stand ! Thief or true man ? 183 
 
 Joan. Master, it is John Beane. 
 
 John. Jesii ! John Beane, why, whither away by land ? 
 What make you wandering this woody way ? 188 
 
 Walk ye to Greenwich, or walk ye to Cray ? 
 
 Bean. To Greenwicli, father John. Good morrow, good moiTow. 
 Good morrow Joan^ good morrow, sweet, to thee. 
 
 Joan. A thousand good morrows, gentle Jolni Beane. I am glad 
 I met ye, for now I have my dream. I have been so troubled with 
 ye all this night, that I coidd not rest for sleeping and dreaming. 
 Methought you were grown taller and fairer, and that ye were in 
 your shirt ; and methon2:ht it should not be you, and vet it was 
 you : and that ye were all in white, and went into a garden, and 
 there was the umberst sort of flowers that ever I see : and methought 
 you lay down upon a green Ijank, and I pinned gilliflowers in your 
 ruff, and then methought your nose bled, and as I ran to my chest
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN 277 
 
 to fetch yc a liaiidkcrclicr, niethouglit I stumbled and so waked. 
 What does it betoken ? 202 
 
 Bean. Nay, I cannot tell. But I like neither thy dream nor my 
 own, for I was troubled with green meadows ^ and bulls fighting 
 and goring one another, and one of them methought ran at me, 
 and I ran away, that I sweat in my sleep for fear. 206 
 
 Old John. Tut, fear nothing, John Beane. Dreams are Ijut 
 fimcies. I dream'd myself, last night, that I heard the bells of 
 Barking as plain to our town of Woolwich as if I had lain in the 
 steeple ; and that I should be married, and to whom, trowest 
 tliou ? but to the fine gentlewoman of London that Avas at your 
 masters the last snmmer ! 212 
 
 Bea. Who, Mistress Sanders ? I shall see her anon, for I have 
 an errand to her husband : Shall I tell her ye dreamed of her ? 
 
 Old J. Gods forbod ! no, she 'U laugh at me, and call me old fool. 
 Art thou going to London? 216 
 
 Bm. Yea, when I have been at the Court at Greenwich. Whither 
 go you, and your maid Joan ? 
 
 Old J. To stop a gap in my fence, and to drive home a cow and 
 a calf that is in mv close at Shooters' hill foot. 220 
 
 Bea. 'Tis well done. Mass, I am merry since I met you two. I 
 would your journey lay along wdth mine. 
 
 Joan. So would I with all mv heart, John. Pray ve bestow a 
 groat, or sixpence, of Carnation ribbin to tie my smock sleeves ; they 
 flap about my hands too bad ; and I'll give you your money again. 
 
 Bea. That I will, i' faith. WiU you have nothing, father John ? 
 
 Old J. No, God-a-mercy, son John ; but I woidd thou hadst my 
 
 1 Green meadows : — So Falstaff's babbling ' of green fields ' (TTcw. V. 11. 
 iii. 1. 17) may have been (in Quickly's mind) an omen of his death. — G.
 
 278 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Aqua vitts bottle, to fill at tlie Black Bull by Battle Bridge. 228 
 
 Bea. So would I. Well, here our ways part ; you must that 
 wa}^, and I this. 
 
 Old J. Why, Johu Bcane, canst part with thy love Avithout a kiss ? 
 
 Bea. Ye say true, father John. My business puts kissing out of 
 my mind. Farewell, sweet Joan. [A'm Joan. 
 
 Joan. Farewell, sweet John : I pray ye have a care of yourself for 
 my dream ; and bless ye out of swaggerers company ; and walk not 
 too late. My master and I will pray for ye. 236 
 
 Old J. That we will, i' faith, John Beane. 
 
 Bea. God be with ye both. I could e'en weep to see how kind 
 
 they are unto me. There 's a wench ! Well, if I live I'll make her 
 
 amends. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Browne and Drury. 
 
 Bro. Nay, speak your conscience : Was 't not strange fortune 
 That at the instant when my sword was drawn. 
 And I had thought to have nail'd him to a post, 
 A light should come, and so prevent my pui-pose ? 244 
 
 Bnt. It was so. Master Browne. But let it pass ; 
 Another time shall serve. Never give o'er 
 Till you have quite remov'd him out your way. 
 
 Bro. And if I do, let me be held a coward, 248 
 
 And no more worthy to obtain her bed 
 Than a foul Negro to embrace a Queen. 
 
 Bru. You need not quail for doubt of your reward. 
 You know already she is won to this, 252 
 
 What by my persuasion and your own suit. 
 That you may have her company when you will ; 
 And she herself is thoroughly resolv'd
 
 Act II.] A WARNIiYG FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 279 
 
 None but George Browne must be her second husband. 256 
 
 Bro. The hope of that makes me a nights to dream 
 
 Of nothing but the death of wretched Sanders, 
 
 AVhich I have vow'd in secret to my soul 
 
 Shall not be long before that be determin'd. 2G0 
 
 J5ut I do marvel that our scout returns not, 
 
 Trusty Kogcr, whom we sent to dog him. 
 
 Dru. Tlic knave 's so careful, Master JJrowne, of you 
 
 As he will rather die than come again, 2G-i 
 
 Before he find fit place to do the deed. 
 
 Bro. I am beholding both to you and him ; 
 
 And, Mistress Drury, I'll requite your loves. 
 
 Enter Eoger. 
 
 Bru. By the mass, see where the whorson comes, 268 
 
 Pufting and blowing, almost out of breath. 
 
 Bro. Roger, how now, where, hast thou been all day ? 
 
 Rof/. Where have I been ? where I have had a jaunt 
 Able to tire a horse. 
 
 Bro. But dost thou bring 272 
 
 Any good news where I may strike the stroke 
 Shall make thyself and me amends for all ? 
 
 Rofj. That gather by the circumstance. First, know 
 That in the morning, till 'twas nine o'clock, 276 
 
 I watch'd at Sanders' door till he came forth ; 
 Then follow'd him to Coruhill, where he stay'd 
 An \\OMX talking in a merchant's warehouse. 
 
 From thence he went directly to the Burse, 2 SO 
 
 And there he walked another hour at least.
 
 28o A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 And I at 's heels. By tliis it struck eleven. 
 
 Home then lie comes to dinner. By the way 
 
 He chanced to meet a gentleman of the Corni, 284 
 
 "With whom as he was talking, I drew near, 
 
 And at his parting from him heard him say 
 
 That in the afternoon, without all fail, 
 
 He would be with him at the Court. This done, 28S 
 
 I watcht him at his door till he had din'd j 
 
 FoUow'd him to Lion quay ; saw him take boat. 
 
 And in a pair of oars, as soon as he. 
 
 Landed at Greenwich. "Where, ever since, 292 
 
 I traced him to and fro with no less care 
 
 Than I had done before, till at the last 
 
 I heard him call unto a waterman, 
 
 And bade he should be ready, for, by six, 296 
 
 He meant to be at London back again. 
 
 With that away came I to give you notice, 
 
 That as he lands at Lion quay this evening 
 
 You might despatch him, and escape unseen. 300 
 
 Bro. Hodge, thou hast won my heart by this day's work. 
 
 Dru. Beshrew me, but he hath taken mighty pains. 
 
 Bro. Eoger, come hither. There 's for thee to drink ; 
 And one day I will do thee greater good. 304 
 
 Rocj. I thank you, sir. Hodge is at your command. 
 
 Bro. Now, Mistress Drary, if you please, go home. 
 'Tis much upon the hour of his return. 
 
 Rog. Nay, I am sure he will be here straightway. 308 
 
 Dru. Well, I will leave you, for 'tis somewhat late. 
 God speed your hand ; and so. Master Browne, good night.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 281 
 
 Rofj. Mistress, I pray you, spare me for this once ; 
 I'll be so bold as stay with Master Browne. 312 
 
 Bra. Do. And Master Browne, if you prevail, 
 Come to my house ; I'll have a bed for you. Exil.'\ 
 
 Bro. You shall have knowledge if I chance to speed. 
 But I'U not lodge in London for a while, 31 G 
 
 Until the rumour shall be somewhat past. 
 Come, Eoger, where is 't best to take our standing? 
 
 Bog. Marry, at this corner, in my mind. 
 
 Bro. I like it well, 'tis dark and somewhat close, 320 
 
 By reason that the houses stand so near. 
 Beside, if he should land at Billingsgate 
 Yet are we still betwixt his house and him. 
 
 Rog. You say well, Master Browne, 'tis so indeed. 324- 
 
 Bro. Peace, then. No more words, for being spied. 
 
 JE}nter Anne Sanders mid John Beane. 
 
 Anne. I marvel, John, thou sawst him not at court, 
 He hath been there ever since one o'clock. 
 
 Bea. Indeed, Mistress Sanders, I heard not of him. 323 
 
 Anne. Pray God that Captain Browne hath not 
 been mov'd. 
 By some Ul motion to endanger him ! 
 I greatly fear it, he 's so long away. 
 But, tell me, John, must thou needs home to-night? 332 
 
 Bea. I'es, of necessity ; for so my Master bade. 
 
 Anne. If it be possible, I prithee stay 
 Until my husband come. 
 
 Bea. I dare not, trust me ; 
 
 {^Aside.
 
 282 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 And I doubt that T have lost my tide already. 336 
 
 Anne. Nay, that 's not so : come I'll bring thee to the quay. 
 I hope we shall meet my husband by the way. 
 
 Rog. That should be Mistress Sanders, by her tongue. 
 
 Bro. It is my love. how the dusky night 340 
 
 Is by her coming forth made sheen and bright ! 
 ril know of her why she 's abroad so late. 
 
 Ro(j. Take heed, Master Browne. See where Sanders comes. 
 
 Bro. A plague upon it ! now I am prevented. 344 
 
 Slie being by, how can I muither him ? 
 
 Enter Sanders. 
 
 San. Your fare 's but eighteen pence. Here 's half a crown. 
 
 Waterman. I thank your worship. God give ye good night. 
 
 Ban. Good night, with all my heart. 
 
 A)Lne. Oh, here he is now. 348 
 
 Husband, you're welcome home. Now .Tesu, man. 
 That you will be so late upon the water ! 
 
 Ban. My business, sweetheart, was such I could not choose. 
 
 Amie. Here 's M. Barnses man hath stay'd all day 353 
 
 To speak with you — 
 
 Ban. John Beane, welcome. How is 't ? 
 How doth thy master, and all our friends at Woolwich ? 
 
 Bea. All in good health, sir, when I came thence. 
 
 Ban. And what's the news, John Beane? 356 
 
 Bla. My Master, sir, requests you, that upon Tuesday next you 
 would take the pains to come down to Woolwich, about the matter 
 you wot of. 
 
 San. Well John, to-morrow thou shalt know my mind. 360
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 2S3 
 
 John. Nay, sir, I must to Woolwich by this tide. 
 
 San. What, to-uight ? There is no such haste, I hope. 
 
 Bea. Yes, truly, with your pardon, it must be so. 3C3 
 
 San. AVell then, if, John, you will be gone, commend me to your 
 ^Master, and tell him, without fail, on Tuesday, sometime of the day, 
 I'll see him ; and so good night. 
 
 Anne. Commend me likewise to thy master, John. 
 
 Bea. I thank you. Mistress Sanders, for my cheer. 368 
 
 Your commendations shall be delivered. \E£'d. 
 
 Bro. I would thyself and he were both sent hence. 
 To do a message to the devil of hell. 
 
 For interrupting this my solemn vow. 372 
 
 But, questionless, some power, or else prayer 
 Of some religious friend or other, guards him : 
 Or else my sword 's unfortunate. 'Tis so 
 This metal was not made to kill a man. 370 
 
 Rog. Good master Browne, fret not yourself so much : 
 Have you forgot what the old proverb is : — 
 The third time pays for all ? Did you not hear 
 That he sent word to Master Barnes of Woolwich, 380 
 
 He would be with him as on Tuesday next ? 
 'Twi.vt that and then lie you in wait for him; 
 And though he have escaped your hand so oft 
 You may be sure to pay him home at last. 3S4 
 
 Bro. Fury had almost made me pass myself. 
 'Tis well remember'd. Hodge, it so shall be. 
 Some place will I pick out as he does pass. 
 
 Either in going or in coming back, 388 
 
 To tnd his hateful life. Come, let 's away
 
 284 A WARNhYG FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 And at thy mistress' house we '11 spend this night 
 
 In consultation how it may be wrought. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Tragedy. Twice, as you see, this sad distressed man, 392 
 
 The only mark whereat foul Murther shot, 
 
 Just in the loose of envious eager death, 
 
 By accidents strange and miraculous 
 
 Escap'd the arrow aim'd at his heart. 396 
 
 Suppose him on the water now, for Woolwich, 
 
 For secret business with his bosom friend ; 
 
 From thence, as fatal destiny conducts him, 
 
 To Mary-Cray, by some occasion call'd ; 400 
 
 Which by false Drury's means made known to Browne, 
 
 Lust, Gain, and IMurther spur'd this villain on 
 
 Still to pursue this unsuspecting soul. 
 
 And now the dreadful hour of death is come, 404 
 
 The dismal morning when the destinies 
 
 Do sheer the labouring vital thread of life, 
 
 Whenas the lambe left in the woods of Kent 
 
 Unto this ravenous woolfe becoms a pray, 408 
 
 Now of his death the general! intent 
 
 Thus Tragedie doth to your eyes present. 
 
 The Musicke playing, enters Lust, bringing forth Browne and 
 EoGEE, at one ende, Mistres Sanders and Mistres Drurie at 
 the other, they offering cheerefully to meete and embrace. Sud- 
 denly riseth vp a great tree betweene them. Whereat amazedly 
 they step bacJce. JFhervpon Lust bringeth an axe to Mistres 
 Sanders, shewijig signes that she should cut it doune ; which 
 she refuseth, albeit Mistres Drurie offers to heipe her. Then 
 Lust brings the Axe to Browne, and shews the like signes to
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 285 
 
 lihn as before. TFJierupon he rougJdie and suddenly hewes doicne 
 the tree, and then they run tof/ither and embrace. With that 
 enters Chastitie, with her haire disheveled, and taking Mis- 
 tres Sanders by the hand, brings her to her husbands picture 
 hanging on the toall, and, pointing to the tree, seemes to tell 
 her, that that is the tree so rashly cut downe. TFherevpon she, 
 wringing her hands, in tears departes. Browne, Drurie, 
 Roger and Lust tchkpering, he draices his sicord, and Roger 
 folloices hint. Tragedie expressing that now he goes to act the 
 deed. 
 
 Lust leades togitlier this adulterous route, 
 
 But, as you see, arc hindrcd thus, before 412 
 
 They coidd attaine vuto tlieir fowlc desires. 
 
 The tree springs vp, whose bodie, whilest it stands, 
 
 Stil keepes them backe when they would fain embrace. 
 
 Whereat thev start, for furie euermore 416 
 
 Is full rcpleat with feare and envie. 
 
 Lust giveth her the Axe to cut it downie, 
 
 To rid her husband whom it represents, 
 
 In which this damned woman would assist liir; 420 
 
 But though by them seduced to consent, 
 
 And had a finger in her husbands bloud, 
 
 Coidd not be woonne to murthcr him herselte. 
 
 Lust brings the Axe to Browne, who suddenly 424 
 
 Doth giue the fatal stroke vnto the tree ; 
 
 TVhich being done, thev then embrace togitlier : 
 
 The act performde, now Chastitie appeares, 
 
 And pointing to the picture, and the tree, 428 
 
 Unto her guiltie conscience shewes her husband,
 
 286 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Even so cut off by tliat vile murtherer Browne : 
 
 She wrings her hands repenting of the fact, 
 
 Toucht with remorse, hut now it is too Lite. 432 
 
 What's here exprest, in act is to he done. 
 
 The sword is drawne, the murtherer forth doth run : 
 
 Lust leades him on, he followes him with speede, 
 
 The onely actor in this damned deed. 436 
 
 Enter Browne reading a Letter, and Roger. 
 
 Bro. Did I Init waver, or were unresolv'd, 
 These lines were able to encourage me. 
 SAveete Nan I tist thy name, and for thy sake 
 What coward would not venture more than this ? 440 
 
 Kil him ? Yea, were his life ten thousand lives, 
 Not any sparke or cynder of the same 
 Should be vnquencht in blond at thy request. 
 Roger, thou art assurde heele come this way ? 444 
 
 Rog. Assurde, sir ? why I heard him say so : 
 Per hauing lodg'd at Wolwich al last night, 
 As soone as day appear'd, I got me vp, 
 
 And watcht aloofe at maister Barnses doore, 443 
 
 Til he and master Sanders both came forth. 
 
 Bro. Til both came forth? Avhat, arc they both togither? 
 
 Rog. No, sir ; master Barnes himselfe w^ent backe againe, 
 And left his man to beare him companie, 452 
 
 John Beane, you know him ; he that was at London 
 When we laid wait for him at Billin2:s2:ate. 
 
 Bro. Is it that stripling ? wel, no more adoe. 
 Roger, go thou unto the hedge corner, 456
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 287 
 
 At the hill footc : there stand and cast thine eie 
 Toward Greenwich parke. See if Black Heath be cleare, 
 Least by some passenger we be descride. . 
 
 Roger. Shal ye not neede ray help, sir? they are twaine. 4C0 
 
 Br oxen. No ; were they ten, mine arme is strong enough 
 Even of itselfe to buckle with them al ; 
 And ere George Sanders shal escape me now 
 I wil not rccke what massacre I make. 464 
 
 Horj. Wei, sir. He go and watch ; and when I sec 
 Any body comming. He whistle to you. 
 
 Bro. Do so, I prethee : I would be alone. 
 My thoughts are studious and unsociable, 468 
 
 And so's my body, till this deede be done. 
 But, let me sec, what time a day is't now ? 
 It cannot be imagin'd by the sunne, 
 
 For whv, I have not scene it shine to-dav : 473 
 
 Yet as I gather by my comming forth, 
 Being then sixe, it cannot now be lesse 
 Than halfe an hower past seven ; the aire is gloomy : 
 No matter, darknesse best fittes my intent. 476 
 
 Here wil I walke ; and after shrowd my selfe 
 AVithin those bushes, when I see them come. 
 
 Enter Maister Sanders and John Beane. 
 
 San. John Beane, this is the right way, is it not ? 
 
 Joh. I, sir, would to God we Avere past this wood. 4S0 
 
 San. T\'hy, art thou affraide ? See, yonder's company. 
 
 Bro. They have espied me ; I will slip aside. 
 
 JoJi. God, sir, I am heavy at the heart !
 
 288 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Good Maister Sanders, let's retiirne backe to Wolwicli, 484 
 
 Me thinkes I go this way against my wil. 
 
 San. Why so, I prethee ? 
 
 Joli. Truly, I do not like 
 
 The man we saw; he slipt so soone away, 
 Behind the bushes. 
 
 San. Trust me, John, nor I ; 488 
 
 But yet, God willing, we wil keepe our way. 
 
 'Toll. I pray you, sir, let us go backe againe : 
 T do remember now a dreame was told me. 
 
 That, might I have the world, I cannot choose 492 
 
 But tremble every joint to thinke upon't. 
 • Sand. But we are men, let's not be so faint-hearted 
 As to affright oar-selves with visions. 
 
 Come on, a God's name. 496 
 
 \Broicne steps out and strikes up John's hceles. 
 
 John. Oh ! we are vndone. 
 
 Sand. What seeke you, sir ? 
 
 Bra. Thy blond ; which I will have. 
 
 Sand. Oh, take my mony, and preserve my life. 
 
 Bro. It is not millions that can ransome thee, 500 
 
 Nor this base drudge, for both of you must die. 
 
 San. Heare me a word, you are a gentleman ! 
 Soile not your hands with l;)loud of innocents. 
 
 Bro. Thou speakest in vaine. 504 
 
 San. Then God forgive mv sinne ! 
 Have mercie on me, and upon thee, too, 
 The bloudy author of my timelesse death ! 
 
 Bro. Now ■wil I dip my handkercher in his bloud, 508
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 289 
 
 And send it as a token to my love. 
 
 Looke how many wounds my hand hath given him : 
 
 So many holes He make Avithin this cloth. 
 
 San. Jesu, receive my sonic into thy liandes ! 512 
 
 Bro. What sound was that? It was not lu; that spake? 
 
 The breath is vanisht from his nostrils. 
 
 Was it the other ? No, his wounds are such 
 
 As he is likewise past the use of speech. 516 
 
 Who was it then that thundred in mine cares 
 
 The name of Jesu? Doubtlesse 'twas my conscience : 
 
 And I am damu'd for this luihallowed deede. 
 
 0, siunc ! how hast thou blinded me til now ; 520 
 
 Promising me security and rest, 
 
 But givest me dreadful agony of soule ! 
 
 What shal I do ? or whither shal I fly ? 
 
 The very bushes wd dis-cover me. 524 
 
 See how their wounds do gape unto the skies. 
 
 Calling for vengeance. 
 
 Enter Eogek. 
 
 Rog. How now, master Browne ? 
 What! have you done? why so, let's away, 528 
 
 For I have spide come riding ore the heath 
 Some halfe a dozen in a company. 
 
 Bro. Away ! to London thou ; He to the Court, 
 And shew my selfe, and after follow thee. 532 
 
 Give this to Mistris Sanders. Bid her reade 
 Upon this bloudy handkercher the thing 
 As I did promise, and have now pcrform'd ; — 
 But were it, RoGEii, to be done againe, 536 
 
 VOL. II. 19
 
 290 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 I would not do it for a kingdomes gaine. 
 
 Itog. Tut, faint not now ; come, let us haste away. 
 
 Bro. Oh ! I must feave, whatever thou dost say : 
 My shadow, if nought else, will me betray. 540 * 
 
 [Exeunt, Beane, left icounihd and for dead, 
 stirres and creepes. 
 
 Beane. Dare I lolce up, for feare he yet be neere, 
 That thus hath martirde me ? Yea, the coast is cleere : 
 For all these deadly wounds, yet lives my heart. 
 Alacke, how loath poore life is from my limbes to part ! 544 
 
 I cannot goe, ah no, I cannot stand : 
 O God ! that some good body were neere hand, 
 To helpe me home to Wolwich ere I die ; 
 
 To creep that way-ward whilst I live ile tiye. 548 
 
 O could I crawle but from this cursed wood, 
 Before I drowne my selfe in my owne blood. 
 
 Enter Old John and Joane. 
 
 Old John. Now, by my fathers saddle, Joane, I think we are be- 
 witched. My beasts were never wont to breake out so often : Sure 
 as death the harlotries are bespoken ; but it is that heifer with the 
 white backe that leades them al a gadding, a good lucke take 
 her ! 
 
 Joane. It is not dismal day, maister? did ye looke in the Am- 
 minicke ? If it be not, then 'tis either long of the brended cow, 
 that was nere wcl in her wits since the butcher bought her calf; or 
 long of ray dreame; or of my nose bleeding this morning; for as I 
 was washing my hands my nose bled three drops ; then I thought 
 of JouN Bean, God be with him, for I dream'd he was married.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 291 
 
 and that our white calfe was kild for his wedding dinner ; God 
 blesse them both, f(jr I love tlicm both well. \Beane creepes. 
 
 Old John. INIary, amen, for I tel thee my heart is heavy ; God 
 send ine good luck : my eyes dazcl, and I could wecpe. Lord 
 blesse us ! what sight is this ? Looke, Jone, and crosse thy selfe. 
 
 JoHc. master, master, looke in my purse for a peece of ginger; 
 I shall sweb, 1 shall swound ; cut my lace, and cover my face, 1 die 
 else ; it is John Beane, killd, cutte, slaine ! maister, and ye be a 
 man, help ! 5G9 
 
 Old John. John Beane ? Now Gods forbod, alocke, alock ! 
 good John, how came ye in this pitteous plight? speake, good John ; 
 nay, groanc not ; speake ! who has done this deede ? thou has not 
 fordone thy selfe, hast thou ? 573 
 
 Beane. Ah no, no 
 
 Joane. Ah no, no, he neede not have done that, for God 
 knowes I loved him as deerely as he loved me; speake, Jokn; who 
 did it? 577 
 
 Beane. One in a white dublet and blew breeches : he has slaine 
 another too, not fan-e oft". stoppe my woundes if ye can. 
 
 Old John. Joane, take my napkin and thy apron, and bind up 
 his wounds ; and cows go where they wil til we have can-ied him 
 home. 582 
 
 Joane. Wo worth him, John, that did this dismal deede ; 
 Heart-breake be his mirth, and hanging be his meede ! 
 
 Old John. Ah, weladay ! see where another lies, a hansome, 
 comely, ancient gentleman : what an age live we in ! when men 
 have no mercy of men more than of dogges, bloudier than beasts ! 
 This is the deed of some swaggering, swearing, drunken, desperate 
 Dicke. Call we them Cabbalecrs ? masse, they be Canuiballes, that
 
 292 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 have the stabbe readycr ia their handes than a penny in their purse. 
 Shames death be their share ! Jone, hast thou done ? Come, lend 
 me a hand to lay this good man in some busli, from birds and from 
 beasts, till we carry home John Beane to his Maisters, and rayse 
 all Wolwich to fetch home this man, and make search : Lift there, 
 Jone : so, so. Tlwy carry out Sanders. 
 
 Beane, Lord, comfort my soiile, my body is past cure. 596 
 
 Old John. Now lets take up John Beane : 
 Softly, Jone, softly. 
 
 Jone. Ah, John, little thought I to have earned thee thus Avithin 
 this weeke ; but my hope is aslope, and my joy is laide to sleepe. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter a yeoman of the Buttery, Brow^ne, and mayster James. 
 
 Yeo. Welcome, maister Browne; what ist you'le drinke, ale or 
 beere ? 
 
 Bro. Mary, ale, and if you please. \ 
 
 You see, sir, I am bold to trouble you. 
 
 Yeo. No trouble, sir, at all ; the Queene, our Mistris, 604 
 
 Allowcs this bounty to all commers, much more 
 To Gentlemen of your sort ; — some ale there, ho ! 
 
 Enter one with a Jacke and a court dish. 
 
 Yeo. Here, maister Browne, thus much to your health. 
 
 Bro. I thank you, sir; nay, prethee fill my cup. 608 
 
 Here, maister James, to you with all my heart. 
 How say you now, sir? was I not a-dry ? 
 
 Yeo. Beleeve me, yes ; wilt please ye mend your draught ? 
 
 Bro. No more, sir, in this heate, it is not good. 612
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 293 
 
 M. James. It seemes, Maister Browne, that you have gone 
 apace. 
 Came you from London that you made such haste ? 
 But soft, what have I spide ? your hose is bloudy. 
 
 5/-0. IIow, bloudy ? where ? Good-sooth, tis so indeede. 616 
 
 Yeo. It seemes it is but newly done. 
 
 Browne. No, more it is : 
 And now I do remember how it came : ' 
 
 Myselfe, and some two or three Gentlemen more, 
 Crossing the field, this morning, here, from Eltham, 620 
 
 Chaunc'd by the way to start a brace of hares, 
 One of the which we kild, the other 'scapt. 
 And pulling foorth the garbage, this befell ; 
 But 'tis no matter ; it wil out againe. 624 
 
 Yeo. Yes, there's no doubt, with a little sope and water. 
 
 M. James. I would I had beene with you at that sport. 
 
 Bro. I would you had, sir, 'twas good sport indeede. 
 
 Bro. Now, afore God, this bloud was ill espied. 62 S 
 
 But my excuse I hope wil serve the turne. \_Aside. 
 
 Gentlemen, I must to London this forenoone, 
 About some earnest busines doth concerne me ; 
 Thankes for my ale, and your good companies. 632 
 
 Both. Adieu, good maister Browne. 
 
 Browne. Parewell unto you both. \Exit. 
 
 M. James. An honest proper Gentleman as lives. 
 God be with you, sir ; He up into the Presence, 636 
 
 Yeo. Y'are welcome, ]\I. James ; God be with ye, sir. [Exeunt.
 
 294 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Unter Anne Sanders, Anne Drewry, and Roger : Drewry 
 having the hloudy handkercher in her hand. 
 
 Anne. Oh shew not me that ensigne of despaire, 
 Eut hide it, burne it, bury it in the earth, 
 
 It is a kalcnder of bloody letters, 640 
 
 Containing his, and yours, and all our shames ! 
 
 Dru. Good mistris Sanders, be not so outragious, 
 
 Anne. What tell you me ? Is not my husband slaine ? 
 Are not we guiltie of his cruel death ? 644 
 
 Oh ! my deare husband, I wil follow thee ! 
 Give me a knife, a sword, or any thing, 
 Wherewith I may do justice on ray selfe : ' 
 
 Justice for murther, justice for the death 648 
 
 Of my deare husband, my betrothed love ! 
 
 Hog. These exclamations will bewray us all ; 
 Good Mistress Sanders, peace ! 
 
 Dru. I pray you, peace : 
 
 Tour servants, or some neighbours else wil heare. 652 
 
 Anne. Shall I feare more my servants, or the world, 
 Then God himselfe ? He heard our trecherie. 
 And saw our complot and conspiracie. 
 
 Our hainous sinne cries in the eares of him, 656 
 
 Lowder then we can cry upon the earth. 
 A woman's sinne, a wives inconstancy : 
 Oh God, that I was borne to be so vile, 
 
 So monstrous and prodigious for my lust : 660 
 
 Pie on this pride of mine, this pamper'd flesh !
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 295 
 
 I will revenge nic on these tlsiiig eyes, 
 
 And teare them out for being amoiirous. 
 
 Oh ! Sanders, my cleare husband ! Give me leave, 6G4- 
 
 Why do you hold me ? are not my deeds ugly ? 
 
 Let then my faults be written in my face. 
 
 Bru. Oh do not offer violence to your selfe. 
 
 Anne. Have I not done so already ? Is not 66S 
 
 The better part of me by me misdone ? 
 My husband, is he not slaine ? is he not dead ? 
 But since you labour to prevent my griefe. 
 
 He hide me in some closet of my house, G72 
 
 And there weepe out mine eyes, or pine to death, 
 That have untimely stopt my husband's breath. 
 
 Bru. What shall we doe, Roger ? go thou and watch 
 For master Brownes arrival from the Court; 676 
 
 And bring him hither, happily his presence 
 Wil be a meanes to drive her frona this passion. 
 In the meane space I will go after her. 
 And do the best I can to comfort her. 680 
 
 Iloff. I will : take lieede she do not kill her-selfe. 
 
 Bru. For Gods sake haste thee, and be circumspect. 
 
 Enter Sanders' yong sonne, and another hoy comming from scJioole. 
 
 Yang San. Come, Harrie, shall we play a game ? 
 
 Ear. At what? 684 
 
 Yang San. Why, at crosse and pile. 
 
 liar. You haue no Counters. 
 
 Yong San. Yes, but I have as many as you. 
 
 Ear. He drop with you; and he that has most, take all. 688
 
 296 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Yong San. No, sir ; if youle play a game, 'tis not yet twelve by 
 hali'e an lioure, He set you like a gamster. 
 
 Har. Go to, where shall we play ? 
 
 Tofiff San. Here, at our doore. C92 
 
 Jla>: "What and if your father find us ? 
 
 Fong San. No, hees at Woolwich, and will not come home to- 
 night. 
 
 Har. Set me then ; and here's a good. 690 
 
 Enter Brown and Eoger. 
 
 I B/'o. Is she so out of pacience as thou saist ? 
 
 Hoff. Wonderfull, sir ; I have not scene the like. 
 
 £ro. What does she meane by that ? Nay, what meane I, 
 To aske the question? Has she not good cause ? 700 
 
 Oh, yes ; and we have every one of us just cause 
 To hate and be at variance with our selves. 
 But come ; I long to see her. [He spies the hoy. 
 
 Rog. How now, Captaine ? 704 
 
 Why stop you on the sudden ? why go you not ? 
 What makes you looke so gastly towards the house ? 
 
 Bro. Is not the forraost of those prettie boyes 
 One of George Sanders sonnes ? 708 
 
 Rog. Yes, 'tis is yongest. 
 
 Bro. Both yong'st and eld'st are now made fatherlesse, 
 By my unlucky hand. I prethee, go 
 
 And take him from the doore, the sight of him 712 
 
 Strikes such a terror to my guilty conscience, 
 As I have not the heart to looke that way, 
 Nor stirre my foote untill he be remoov'd.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 297 
 
 Me thinkes in liim I see his fathers wounds 710 
 
 Fresh bleeding in my sight ; nay, he doth stand 
 
 Like to an Angel with a firy sworde, 
 
 To barre mine entrance at that fatall doore. 
 
 I prethee steppe, and take him quickly thence. 720 
 
 Rog. Away, my prettie boy, your master comes, 
 And youle be taken playing in the street. 
 What, at unlawful games ? away, be-gone. 
 
 'Tis dinner time, yong Sanders, youle be ierkt : 724 
 
 Your mother lookes for you before this time. 
 
 Yong San. Gaffer, if you'le not tel my master of me, 
 He give you this new silke point. 
 
 Rog. Go to, I will not. 728 
 
 Har. Nor of me, and there's two counters : I have woonne no more. 
 
 Rog. Of neither of you, so you wil be gone. 
 
 Yong San. God be with you, ye shall see me no more. 
 
 Har. Nor me; I meane playing at this doore. 732 
 
 Rog. Now, captaine, if you please, you may come forward ; 
 But see, where mistris Sanders and my mistris 
 Are comming forth to meete you on the way ? 
 
 Bru. See where master Browne is, in him take comfort; 736 
 And learne to temper your excessive griefe. 
 
 Anne. Ah, bid me feed on poyson and be fat ; 
 Or looke upon the Basiliske and live ; 
 
 Or surfet daily and be stil in health; 740 
 
 Or leape into the sea and not be drownde; 
 All these are even as possible as this. 
 That I should be recomforted by him 
 That is the authour of my whole lament. 744
 
 298 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 JBro. Why, mistris Anne, I love you dearly, 
 xVnd but for your incomparable beauty 
 My soule had never dreamt of Sanders death : 
 Then give me that which now I do deserve, 748 
 
 Your selfe, your love, and I will be to you 
 A husband so devote, as none more just, 
 Or more affectionate, shal treade this earth. 
 
 Anne. If you can crave it of me with a tongue 752 
 
 That hath not bin prophande with wicked vowes, 
 Or thinke it in a heart did never harbour 
 Pretence of murther, or put foorth a hand 
 
 As not contaminate with shedding bloud, 756 
 
 Then Avill I willingly graiuit your request : 
 But oh ! your hand, your heart, your tongue, and eye. 
 Are all presenters of my misery ! 
 
 Bro. Talke not of that ; but let us study now 760 
 
 How we may salve it, and conceale the fact. 
 
 Anne. Mountains will not suffice to cover it ; 
 Cymerian darkenesse cannot shadow it ; 
 
 Nor any pollicie wit hath in store 764 
 
 Cloake it so cunningly, but at the last, 
 If nothing else, yet will the very stones 
 
 That lie within the streetes cry out for vengeance, 767 
 
 And point at us to be the murderers. \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter three Lords, Maisteu James, and tioo Messengers tc'dli their 
 boxes, one Lord reading a letter. 
 
 1 Lo. Pore God (my Lords) a very bloudy act. 
 
 This hath the letter.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 299 
 
 2 Lo. Yea, and committed in eye of court, 
 Audatiously, as who should say, he durst 
 
 Attempt a niurthcr in despite of Law. 772 
 
 3 Lo. Pray ye lets see your letter (good ray Lord). 
 
 Jle takes and reades the letter. 
 Tenne wounds at least, and deadly ev'ry wound, 
 And yet he lives, and tels markes of the man. 
 Ev'n at the edge of Shooter's Hill, so neare. 770 
 
 1 Lo. We shal not need to send these Messengers, 
 For hew and cry may take the murthercrs. 
 
 Enter a fourth Lord to'ith a Water-man and a Page. 
 
 4 Lord. Nay, sirra, you shall tel this talc againe, 
 
 Before the Lords; come on : my Lords, what newes? 7S0 
 
 1 Lord. Bad newes, my Lord, A cruel murthcrs done, 
 
 Neere Shooters Hill, and here's a letter come 
 
 From Wolwich, from a gentleman of worth, 
 
 Noting the manner, and the marks of him, 784 
 
 (By likelihoode) that did that impious deede. 
 
 4 Lord. Tis noysd at London, that a marchant's slain, 
 
 One maister Sanders, dwelling neere Tames streete, 
 
 And that George Browne, a man whom we al know, 788 
 
 Is vehemently suspected for the fact. 
 
 And fled upon't, and this same Water-man, 
 
 That brought me downe, sales he row'd him up, 
 
 And that his hose were bloudy, which he hid 71)2 
 
 Stil with his hat, sitting bare-head in the boate, 
 
 And sigh'd and star'd as one that was afraide. 
 
 How saist thou, sirra, was't not so he did ?
 
 300 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act 1 1. 
 
 Wat. Yes, and 't please your Lordship, so it was. 796 
 
 Lord. What did he weare ? 
 Water. A doublet of white satten, 
 And a large paire of breeches of blew silke. 
 
 2 Lord. Was he so suted when you dranke with him, 800 
 Here in the butteiy ? 
 
 M. J a. Yea, my Lord, he was. 
 
 3 Lord. And his hose bloudy ? 
 
 M. Ja. Just as he affirraes. 804 
 
 3 Lord. Conferre the markes the wounded fellow telles with these 
 reports. 
 
 1 Lord. The man that did the deede, [reades 
 
 Was faire and fat, his doublet of white silke, 807 
 
 His hose of blew. I am sory for Geokge Browne. [lookes off 
 Twas he, my Lords. 
 
 4 Lord. The more accursed man. 
 
 Get warrants drawne : and messengers attend. 
 
 Cal al your fellowes : ride out every way : 813 
 
 Poste to the Ports : give charge that no man passe 
 
 Without our warrant. One take boate to London ; 
 
 Command the Sheriffes make wise and speedy search : 
 
 Descipher him by al the marks you can : 816 
 
 Let bloud be paid with bloud in any man. 
 
 1 Lord. We were to blame els ; come, my lords, let's in, 
 To signe our warrants, and to send them out. \_Exeioit omnes. 
 
 Enter Drury and Eoger toith a hagge. 
 
 Dru. Eoger, cans't thou get but twentie pound, 820 
 
 Of al the plate that thou hadst from us both ?
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 301 
 
 Mine owne's worth twenty ; what liad'st tliou of licr? 
 
 Rog. Two boUes and spoones : I know not what ray selfe. 
 'Tis in a note ; uiid I could get no more 824 
 
 But twenty pound. 
 
 Bru. Alas ! 'twil do no good : 
 
 And he must thence, if he be tane he dies. 
 On his escape, thou knowest, our safety lies. 
 
 Bog. That's true ; alas, what wil ye have me do ? 828 
 
 I)ni. lluune to Nan Sanders ; bid her make some shift] 
 Try al her friends to hclpe at this dead lift, 
 For al the mony that she ran devise, 
 
 And send by thee with al the haste she may : 832 
 
 Tel her we die if Browne make any stay. 
 
 Rog. I wil, I wil. [Exit Eoger. 
 
 Bru. Thou wilt, thou wilt ; alas. 
 
 That ere this dismal deede was brought to passe! 835 
 
 But now 'tis done, we must prevent the worst. Enter Browne 
 And here comes he that makes us al accurst. 
 How now, George Browne ? 
 
 Bro. Nan Drurie, now undone, 
 
 Undone by that, that thou hast made me doe. 
 
 Bru. I make ye do it ? your owue love made ye do it. S40 
 
 Bro. Wei, done it is ; what shal we now say too't ? 
 Search is made for me, be I tane, I die ; 
 And there are other as farre in as T. 
 
 I must beyond sea, money have I none, S4-i 
 
 Nor dare I looke for any of mine owne. 
 
 Bru. Here's twenty pound, I boiTowcd of my plate, 
 And to your mistris I have sent for more. Enter Eoger.
 
 302 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 By Hodge, my man: Now, Eoger, hast tliou sped? 84 S 
 
 Rog. Yea, of six pound ; 'tis all that she can make ; 
 She prayes ye tak't in worth,^ and to be gone ; 
 She heares the Shiritfes wil be there anone, 
 
 And at our house ; a thousand commendations 852 
 
 She sends you, praying you to shift for your selfe. 
 
 Bro. Even as I may. Koger, farewel to thee : 
 If I were richer, then thou shouhl'st go with me, 
 But poverty partes company; farewel, Nan, 85G 
 
 Commend me to my mistris, if you can. 
 
 Bru. Step thither your selfe, I dare not come there; 
 lie keep my house close, for I am in feare. 
 
 Ro. God be with you, good Captaine. 
 
 Browne, Farewel, gentle Hodge. 
 
 Oh, master Sanders, wert thou now alive, 861 
 
 xVl Londons wealth thy death should not contrive ! 
 This heate of love and hasty climbing breeds, 
 God blesse all honest tall men fi'oni such deedes. 8G4 
 
 Enter Tragedy afore the sJieir. 
 
 Tragedij. Prevailing Sinne having by three degrees 
 Made his ascension to forbidden deedes. 
 As first, alluring their unwary mindes 
 
 To like what she proposde, then practising 868 
 
 To draw them to consent ; and, last of all, 
 Ministring fit meanes and oportunity 
 To execute what she approoved good ; 
 
 Now she unvailes their sight, and lets them see 872 
 
 1 (?) Sterling.— G.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 303 
 
 The hoiTor of their foule immanity.^ 
 
 And wrath, that al this while liath bin obscurde, 
 
 Steps forth before them in a tliousand shapes 
 
 Of gastly thoughts, and loathing discontents : 876 
 
 So that the rest was promist now appeaves 
 
 Unrest, and deep affliction of the soulc, 
 
 Delight prooves danger, confidence dispaire, 
 
 As by this folowing shew shall more appeare. 880 
 
 Enter Justice and ^Iercy, when, hav'mg taken their seats 
 Justice falls into a slumber. Then enters wronged Chastity, 
 and in dumhe action uttrbuj her grief e to Mercy, is put away ; 
 whei'eon shewaJcens Justice, ?(7^o, lint ning her attentively, starts 
 vp, commanding his officers to attend her. Then go thcg with 
 her, and fetch forth master Sandeks body, mistris Sanders, 
 Drury and EoGER, led after it, and being sheicne it, they al 
 seeme very sorrowfid, and so are led away. But Chastity 
 shewes that the chiefe offender is not as yet taken, tchereon 
 Justice dispatcheth his servant Diligence to make further 
 enquiry after the murderer, and so they depart the stage with 
 Chastity. 
 
 Tru. Thus lawles actions and prodigious crimes 
 Drinke not the bloud alone of them they hate, 
 But even their ministers, when they have done 
 Al that they can, must help to (il the Seeane, 884 
 
 And yeeld their guilty neckes unto the blocke. 
 For which intent, the wronged Chastity, 
 Prostrate before the sacred throne of Justice, 
 
 1 Inhumanity. — G.
 
 304 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 "With wringing hands, and clieekes besprent with teares, 888 
 
 Pursues the murtherers. And, being heard 
 
 Of Mercy first, that in relenting wordes 
 
 Would faine perswade her to humility, 
 
 She turnes from her, and with her tender hand 892 
 
 Wakes slumbering Justice ; when, her tale being told, 
 
 And the dead body brought for instance forth, 
 
 Strait inquisition and search is made. 
 
 And the offenders, as you did behold, 896 
 
 Discover'd where they thought to be unseene. 
 
 Then triall now reraaines, as shall conclude, 
 
 Measure for measure, and lost bloud for blond. 
 
 Enter George Browne, and one Browne, a butcher in Rochester. 
 
 But. 'Tis marvell, coosen Browne, we see you here, 900 
 
 And thus alone without all company : 
 You were not woont to visit Rochester, 
 But you had still some friend or other with you. 
 
 Bro. Such is th' occasion, coosin, at this time, 904 
 
 And, for the love I beare you, I am bold 
 To make my selfe your guest, rather then lie 
 In any publike Inne, because, indeed. 
 
 The house where I was woont to host is full 908 
 
 Of certaine Frenchmen and their followers. 
 
 But. Nay, coosin Browne, I would not have you thinke 
 I doe object thus much as one unwilling 
 
 To shew you any kindnesse that I can. 912 
 
 My house, though homely, yet such as it is, 
 And I my selfe will be at your commaund.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 305 
 
 I love you for your name-sake, and trust me, sir, 
 
 Am proud that such a one as you will call me coosin, 91C 
 
 Though I am sure we are no kin ;it all. 
 
 Bro. Yes, coosin, we are kin; nor do I scorne 
 At any time to acknowledge as much, 
 Toward men of baser calling then your selfe. 920 
 
 But. It may be so, sir ; but to tell you truth, 
 It seemed somewhat strange to me at first, 
 And I was halfe afraid some ill had hapned, 
 That made you carefiill whoiu you trusted to. 924 
 
 Bro. Faith, coosin, none but this : I owe some money. 
 And one I am indebted to of late 
 Hath brought his action to an outlawrv, 
 
 And seekes to do mc all extremity. 928 
 
 But that I am not yet provided for liini, 
 And that he shall not liave his will of me, 
 I do absent me, till a friend of mine 
 Do see what order he may take with him. 932 
 
 Bid. How now, whoe's this ? 
 
 Enter maister Mayor, master Jajies, icith a piirseuant 
 
 and others. 
 
 Mayor. Where are you, neighbour Browne ? 
 
 But. Master Mayor, y'are welcome ; what's the news, sir, 
 You come so guarded. Is there aught amisse ? 936 
 
 Bro. Heaven will have justice showne : it is even so ! 
 
 James. I can assure you 'tis the man we seeke. 
 
 Then doe your office, master Mayor. 
 
 Mayor. George Browne, 
 
 VOL. II. 20
 
 3o6 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 I doe an-est you, in her highnesse name, 940 
 
 As one suspected, to have murdred 
 George Sanders, Citizen of London. 
 
 Bro. Of murther, sir ? there lives not in this land 
 Can touch me with the thought of murther. 944 
 
 Mayor. Pray God it be so ; but you must along 
 Before their honors, there to answer it. 
 Here's a commission that commands it so. 
 
 Bro. Well, sir, I do obey, and do not doubt 948 
 
 But I shall prove me innocent therein. 
 
 James. Come, master Mayor, it is the Councels pleasure, 
 You must assist us till we come to Woolwich, 
 Where we have order to conferre at large 952 
 
 With master Barnes concerning this mishap. 
 
 Mayor. Withall my heart ; farewell, good neighbor Brown. 
 
 But. God keepe you, maister Mayor, and all the rest. 
 And, master Browne, beleeve me, I am sory 956 
 
 It was your fortune to have no more grace. 
 
 Bro. Coosin, grieve not for me, my case is cleare. 
 Suspected men may be, but need not feare. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Miter John Beane, brought in a chair, and Master Barnes 
 and Master James. 
 
 Barnes. Sir, how much I esteenid this gentleman, 960 
 
 And in how hie respect I held his love 
 My griefes can hardly utter. 
 
 M. James. It shall not neede, your love after his death expresses 
 it. 964 
 
 Barnes. I would to God it could; and I amverie glad
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 307 
 
 My Lords of her most honourable Councel 
 
 Have made choice of your selfe, so grave a gentleman. 
 
 To see the maner of this cruell murther. 9G8 
 
 M. James. Sir, tin; inosl unworthy, I, of many men, 
 But that in the hie bounty of your kindnes so you terme me. 
 But trust me, maister Barnes, amongst the rest 
 That was reported to them of the murther, 972 
 
 They hardly were induced to buleeve 
 That this poore soule, having so many wounds, 
 And all so raortall as they were reported, [^Luying his hand 
 
 With so much losse of blood, should possibly yet live; ujjon him. 
 Wiiy, it is past belicfe. 977 
 
 Barnes. Sir, it is so, your worthy selfe can witnes, 
 As strange to us, that looke upon the wretch, 
 As the report thereof unto their wisdoms. 980 
 
 M. Jamen. ]\Iore feaj'ful wounds, nor hurts more dangerous, 
 Upon my faith I have not scene. 
 
 Beane. Hey, hoe, a little drinke : oh my head. 
 
 Barnes. Good John, how doest thou ? 984 
 
 Beane. Whose that ? Father John ? 
 
 Barnes. Nay, John, thy maister. 
 
 Beane. Lord, ray belly ! 986 
 
 M. Jam. He spends more breath that issues through his wounds, 
 Then through his lippes. 
 
 Beane. 1 am drie. 
 
 Barnes. John, doest thou know me ? 
 
 M. Jam. See where thy master is ; look, dost thou know him ? 
 
 Barnes. Sir, he never had his perfit memory, since the first houre. 
 
 M. Jam. Surely he cannot last.
 
 3o8 A IVARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Barnes. And yet, sir, to our seeming, I assure you 
 He sat not up so strongly, as you see liiin, 993 
 
 Since he was brought into this house, as now. 
 
 M. James. 'Tis very strange. 
 
 Enter the Mayor of Rochester, tcith Browne and Officers. 
 
 Barnes. As I take it, Maister Mayor of Kochester. 996 
 
 Mayor. The same, good master Barnes. 
 
 Barnes. What happy fortune sent you here to AVoolwich, 
 That yet your company may give us comfort in this sad time ? 
 
 Mayor. Beleeve me, sad indeed, and very sad; 1000 
 
 Sir, the Councel's warrant lately came to me 
 About the search for one Captaine George Browne, 
 As it shoidd seeme, suspected for this murther, 
 Whom in my searcli I hapt to apprehend. 1004- 
 
 And hearing that the bodies of the murdred 
 Bemained here, I thought it requisite 
 To make this in my way unto the Court, 
 Now going thither witli the prisoner. 1008 
 
 Barnes. Beleeve me, sir, ye have done right good service, 
 And shewne your selfe a painfull gentleman, 
 And shall no doubt deserve Avell of the state. 
 
 M. James. No doul^t you shall, and I durst assure you so : 
 Tlie Coimcel wil accept well of the same. 1013 
 
 Barnes. Good maister Mayor, this wretched man of mine 
 Is not yet dead ; looke you where he sits ; 
 But past all sense, and labouring to his end. 1016 
 
 Mayor. Alas ! poore wretch. 
 
 Barnes. Is this that Browne that is suspected to have done
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 309 
 
 The murther ? A goodly man, beleeve rae : 
 
 Too faire a creature for so fowle an act. 1020 
 
 Browne. My name is Buowne, sir. 
 
 M. Janies. I know you well ; your fortunes have been 
 Faire as any gentlemans of your repute. 
 
 But, Browne, should you be guilty of this fact, 1024 
 
 As this your liiglit lialh given shrewde suspition, 
 Oh Browne, your hands have done the bloodiest deed 
 That ever was committed. 
 
 Bro. He doth not live dare charge me with it. 1028 
 
 M. Ja. Pray God there be not. 
 
 Mayor. Sergeants, bring him neare ; see if this poore soule know 
 him. 
 
 Barnes. It cannot be ; these two days space 
 He knew no creature. 
 
 Bro. Swounds, lives the villaine yet ? [Jside. 
 
 O how his very sight aflrights my soule ! 1033 
 
 His very eyes will speake had he no tongue, 
 And will accuse me. 
 
 Barnes. See how his wounds break out afresli in bleeding. 
 
 M. Ja. He stirs himselfe. 1037 
 
 Mayor. He openeth his eyes. 
 
 Barnes. See how he lookcs upon him. 
 
 Bro. I gave him lifteene wounds, \_A)side 
 
 Which now be fifteene mouthes that doe accuse me; 104-1 
 
 In ev'ry wound there is a bloody tongue, 
 Which will all speake, although he hold his peace ; 
 By a whole jury I shalbe accusde. 1044 
 
 Barnes. John, dost thou heare ? Knowest thou this man ?
 
 3IO A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Beane. Yea,, this is he that murdred me and M. Sanders. 
 
 \lie sinkes down. 
 
 M. Ja, 0, hold him up. 
 
 Mayor. John, comfort thy selfe. 
 
 M. Ja. Bow him ; give him ayre. 
 
 Barnes. No ; he is dead. 1048 
 
 Bra. Me-thinks he is so fearcfull in my sight, 
 That were lie now but where I saw him last, 
 Tor all this world I would not loolce on him. 
 
 Barnes. The wondrous worke of God, that the poore creature, 
 not speaking for two dayes, yet now should speake to accuse this 
 man, and presently yeeld up his soule ! 
 
 M. Ja. 'Tis very strange, and the report thereof 
 Can seeme no lesse unto the Lords. 105(5 
 
 Mayor. Sergeants, away, prepare you for the court, 
 And I will follow you immediatly. 
 
 Barnes. Sure, the revealing of this murther's strange. 
 
 M. Ja. It is so, sir; but in the case of blood, 1060 
 
 Gods justice hath bin stil miraculous. 
 
 Mayor. I have heard it told, that digging up a grave. 
 Wherein a man had twenty yeeres bin buryed, 
 By iinding of a naile knockt in the scalpe, lOG-t 
 
 By due enquiry who was buried there. 
 The murtlier yet at length did come to light. 
 
 Barnes. I have heard it told, that once a traveller, 
 Being in the hands of him that murdred him, 1068 
 
 Told him the fearne that then grew in the place, 
 If nothing else, yet that would sure reveale him. 
 And seven yeares after, being safe in London,
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 311 
 
 There came a sprigge of fearne, borne by the wind 1072 
 
 Into the roome whereas the murtlierer was, 
 At sight whereof he soclainely start up, 
 And then reveald the murder. 
 
 M. Ja. He tell you, sir, one more to quite your tale. 1076 
 
 A woman that had made away her husband, 
 And sitting to behold a tragedy, 
 At Linne, a towne in Norfolkc, 
 
 Acted by Players travelling that way, — 1080 
 
 Wherein a woman that had murthcrd hers 
 Was ever haunted witli her liiisband's ghost. 
 The passion written by a feeling pen, 
 
 And acted by a good tragedian, — 1084- 
 
 She was so moovcd with the sight thereof, 
 As she cryed out, ' the play was made by her,' 
 And openly confess her husband's murder. 
 
 Barnes. However theirs, God's name be praised for this : 1088 
 You, Mayor, I see, must to the Court, 
 I pray you do my duety to the Lords. 
 
 Mayor. That will I, sir. 
 
 M. Ja. Come, He go along with you. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Lords at the Court, and Messengers. 
 
 1 Lord. Where was Browne apprehended, Messenger? 1092 
 
 2 Mess. At Rochester, my Lord, in a Butcher's house of his 
 owue name, from thence brought up to Wolwich. 
 
 4 Lord. And there the fellow he left for dead with all those 
 wounds afBrm'd that it was he. 1096
 
 312 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 1 Mess. He did, my Lord, and witli a constant voice, praid God 
 forgive Browne, and receive his soule, and so departed. 
 
 1 Lord. 'Tis a wondrous tiling, 
 
 But that the power of heaven sustain'd him, 1100 
 
 A man with nine or ten such mortal wounds 
 
 Not taking foode should live so many days. 
 
 And then at sight of Browne recover strength. 
 
 And speake so cheerely as they say he did. 1104 
 
 4 Lord. Aye, and soone after he avouch'd the fact 
 Unto Brownes face, then to give up the ghost. 
 
 2 Lord. 'Twas God's good wil it should be so, my Lord. 
 
 But what said Browne, did he deny the deede? 1108 
 
 1 Mess. Never, my Lord ; but did with teares lament 
 
 (As seem'd to us) his hainous cruelty. 
 1 Lord. When Avil they come ? 
 1 Mess. Immediately, my Lord ; 
 
 For they have wind and tide, and boats do wait. 1112 
 
 Enter M. Mayor, M. James, &c. 
 
 M. James. My Lordes, the Mayor of Rochester is come with 
 Browne. [_Exit M. James. 
 
 4 Lord. Let him come in. You, messenger. 
 Haste you to London to the Justices : 1116 
 
 Will them, from us, see an indictment drawne 
 Against George Browne for murdring of George Sanders. 
 
 1 Lord. Welcome, good master Mayor of Eochester 
 
 Enter Mayor, Browne, a Messenger, another, and M. Humphery. 
 Mayor. I humbly thanke your honours.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 313 
 
 ^Lord. . We thank you, 1120 
 
 For your great care and dllig-cncc in this, 
 And many other faithful sei-vices. 
 Now, maister Browne, I am sory it was your happe 
 To be so farre from grace and feare of God 1124- 
 
 As to commit so bloudy a murder. 
 What say ye ? are ye not soiy for it ? 
 
 Browne. Yes, my Lord, and were it now to do, 
 Al the worhl's wealth could not intice metoo't. 1128 
 
 1 Lord. Was there any ancient quarrel, BiioWNE, 
 Betwixt your selfe and Maister Sanders ? 
 
 Browne. No. 
 
 2 Lord. Was't for the mony that he had about him? 
 
 Browne. No, my good Lord, I knew of none he had. 1132 
 
 4 Lord. No ; I heard an inckling of the cause : 
 You did affect his wife, George Bro'wx, too much. 
 Broicne. I did, my Lord, and God forgive it me. 
 
 3 Lord. Then she provok'd ye to dispatch him. 
 
 Browne. No. 1136 
 
 4 Lord. Yes ; and promised you should maiTy her. 
 Browne. No, I wil take it upon my death. 
 
 1 Lord. Some other were confederate in the fact; 
 
 Confesse then, Browne, discharge thy conscience. 1140 
 
 Browne. I wil, my Lord, at hower of my death. 
 
 2 Lord. Nay, now, that they with thee may die for it. 
 
 Maister James delivers a letter. 
 4 Lord. From whom is this letter ? [Opens and reads it. 
 
 M. Jam. From the SherifFes of London. 1144 
 
 4 Lord. I told ve mistris Sanders hand was in.
 
 314 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Tlie act's confessd by two, that she knew on't. 
 
 Bro. They do her wrong, my Lords, upon my life. 
 
 4 Lord. AVhy Drury's wife and Roger do affirme, 1148 
 
 Unto her face, tliat she did give consent. 
 
 Bro. God pardon them, they wrong the innocent. 
 They both are guiltie and procurde the deed, 
 
 And gave me mony since the deede was done, 1152 
 
 Twenty-sixe pound to carry me away ; 
 But mistris Sanders, as I hope for heaven. 
 Is guiltlesse, ignorant how it was clone ; 
 
 But Drury's wife did beare me stil in hand 1156 
 
 If he were dead she Avould effect the marriage ; 
 And trusty Eoger, her base apple-squire. 
 Haunted me like a spright till it was done, 
 And now like divels accuse that harmlesse soule. 1160 
 
 1 Lord. Well, M. Browne, w'are sory for your fall ; 
 You were a man respected of us all, 
 And noted fit for many services ; 
 
 And fie that wanton lust should overthrow 1164 
 
 Such gallant parts in any gentleman. 
 Now al our favors cannot do ye good, 
 The act's too odious to be spoken of, 
 Therefore we must dismisse ye to the Law. 1168 
 
 4 Lord. Expect no life, but meditate of death; 
 And for the safe-gard of thy sinful soule, 
 Conceale no part of trueth for friend or foe. 
 
 And, maister Mayor, as you have taken paines, 1172 
 
 So finish it, and see him safe conveyd 
 To the Justices of the Bench at Westminster :
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 315 
 
 Wil them from us to try him speedily. 
 
 Tliat gentleman shal go along with you, 117G 
 
 And take in writing his confession. 
 
 2 Lo. Farewel, George Browne, discharge thy conscience. 
 
 Bro. I do, ray Lord, that Sanders wife is cleere. \_Exeunt om. 
 
 Enter some to prepare the jiidr/ement seat to the Lord Mayor, Lo. 
 Justice, and the foure Lords, and one Clearke, and a Sheriff, 
 who being set, commaund Browne to be brought forth. 
 
 1 Off. Come, let's make haste, and we'l prepare this phice. 1180 
 
 2 Off. How well I pray you ? what haste more then was wout. 
 
 1 Off. Why divers lords are come from court to-day. 
 To see th' arraignment of this lusty Browne. 
 
 2 Off. Lusty? how lusty? now hee's tame enough, 11S4 
 And wilbe tamer. Oh, a lusty youth ! 
 
 Lustily fed, and lustily apparelled, 
 
 Lusty in looke, in gate, in gallant talke, 
 
 Lusty in wooing, in tight, and murthring, 1188 
 
 And lustily hangd, there's th'end of lusty Browne ! 
 
 1 Off. Hold your lusty peace, for here come the Lords. 
 
 Enter all as before. 
 
 L. Mayor. Please it, your honors, place your selves, my lords. 
 
 L. Justice. Bring forth the prisoner, and keepe silence there. 
 Prepare the Inditement that it may be read. 1193 
 
 Browne is brought in. 
 
 Cleark. To the barre, George Browne, and hold up thy hand. 
 Thou art here indited by the name of George Browne, late of 
 London, gentleman, for that thou, upon the xxv day of March, in
 
 5i6 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 tlie XV yeare of tlie raigne of her Sacred Majesty, -^v^liora God long 
 preserve, betweene the houres of vii and viii of the clocke in the 
 forenoone of the same day, neere vnto Shooter's Hill, in the county 
 of Kent, lying in wait of pur]30se and pretended malice, having no 
 feare of God before thine eyes, the persons of George Sanders, gen- 
 tleman, and John Bean, yeoman, then and there journeying iu 
 God's peace and the princes, feloniously did assault, and with one 
 sword, price sixe shillings, mortally and wilfully, in many places 
 diddest wound unto the death, against the peace, crown, and 
 dignity of her majesty. How sayest thou to these fellonious mur- 
 ders, art thou guilty or not guilty ? 
 
 Bro. Guilty. 
 
 Lo. Just. The Lord have mercy upon thee. 1208 
 
 Master ShirifF, ye shal not need to returne any Jury to passe upon 
 him, for he hath pleaded guilty, and stands convict at the barre 
 attending his iudgement. "What canst thou say for thyselfe, 
 Browne, why sentence of death should not bee pronounced against 
 thee ? 
 
 Bro. Nothing, my Lord, but onely do beseech 1214 
 
 Those noble men assistants on that bench, 
 And you, my Lord, who are to justice sworne. 
 As you will answere at God's judgement seat, 
 To have a care to save the innocent, 1218 
 
 And (as my selfe) to let the guilty die, — 
 That's Drury's wife and her man tmsty Eoger, 
 But if Anne Sanders die, I do protest, 
 
 As a man dead in law, that she shall have 1222 
 
 The greatest wrong that ere had guiltlesse soule. 
 
 Lo. Jmt. She shal have justice, and with favor, Browne.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 317 
 
 4 Lo. Assure yourselfe, Browne, she shal have no wrong. 
 
 Bro. I liuiubly tlianke your Lordships. 
 
 2 Lo. Hearke ye, Browne. 
 
 "What countryman are ye borne ? 
 
 Bro. Of Ireland, and in Dublin. 
 
 Lo. Just. Have you not a brother calld Anthony Browne ? 1228 
 
 Bro. Yes, my Lord, whome, as I heare, 
 Your Lordship keepes close prisoner now in Xewgate. 
 
 Lo. Jud. Wei, two bad brothers ; God forgive ye both ! 
 
 Bro. Amen, my Lord, and you, and al the world. 1232 
 
 Lo. Jud. Attend your sentence. 
 
 Bro. Presently, my Lord ; 
 
 But 1 have one petition first to make 
 Unto those noble men, which on my knees 
 I do beseech them may not be dcnyed. 1236 
 
 4 Lo. What ist, George Browne? 
 
 Browne. I know the law 
 
 Condemnes a murtherer to be hangd in ehames. 
 O, good, my Lords, as you are noble men, 
 Let me be buried so soone as I am dead. 1240 
 
 1 Lo. Thou shalt, thou shalt ; let not that trouble thee. 
 But heare thy judgement. 
 
 Lo. Just. Browne, thou art here by law condemned to die, 
 Which by thine owne confession thou deserv'st. 1244 
 
 Al men must die, although by divers meanes, 
 The manor how is of least moment, but 
 The matter why condemns or justifies. 
 
 But be of comfort; though the world condemne, 1248 
 
 Y'ea, though thy conscience sting thee for thy fact.
 
 3i8 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Yet God is greater than tliy conscience, 
 
 And he can save whom al the world condemnes, 
 
 If true repentance turne thee to his grace. 1252 
 
 Tliy time is short, therefore spend this thy time 
 
 In prayer and contemplation of thy end : 
 
 Labour to die better then thou hast liv'd: 
 
 God grant thou maist. Attend thy judgement now : 1256 
 
 Thou must go from hence to the place from whence thou camst, 
 
 From thence to th' appointed place of execution, 
 
 And there be hangd untill thou be dead, 
 
 And thy body after at the princes pleasure ; 1260 
 
 And so the Lord have mercy upon thee, Browne. 
 
 Master Shirifi", see execution. And now take him hence, 
 
 And bring those other prisoners that you have. 
 
 Bro. My Lords, forget not my petitions ; 1264 
 
 Save poore Anne Sanders, for shee's innocent ; 
 And, good my Lords, let me not hang in chaines. 
 Browne is led out, and Anne Sanders and Drury brought in. 
 
 4 Lor. Earewel ; let none of these things trouble thee. 
 
 1 Lor. See how he labors to acquit Anne Sanders. 1268 
 
 4 Lor. "VMiat hath his brother, that is in Newgate, done ? 
 
 Lo. Just. Notorious fellonies in Yorkeshire, my Lord. 
 Here come the prisoners ; bring them to the barre ; 
 Eead their inditement ; master Shiriffe, prepare 1272 
 
 Your juiy ready. Command silence there ! 
 
 Anne Sanders Jtatk a white Rose in her hosome. 
 
 Clearlc. Anne Sanders, and Anne Drury, 
 To the baiTe, and hold up your hands. 1275
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 319 
 
 You are here jointly and severally indited in forme following, vz. 
 that you, Anne Sanders, and Anne Uuuiiy, late of London, 
 spinsters, and thou, Roger Clement, late of the same, yeoman, 
 and every of you jointly and severally, before and after the xxv day 
 of March, last past, in the xv yeare of the reigne of her sacred 
 Majesty, whom God long preserve, having not the fear of Ood 
 before your eyes, did maliciously conspire and conclude with one 
 George Brown, gent, the dtatli of George Sanders, late hus- 
 band to you, Anne Sanders, and did intice, animate, and procure 
 the said George Browne to murder the said maister Sanders : And 
 also after the said heinous murther committed, did with mony and 
 other means aid, releeve, and abet the said Browne, knowing him 
 to have done the deede, whereby you arc all accessaries both before 
 and after the fact, contrary to the peace, crowne, and dignity of our 
 soveraigne Lady the Queene. How say ye, severally, are ye 
 guilty, or not guilty, as accessaries both before and after to this 
 felony and murther ? 1292 
 
 Anne. Not guilty. 
 
 Brew. Not guilty. 
 
 C^er^. How wil ye be tried ? 1295 
 
 Both. By God, and by the countrey. 
 
 Lo. Just. Bring forth trusty Eoger, there. 
 Roger, what sayest thou to this letter ? 
 Who gave it thee to carry unto Browne ? 1299 
 
 Rog. My mistris gave it me ; 
 And she did write it on our Lady's eve. 
 
 L. Just. Did Mistres Sanders know thereof, or no ? 
 
 Rog. She read it twise before the same was seald. 1303 
 
 Anne. Did I, thou wicked man !
 
 320 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 This man is hirde to betray my life. 
 
 2 Lord. Fie, mistris Sandeks, you doe not wel 
 To use such speeches, when ye see the case 1307 
 
 Is too, too manifest. But, I pray ye, 
 Why do you wcare that wliite rose in your bosome ? 
 
 Anne. In token of my spotlesse innocence : 
 As free from guilt as is this flower from staine. 1311 
 
 2 Lord. I feare it wil not fal out so. 
 
 L. Just. Roger, what mony carried you to Browne, 
 After tlie deede, to get him gone withall ? 
 
 Roger. Twenty sixe pounds, which coine was borowed, 1315 
 Parte of my mistris plate, and some of mistris Sanuees. 
 
 L. Just. How say ye to that, mistris Sanders ? 
 
 Anne. Indeede, I grant, I misse some of my plate, 
 And now am glad I know the theefe that stole it. 1319 
 
 Hoger. God forgive ye ! you did give it me ; 
 And God forgive me, I did love ve al 
 Too wcl, which now I deerely answer for. 
 
 1 Lord. Anne Drnry, what say yon? was not the plate 1323 
 Part of it yours, and the rest mistris Sanders, 
 According as your man hath here coufessde. 
 With which she ^ borrowed twenty pound for Browne ? 
 
 Dru. My Lord, it was. 
 
 3 Lord. And you and she together 1328 
 Were privy of the letter which was sent. » 
 Was it so, or no ? Why do you not spcake ? 
 
 Dru. It was, my Lord, and mistris Sanders knew 
 That Roger came the morning ere he Avent, 1332 
 
 ' read he. — G.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 321 
 
 And had a token from her to Geokge Browne, 
 A handkercher, which after was sent backe, 
 Imbrude in Sanders blond. 
 
 L. Justice. Who brought that handkercher ? 
 
 Br II. That did my man. 
 
 1 Lo. To whom did you deliver it, siiTa? 1337 
 
 Rog. To mistris Sanders, at lier house, my Lord. 
 
 Anne. God ! My Lords, he openly belies me. 
 I kept my childbed chamber at that time, 13-iO 
 
 Where 'twas not meete that he, or any man. 
 Should have acccsse. 
 
 L. Jud. Go to ! Clog not your soule, 
 
 With new additions of move hainous siiine. 
 
 'Tis thought, beside conspiring of his death, 134-i 
 
 You wronged your husband with unchaste behaviour, 
 For which the justice of the righteous God 
 Meaning to strike you, yet reserves a place 
 
 Of gracious mercy, if you can repent ; 1348 
 
 And, therefore, bring your wickednesse to light, 
 That suifering for it in this world, you might. 
 Upon your hearty sorrow, be set free. 
 
 And feare no further judgement in the next; 1352 
 
 But if you spume at his affliction, 
 And beare his chasticement with grudging minds. 
 Your precious soule, as wel as here your bodies. 
 Are left in hazard of eternal death. 1356 
 
 Be sorry, therefore, 'tis no petty sinne, 
 Biit murder, most unnatural of al,^ 
 J Cf/ Hamlet I. iv. 27.— ' Murder most foul, strange, and unnatural.'— G. 
 
 }!,. II. 21 

 
 322 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 "VMierewith your hands are tainted, and in which, 
 
 Before and after the accursed fact, 1360 
 
 You stand as accessary. To be briefe, 
 
 You shal be earned backe unto the place 
 
 From whence you came, and so from thence, at last, 
 
 Unto the place of execution, where 1364 
 
 You shal al three be hang'd til you be dead. 
 
 And so the Lord have mercy on your soules ! 
 
 Anne. Ah, good my Lords, be good unto Axnb Sanders, 
 Or els you cast away an innocent ! 1368 
 
 2 Lord. It should not seeme so by the rose you weare : 
 His colour now is of another hue. 
 
 Anne. So you wil have it ; but my soide is stil 
 As free from murther as it was at first. 1372 
 
 Lo. Jud. I think no less. Jailer, away with them. 
 
 Anne. Wei, wel, Anne Drury, I may curse the time 
 That e're I saw thee ; thou broughtst me to this. 
 
 Rog. I will not curse, but God forgive ye both, 1376 
 
 For had I never knowne nor you, nor her, 
 I had not come unto this shameful death. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter maister Browne, to execution, with the Sheriffe and 
 
 Officers. 
 
 Broicne. Why do you stay me, in the way of death? 
 The peoples' eyes have fed them with my sight; 1380 
 
 The little babies in the mothers' armes 
 Have wept for those poore babies, seeing me. 
 That I by my murther have left fatherlesse, 
 And shreekt and started when I came along, 1334
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 323 
 
 And sadly sigh'd, as when their nurses use 
 
 To fright them with some monster when tlicy cry. 
 
 Sheriff. You have a brother, Browne, that for a murther 
 Is lately here committed unto Newgate, 1388 
 
 And hath obtained he may speake with you. 
 
 Browne. Have I a brother that hath done the like ? 
 Is there another Browne hath kild a Sanders ? 
 It is my other selfe hath done the dcede: 1392 
 
 I am a thousand, every murtherer is my owne selfe ; 
 I am at one time in a thousand places. 
 And I have slainc a thousand Sanderses. 
 
 In every shire, each citty, and each towne 139G 
 
 George Sanders stil is murthered by George Browxe. 
 
 Browne's brother is brought forth. 
 
 Broto. bro. Brother. 
 
 Brow. Dost thou meane me ? 
 
 Is there a man wil call me brother ? 
 
 Broicnes bro. Yes, I wil cal thee so, and may do it, 1400 
 
 That have a hand as deepe in bloud as thou. 
 
 Brown. Brother, I know thee well. Of whence was thine ? 
 
 Brother. Of Y'orke he was. 
 
 Browne. Sanders, of London, mine. 1404 
 
 Then see I wel, Englands two greatest townes 
 Both fild wilh murders done by both the Brownes. 
 
 Brother. Then may I rightly clialciige thee a brother : 
 Thow slewest one in the one, I one in th' other. 1408 
 
 ' Browne. "When dids't thou thine ? 
 
 Brother. A month or five weckes' past.
 
 324 A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Browne. Hardly to say, then, -which was done the last. 
 "Where shalt thou snti'er? 
 
 Brother. Where I did the fact. 1412 
 
 Browne. And I here, brother, Avhere I laid my act. 
 Then I see wel, that be it ncre or further. 
 That heaven wil stil take due revenue on mnrther. 
 
 Brother. Brother, farewel, I see we both must die; 1416 
 
 At London, you, this weeke, next, at Torke, I. 
 
 Browne. Two lucklcsse brothers sent both at one hower, 
 The one from Newgate, thother from the Tower. {^Exit BnoT. 
 
 Sheriffe. Browne, yet at last to satisfy the world, 1420 
 
 And for a true and certaine testimony 
 Of thy repentance for this deed committed, 
 Now, at the houre of death, as thou doest hope 
 To have thy siunes forgiven at God's hands, 1424 
 
 Preely confesse what yet unto this lioure 
 Against thy conscience, Browne, thou hast concealde, 
 Anne Sanders knowledge of her husband's death. 
 
 Bro. Have I not made a covenant with her \^Adde. 
 
 That, for the love that I ever bare to her, 1429 
 
 I will not sell her life by my confession ? 
 And shall I now confesse it ? I am a villaine. 
 I will never do it. Shall it be said Browne prov'd 1432 
 
 A recreant ? And yet I have a soule. 
 "Well, God the rest revcale : 
 I will confesse my sinnes, but this conceale. 
 
 Upon my death shee's guiltlesse of the fact. 1436 
 
 AYell, much ado I had to bring it out. \Aside. 
 
 My conscience scarce would let me utter it :
 
 Act II.] A WARXING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 325 
 
 I am glad 'tis past. 
 
 Shir iff. But, Browne, it is confest by Druries wife 1440 
 
 That she is guilty; which doth i'ally prove 
 Thou hast no true contrition, but conccal'st 
 Her wickednesse, the bawd unto her sinne, 
 
 Bro. Let her confesse what she thinkes good; i4i4 
 
 Trouble me no more, good master Sheriff. 
 
 SJiiriff. Browne, thy soule knowes. 
 
 Bro. Yea, yea, it does ; pray you be quiet, sir. 
 Vile world, how like a monster come I soyld from thee ! 1448 
 
 How have I wallowed in thy lothsome filth, 
 Drunke and besmear'd with al thy bestial sinne ! 
 I never spake of God, unlesse when I 
 
 Have blasphemed his name with monstrous oathes"; 1453 
 
 I never read the scriptures in my life, 
 But did esteem them worse then vanity ; 
 I never came in church where God was taught, 
 Nor ever, to the comfort of my soule, 1456 
 
 Tooke benefite of sacrament or baptisme. 
 The Sabboth dayes I spent in common stewes, 
 Unthrifty gaming, and vile perjuries. 
 
 I held no man once worthy to be spoke of 1460 
 
 That went not in some strange disguisde attire. 
 Or had not fetcht some vile monstrous fashion 
 To bring in odious, detestable pride. 
 
 I hated any man that did not doe 1464 
 
 Some damned, or some hated, filthie deede, 
 That had been death for vertuous men to hcare. 
 Of all the worst that live, I was the worst;
 
 326 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Of all tlie cursed, I the most accursed. 1468 
 
 All carelesse men, be warned by my end : 
 
 And, by my fall, your wicked lives amend. \Ke leapes off?- 
 
 JEnter a Messenger. 
 
 Messen. It is the Councel's pleasure, master ShirifF, 
 The body be convaide to Shooter's Hill, 1472 
 
 And there hung up in chaines. 
 
 Shiriff. It shal be done. 
 
 . Unter Master James, with the Minister.^ 
 
 M. Jam. Why, then you are perswaded, certainly. 
 That mistres Sanders is meere innocent ? 
 
 Min. That am I, sir, even in my very soule. 1476 
 
 Compare but all the likelihoodes thereof : 
 First, hir most firme deniall of the fact ; 
 Next, mistres Drury's flat confession, 
 
 That onely she and Koger did contrive 1480 
 
 The death of master Sanders ; then vour selfe 
 Cannot but be of mine opinion. 
 
 M. Jam.. Then al you labour for 
 Is that I should procure her pardon. 1484 
 
 Min. To save an innocent 
 Is the most Christian worke that man can do ; 
 Beside, if you perfonne it, sir, sound recompence 
 Shal quit your paines so well imployed herein. 1488 
 
 1 See Note 2, p. 336. 
 
 - This Minister is Mell, of whom an account is given in Introduction, 
 p. 227.— G.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 327 
 
 M. Ja. Now, let me tell ye, that I am ashamde 
 
 A man of your profession sliould a])pcare 
 
 So far from grace, and touch of conscience, 
 
 As, making no respect of his owne soule, 1492 
 
 He should with such audaciousnes presume 
 
 To baffle Justice, and abuse the seate ^ 
 
 With your fond, over-weening, and slie fetch, 
 
 Tliinke vou the world disccrncth not vour drift ? 1496 
 
 Do not 1 know, that if you could prcvuile. 
 
 By this far-fetcht insinuation, 
 
 And mistris Sanders pardon thus obtainde, 
 
 That your intent is then to luarvy licr? 1500 
 
 And thus you have abused her poore soule. 
 
 In trusting to so weake and vaine a hope. 
 
 Well, sir, since you have so forgot yourselfe, 
 
 And (sharaelesse) blush not at so bold offence, 1504 
 
 Upon their day of execution, 
 
 And at the selfe same place, upon a pillory. 
 
 There shall you stand, that al the world may see, 
 
 A just desert for such impiety. 
 
 Min. Good sir, hear me ! ' 1508 
 
 M. Ja. I wil not lieare thee ; come, and get thee hence, 
 
 For such a fault too meane a recompence. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter two Carpenters under Neicr/ate. 
 
 IFlll. Tom Peart, my old companion ? well met. 
 Tom. Good morrow, Wil Crow, good morrow; how dost? 1512 
 I have not scene thee a great while. 
 
 1 State, perhaps. — G.
 
 328 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Will. Wei, I thank God ; liow dost thou ? where hast thou bin 
 this morning, so early ? 
 
 Tom. Faith, I have bin up ever since three a clocke. 1516 
 
 Will. About what, man ? 
 
 Tom. Why, to make worke for tlie hangman ; I and another 
 have bin setting up a gallowes. 
 
 Will. 0, for Mistris Drewry ; must she die to-day ? 1520 
 
 Tom. Nay, I know not that ; but when she does, I am sure there 
 is a gallowes big enough to hold them both. 
 
 Will. Both whom ? her man and her ? 1523 
 
 Tom. Her man and her, and mistris Sanders too ; 'tis a swinger 
 yfayth. But come. He give thee a pot this morning, for I promise 
 thee I am passing dry, after my worke. 
 
 Will. Content, Tom, and I have another for thee; and afterward 
 He go see the execution. 1528 
 
 Tom. Do as thou wilt for that. 
 
 Will. But dost thou thinke it will be to-day ? 
 
 Tom. I cannot tell ; Smithfield is full of people, and the Shiriffes 
 man, that set us a worke, told us it would be to-day. But come, 
 shall we have this Beere ? 1533 
 
 Will. With a good wdl ; leade the way. \Ilxeunt. 
 
 Enter Anne Sanders, and her keeper following her. 
 
 Keeper. Cal'd you, mistres Sanders ? 
 
 Anne. Keeper, I did : 
 
 I prethee fetch up mistres Drury to me, 153G 
 
 I have a great desire to talke with her. 
 
 Keeper. She shall be brought unto you presently. \_Exit. 
 
 Anne. Oh God ! as I was standing at a grate
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 3^9 
 
 That lookes into the streete, I heard men talke, 1540 
 
 The execution shoiihl be done to-day ; 
 
 And what a paire of gallows were set up, 
 
 Both strong and big enough to hold us all ; 
 
 Which words have strucke such terror to my soule, 1544 
 
 As I cannot be quiet till 1 know 
 
 Whether Nan Drury be resolved still 
 
 To clcare me of the murder, as she promist : 
 
 And here she comes. I prethee, gentle keeper, 1548 
 
 Give us a little leave we may conferre 
 
 Of things that ncerly do conccrne our soides. 
 
 Keeper. With al uiy hart, take time Sc scope enough. \Exit. 
 
 Dra. Now, mistris Sanders, what's your wil with me ? 1552 
 ' Anne. Oh! mistris Drury, now the houre is come 
 To put your love unto the touch, to try 
 If it be currant, or but couuterfait. 
 
 This day it is appointed we must die ; 1556 
 
 How say you, then ; are you stil pui-posed 
 To take the murder upon your selfe ? 
 Or wil you now recant your former words ? 
 
 Dm. Anne Sanders, Anne, 'tis time to turne the leafe, 156 
 And leave dissembling, being so nearc my death. 
 The like I would advise your selfe to do. 
 We have bin both notorious vile transgressors, 
 And this is not the way to get remission, 1564 
 
 By joining sinne to sinne ; nor doth't agree 
 With godly christians, but with reprobates, 
 And such as have no taste of any grace, 
 And, therefore, for my part, He cleere my conscience, 1568
 
 330 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act 1 1. 
 
 And make the truth apparant to the world. 
 
 Anne. "Will you prove then inconstant to your friend ? 
 
 Brn. Should I, to purchase safety for another, 
 Or lengthen out anothers temporall life, 1572 
 
 Hazard mine owne soule everlastingly, 
 And loose the endlesse joyes of heaven, 
 Preparde for such as wil confesse their sinnes ? 
 No, mistris Sanders ; yet there's a time of grace, 1576 
 
 And yet we may ohtaine forgivenes, 
 If we wil seeke it at our Saviour's hands. 
 But if we wilfully shut up our hearts 
 
 Against the holy spirit that knockes for entrance, 1580 
 
 It is not this world's punishment shal serve, 
 Nor death of body, but our soules shal live 
 In endlesse toiments of unquenched fire. 
 
 Anne. Your words amaze me ! and although ile vow 1584 
 
 I never bad intention to confesse 
 My hainous sinne, that so I might escape 
 The worlds reproach, yet God, I give him thanks ! 
 Even at this instant I am strangely changed, 1588 
 
 And wil no longer drive repentance ofi", 
 Nor cloake my guiltinesse before the world. 
 And in good time see where the Doctor commes, 
 By whome I have bin seriously instructed. 1592 
 
 Doct. Good mon'ow, mistris Sanders, and soules health 
 Unto you both ; prepare yourselves for death. 
 The houre is nowe at hand, and, mistris Sanders, 
 At length acknowledge and confesse your fault, 1596 
 
 That God may be propitioner to your soule.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 331 
 
 Anne. Right reverend sir, not to delude the world, 
 Nor longer to abuse your patience. 
 
 Here I confesse I am a grievous sinner, 1600 
 
 And have provok't the heavy wrath of God, 
 Not onely by consenting to the death 
 Of ray late husband, but by wicked lust 
 
 And wilful sinne, denying of the fault; 1C04 
 
 But now I do repent, and hate myselfe. 
 Thinking the punishment preparde for me 
 Not halfe severe enough for my deserts. 
 
 Boet. Done like a christian, and the cliildc of grace, 160S 
 
 Pleasing to God, to angels, and to men ; 
 And doubt not but your soule shall finde a place 
 In Abraham's bosome, though your body perish. 
 And, mistris Drewry, shrinke not from your faith, 1612 
 
 But valiantly prepare to drinke this cup 
 Of sowre affliction, 'twill raise up to you 
 A crowne of glorv in another world. 
 
 Bru. Good M. Doctor, I am bound to vou'; 1616 
 
 My soule was ignorant, blind, and almost choak't 
 "With this world's vanities ; but by your councell 
 I am as well resolv'd to goe to death 
 
 As if I were invited to a banquet ; 1620 
 
 Nay, such assurance have I in the bloud 
 Of him that died for me, as neither fire, 
 Sword nor torment could retaine me from him. 
 
 Doctor. Spoke like a champion of the holy Crosse. 1624 
 
 Now, mistris Sanders, let me tell to you : 
 Your children, hearing this day was the last
 
 332 A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 They sliould beliold their mother on the earth, 
 
 Are come to have your blessing e're you die, 1628 
 
 And take their sorrowful farewel of you. 
 
 Anne. A sorroAvfuU farewel 'twil be, indeede, 
 To them, poore wretches, whom I have deprivde 
 Of both the natural succours of their youth ; 1632 
 
 But call them in, and, gentle keeper, bring me 
 Those bookes that lie within my chamber window. 
 Oh, maister Doctor, were my breast transparent. 
 That what is figurde there might be perceiv'd, 1636 
 
 Now should you see the very image of poore 
 And tottred ruines, and a slaiue conscience. 
 Here, here, they come : be blind, mine eyes, with teares, 
 And soule and body now in sunder part. 1640 
 
 All. Oh ! mother, mother ! 
 
 Anne. Oh, my deare children ! 
 
 I am unworthy of the name of IMother. 
 
 All. Turne not your face from iis, but, e're you die, 
 Give us your blessing. 
 
 Anne. Kneele not unto me : ^ 1644 
 
 'Tis I that have deserv'd to kneele to you. 
 My trespas hath bereft you of a father, 
 A loving father, a kinde careful father; 
 
 And by that selfe same action, that foule deede, 1648 
 
 Your mother likewise is to go from you ; 
 Leaving you, poore soules, by her offence, 
 A coresie and a scandall to the world. 
 
 But could my husband, and your father, heare me, 1652 
 
 1 See Note 3, p. 336.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FAIRE WOMEN. 333 
 
 Thus humbly at his feete would I fal downc, 
 
 And plentifuU iu teares bewayle my fault. 
 
 Mercy I aske of God, of him, and you, 
 
 And of his kinred which I have abusde, 1G56 
 
 And of ray friends and kinred wheresoever, 
 
 Of whom I am ashamed and abasht, 
 
 And of al men and women in the world, 
 
 "Whome by my f'oiilL' uxamplf I have e^riev'd : 1660 
 
 Though I deserve no pity at their hands. 
 
 Yet I beseech them all to pardon me ; 
 
 And God I thanke, that luith round out my sin, 
 
 And brought me to aflliotion in this world, 1664 
 
 Thereby to save me in the world to come. 
 
 Oh, children, learne ; learne by your mother's fall, 
 
 To follow vertue, and beware of sinne, 
 
 Whose baites are sweete and pleasing to the eye, 1668 
 
 But, being tainted, more infect than poyson. 
 
 And are farre bitterer than gall it selfe. 
 
 And livd ' iu dayes where you have wealth at wil, 
 
 As once I had, and are well matcht beside, 1672 
 
 Content your selves, and surfet not on pride. 
 
 Enter Sheriffe bringing in Trusty Roger icith 
 holberds. 
 
 Sheriffe. What, M. Doctor, have you made an ende ? 
 The morning is far spent, 'tis time to go. 
 
 Doct. Even when you wil, M. Sheritfe, we are ready. 1G76 
 
 ■ Anne. Behold, my children, I wil not bequeath 
 
 1 Query, living. — G.
 
 JJ- 
 
 A IVARNIiYG FOR FAIRE WOMEN. [Act II. 
 
 Or gold or silver to you, you are left 
 
 Sufficiently provided in that point ; 
 
 But here I give to each of you a booke 1G80 
 
 Of holy meditations, Bradfords workes, 
 
 That vertuous chosen servant of the Lord. 
 
 Therein you shalbe richer than with gold ; 
 
 Safer than in faire buildings'; happier 1684 
 
 Than al the pleasures of this world can make you. 
 
 Sleepe not without them, when you go to bed, 
 
 And rise a mornings with them in vour hands. 
 
 So God send downe his blessing on you al. 1688 
 
 Earewel, farewel, farewel, farewel, farewel ! 
 
 \She Jdsses them one after another. 
 Nay, stay not to disturbe me with your teares ; 
 The time is come, sweete hearts, and we must part, 
 That way go you, this way my heavy heart. \Exennt. 
 
 Tragedy enters to conclude. 
 
 Tra. Here are the launces that have sluic'd forth sinne, 1693 
 And ript the venom'd ulcer of foule lust. 
 Which being by due vengeance cpialified, 
 
 Here Tragedy of force must needes conclude. 1696 
 
 Perhaps it may seeme strange unto you al, 
 That one hath not revengde another's death 
 After the obseiTation of such course : 
 
 The reason is, that now of truth I sing, 1700 
 
 And shoidd I adde, or else diminish aught, 
 Many of these spectators then could say, 
 I have committed error in my play.
 
 Act II.] A WARNING FOR FA IRE WOMEN. 335 
 
 Beare with this true and homc-bornc Tragedy,' 170-i 
 
 Ycelding so slender argument and scope 
 
 To buikl a matter of importance on, 
 
 And in such forme as, happly, you expected. 
 
 What now hath fail'd to-morrow you sliall see 1708 
 
 Perform'd by History or Comedy. \_Ej:it 
 
 ' See Note 4, p. 336. 
 
 Pinis.
 
 336 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1. This Jieate of love and hasfij dimUnr/ hreecls, p. 302, 1. 863. 
 If 'such deedes' is not to be understood after 'breeds', perhaps 
 the lines should read : — 
 
 ' This heate of love aji hasty climbing breeds. 
 God blesse all honest tall men from such deedes.'; 
 
 ' an hasty climbing ' meaning a forced climbing of the gallows. 
 The sentiment of the first line, too, is similar to that used in 
 reference to another too ardent lover, Eomeo {Eomeo and Juliet, 
 II. iii. 94), viz., 
 
 ' Wisely and slow ; they stumble that ran fast.' — G. 
 
 2. He leapes off, p. 320, 1. 1470. Tliis stage-direction seems to 
 point to the rare fact of an execution actually presented upon the 
 stage. — G. 
 
 3. Kneele not mito me, p. 332, 1. 1644. This is one of several 
 passages wliich illustrate how servile a following the play often is 
 of the original accounts of the murder of Mr Sanders. Com- 
 pare with Introduction, pp. 230, etc. — G. 
 
 4. This true and home-home Tragedy, p. 335, 1. 1704. Tragedy, 
 as Chorus, here apologizes for the poorness of the Warning for 
 Faire Women as a play. From this it seems that tlie author 
 (or one of the authors) was rather ashamed of his work, though 
 circumstances (/. e. the popular craving for such tilings) having 
 obliged ' that now of truth I sing,' he pleads for indulgence on the 
 ground of 
 
 ' this true and liome-borne Tragedy, 
 Yeelding so slender argument and scope 
 To build a matter of importance on ; ' 
 
 humbly winding up with — 
 
 ' What now hath fail'd to-morrow you shall see 
 Perform'd by History or Comedy.' 
 
 In other words, ' We'll give you better stuff to-morrow.' Never- 
 theless, ignoble as was his theme, and distasteful to him as seems 
 to have been its treatment, the playwright (or some one having 
 a hand in the play) has contrived to give several touches to the 
 chief character, Browne, which tend to the making of that character 
 a hero of Tragedy rather than a mere malefactor — a process more 
 completely — indeed, quite completely, and most sublimely — ex- 
 emplified in the character of Macbeth. — G.
 
 A PLEASANT COMEDIE 
 
 OF 
 
 FAIRE EM, 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER OF MANCHESTER ^ 
 
 with the love of" William the conqueror. 
 As it was sundry times publiqucly acted in the 
 Honourable Citic of London bv the right Ho- 
 nourable the Lord Strange his servants. 
 
 London, 
 
 Printed for lohn JFright, and arc to be sold at his shop at the 
 
 Signe of the Bible in Guilt-spur street without 
 
 New-gate. 1631. 
 
 VOL. n. 22
 
 [THE STORY OF THE PLAY.] 
 
 [Faire Em is a love-comedy having two plots (p. 372-5 below), each of 
 wluch works separately until tlie two sets of characters mingle in the last 
 scene, as a means of givins: a contrasted finale to tiie whole. In one plot 
 William the Conqueror — when fast fixed upon the tlu'one of England — falls 
 in love with the portrait of Blanch, daughter of Sweyn, King of Denmark, 
 ■which he sees blazoned upon the shield of the Danish Marquess Lubeck. 
 Leaving Earl de JNIarch and Duke Dirot joint Regents in England, AViiliam 
 assumes the name of Sir Robeit of Windsor, and goes with Lubeck to woo 
 Blanch at the Danish Court. At the first sight of Blanch, however, Wil- 
 liam's passion for that Princess disajtpears, and iiives place to love for 
 Mariana, a Swedish captive in the Court of King Sweyn, who loves and is 
 loved by Lubeck. Blanch, having fallen in love with William, becomes 
 jealous of Mariana, and quarrels with her. William and Lubeck also quar- 
 rel over Mariana ; but Lubeck soon, out of friendshi]) for William, abandons 
 his suit to Mariana, and even pleads with her that she shall hive his friend 
 in his stead. But JMariana loves Lubeck too well to agree to this. Instead, 
 she plots with Blanch that, after seeming to consent to sail for England 
 with William, Blanch, masked, and pretendinE!' to be Mariana, shall be so 
 carried oft'. Landed in England with his still masked i)rize, William is 
 arrested by his own soldiers, who do not know him ; and, his own identity 
 established, he is at once called to the field, and away from his masked lady, 
 to meet Sweyn, who has arrived with a warlike host in search of his daughter. 
 Finding that Sir Robert of Windsor is no other than King William, Sweyn 
 offers to abate his wrath in consideration of King William marrying his 
 daughter. This, after a refusal, and some parley, due to the mortification 
 felt l)y William at discovering that his masked lady is not iMariana, is agreed 
 to ; and William, taking Blanch, leaves ^Mariana to be taken by his friend 
 Lulieck. In the other plot, Sir Thomas Goddard is living in hiding as the 
 Miller of ^.lanchester ; and associated with him in the work of his mill are 
 his daughter Era, and his man Trotter. Em is courted by Maudeville, a 
 Manchester gentleman, and by Mountney and Valingford, friends and 
 gentlemen of King William's Court, and by Trotter, her own serving-man. 
 Mandeville is the favoured suitor ; but, being jealous of Moimtney and 
 Valingford, he quarrels with Em, who, to drive oft' j\Iountney and Valing- 
 ford, and to appease jMandeville's jealousy, assumes deafness and blindness. 
 Before Mountney, Em pretends to be deaf ; and before Valingford she pre- 
 tends to be blind. Each of these two, however, suspects a trick, and sus- 
 pects, moreover, that the trick has been suggested to Em by his fi'iend ; 
 consequently the two quarrel. But Em's feigning, which fails to deceive 
 her unwelcome wooers, really deceives Mandeville, the favoured wooer. 
 From her simulated deafness and blindness, as acted before his rivals, Man- 
 deville believes her to be really deaf and blind ; and, abandoning her, makes 
 love to Eleanor. Finally, Em and Eleanor appear befoi-e Kuig William, 
 each to claim Mandeville. When Mandeville finds that Em has feigned 
 for his sake, he oft'ers to renew his troth with her ; Imt she rejects him with 
 scorn. He then turns to Eleanor, who also refuses him. He then declares 
 that he will abjure love ; and is derided for being like the fox who could not 
 reach the grapes. Em now consents to receive from King William the hand 
 of the faithful and persevering Valingford ; and at the same time the King 
 restores her father, the miller, to his rightfid place at Court as Sir Thomas 
 Goddard.— G.]
 
 339 
 
 INTllODUCTION. 
 
 (iXCLUDIXG AN ACCOUNT OF ROBERT GREENE, IIIS LIFE AND "WORKS, 
 AND niS ATTACKS ON SIIAKSPERE AND THE TLAYERS.') 
 
 A TRADITION current in the time of Charles II. caused the 
 book-binder for the royal library to bind together the plays, Faire 
 Em, The Merrij Devil of Edmonton, and Mucedorus, and to label 
 them Shakespeare, Vol. I.^ Another tradition assigned Faire 
 Em to Eobert Greene, this play and Friar Bacon being the only 
 dramas which Edward Pliillips^ ascribes to his sole authorship. 
 
 Friar Bacon is Greene's ; but Faij-e Em was a play which Greene 
 himself mocked at, and attributed to the ignorant playwright, 
 whom, after abusing for years, he at last named as Shalce-scene, in 
 1592. The tradition, therefore, which attributed it to Shakspere 
 dated from very early days. The truth seems to be that Faire Em 
 is a satire upon Greene, and in a measure a parody of some of his 
 works. This would account for tlie uncertainty of the tradition 
 which attributed the play, sometimes to the one, sometimes to the 
 other author. 
 
 Every student of Shakspere knows the attack made upon him 
 by Greene in 1593, in the Epistle appended to the GroaUicorth of 
 wit. But no one has yet traced tlie earlier mutterings of the 
 
 1 For a summary of this account of Greene, see the article Greene, R., in 
 the Index. — G. 
 
 - See Boswell's Malone, vol. ii., p. 6GS. The vol. was in the Garrick 
 Collection in the British ^Museum. It is now split up, and the plays separutuly 
 bound. 
 
 » Theatrum roetarum, lG7o. MoJem Poet?, p. 161.
 
 340 GREENE'S FIRST BOOK, ' MAMILLIA; 1580-3. 
 
 jealousy wliicli then for the first time spoke out clearly. It may, I 
 think, be shown, that the same actor-author who is abused in the 
 Epistle, is also mocked at in the novel to which the Epistle is 
 attached ; tliat the same man is glanced at, in the same phrases, in 
 the Epistle which Greene caused Nash to prefix to Mcnaplion in 15 89 ; 
 while in the novel of Menaplion itself, Greene criticizes the style of 
 this ' Eoscius ' under the name of Doron. The same Avriter is also 
 glanced at in Greene's Never too Late, and in his Fareicell to Folly ; 
 which last contains the author's flout at the writer of Faire Em. If 
 we wish to understand the birth and growth of this enmity, we 
 must examine Greene's works in order. 
 
 Greene was some four years older than Shakspere. lie was 
 bom about 1560, and took his degree of E. A. at Cambridge in 
 1578. His first recorded publication was the first part of his novel 
 MamilUa} registered in the Stationers' books, Oct. 3, 1580. The 
 work seems to have incurred more criticism than Greene liked; but he 
 showed due humility, and in March, 1581, registered a palinode in 
 the shape of a ballad intituled, Youth, seeing all Ids ways so trouble- 
 some, abandoning virtue and leaning to vice, recalleth his former 
 follies with an inward repentance. Neither this production nor the 
 separate edition of tlie first part of Mamillia has survived. The 
 second part of Mamillia was registered Sep. 6, 1583, the year that 
 Greene became ]\I. A., and was probably then published with the 
 first part, and an epistle dated ' From my study in Clare-Hall the 
 YII of July.' He had by this time repented of his repentance, 
 and had learned to defy the criticism to which he had at first 
 yielded. He now gave notice that he would not put up with 
 
 1 This novel perhaps preserves the story of a drama of the same name, 
 played at Court by the Earl of Leicester's servants in 1573.
 
 GREENE'S 'CIVIDONIUS; 1584; ' ARBASTO; 1585. 341 
 
 censure. lie wrote for the confiding admirer, not for the carping 
 Clitic. ' Let iMunius moclc and Zoilus envy ; let Parasites flatter 
 and sycophants smile; yea, let the savage Satire himself, whose 
 cynical censure is more than need, frown at his pleasure.' I imagine 
 tiiat the censure which vexed him was directed more against the 
 inconsistency of his life and writings than against the writings by 
 themselves. Ilis novel was modest enough ; l)ut it was ridiculous 
 to see the yoiiiig lihcrline repenting of his novel, without changing 
 his life. L' alike those free poets, who boasted tliat if their verse 
 was liberal their lives were chaste, Greene was a modest writer and 
 a loose liver ; and he would ever and anon loudly bewail the venial 
 sins of his pen, probably without much anicndnicnt of the grave 
 faults of his conduct. 
 
 To the year 1584; belongs Gwidonius, registered April 11, and 
 dedicated to the Ivul of Oxford. Tn the address to the readers the 
 author confesses that his critics had not attacked his style. ' I have 
 before time rashly reached above my pitch, and yet your courtesy 
 [is] such, as no man hath accused me.' Another production of the 
 same year is Arhasto, registered Aug. 13, 1584, though the earliest 
 extant edition is dated 1585. In the introduction Greene begs his 
 readers, ' if some too curious carp at your courtesy that vouchsafe 
 to take a view of this pamphlet,' to say ' though it be not excellent, 
 yet it is a book,' as Alexander said of Hcphscstion's charger. 
 ' Though not Bucephalus, yet it is a horse.' The novel of Arhasto 
 is concerned with the trials of the King of Denmark, who loves one 
 daughter of the King of France, while she hates him ; and hates the 
 other daughter, who loves him. In time the hated maid dies of 
 grief; when the other, relenting, offers her love, but is rejected, and 
 dies. Arbasto is thereupon banished his kingdom. The story has
 
 342 GREENES ' MORANDO; PART i. 1584. 
 
 some distant resemblance to that portion of Fa'ire Emv;\\\c\\ con- 
 cerns the loves of "William the Conqueror. A third publication of 
 this year is extant, the first part of Morando, which was not 
 registered till it was reprinted in 15 87. In the prefatory epistle 
 Greene again attacks the ' savage satires and fleering sycophants,' 
 the ' biting vipers, who seek to discredit all, having themselves no 
 credit at all.' 
 
 In 1583, the year, as I have shown elsewhere,' when Shakspere 
 began to wi'ite, or at least to touch up the writings of others for the 
 stage, Greene's Flanetomacliia was both registered and published. 
 It is remarkable as containing (sig. B4) ' a marvellous anatomy 
 of the Saturnists,' and a Saturnine portrait of Yaldracko, which 
 appears to be Greene's first exercise in that school of abuse in 
 which he afterwards became so great a proficient. It looks as if he 
 was already stung and disappointed that an avaricious player, not 
 content with his own province, should dare to intrude into the field 
 of authorship, which ought to belong solely to the professed scholars. 
 This intrusion he was pleased to treat as an injustice, and a breach of 
 friendship. Those who act so, he describes as Saturnists, ' in friend- 
 ship doubtful . . . hardly granting their right hand to any man . . . 
 uncertain in sure matters, always knitting their brows, and looking 
 down to the ground . . . which believe nothing but what they see, and 
 as the Latin proverb saith, nihil nisi pwd Aristophanis et Cleanthis 
 lucernam oleat emittentes. In covetousness insatiable . , . chane:innr 
 all into gold . . . skilful artificers in resembling or dissembling . . . 
 
 1 In an article on the 'Early Authorship of Shakespeare,' North British 
 Heview, Tol. lii. ; and JS'otes and Queries, 4th Series, viii. 1. [1585 was the 
 year in which Shakspere's twins were born, and when he is generally sup- 
 posed to have been in Stratford. He became 21 on or about April 23, 
 1.385.— F.]
 
 GREENES ' PLANETOMACHIA; 1585. 343 
 
 unthankful as swallows ; haters of company . . . liaviiig many ears 
 and many eyes ; bearing a head without a tongue ; at talk and 
 company not uttering one word, and yet Surdonio riau OMiiia condi- 
 entes ; reaping that whicli other men sow; ignorant in that they 
 chiefly know; answering all things in three words; fearing their 
 own shadows, and starting at flies.' This character is embodied in 
 Valdracko, an actor in 'Venus tragedv,' one of the tales of the 
 book. Valdracko is ' stricken in age, melancholic, ruling after the 
 crabbed forwardness of his doting will, not with justice and mercy ; 
 impartial, for he loved none but himself; politic, because experi- 
 enced; familiar with none, except for his profit; in private and 
 secret conspiracies he used no friend but himself; skilful in dis- 
 sembling ; trusting no one ; silent, covetous, counting all things 
 honest that were profitable.' Greene, perhaps, is lierc building uj) 
 his ideal of the hateful character, ready to be attributed to any one 
 he hated. But the nuni whom the libertine and spendthrift was 
 most ready to hate, were thov who succeeded where he failed, Avhoni 
 he could not help accusing of sucking his brains, stealing his ideas, 
 refusing to make common property of their gains, and devoting 
 themselves to self-love. It will be seen that the characteristics 
 which he persistently attributes to the player-poet, who is almost 
 the constant object of his envy, are mostly contained in this sketch 
 of the Saturnist in PlanetomacJiia. 
 
 There are no registrations of Greene's works for the year 158G, 
 and no known printed editions of that date. Perhaps during this 
 year he devoted himself Avith all his energies to writing for the 
 stage ; perhaps, on the other hand, he Avas for the second time on 
 liis travels ; for he had seen too much of Europe to be easily com- 
 prehended in his Spanish and Italian voyage before 13 S3. IIow-
 
 344 GREE^YE'S 'FAREWELL TO FOLLY', S-^c, 1587. 
 
 ever this may be, the next year, 15S7, Avas singularly prolific, as if 
 he was then giving out what he had gathered in during his year's 
 silence. Besides a reprint of Morando, licensed Aug. 8, his Fare- 
 well to Tolhj was registered June 11, his Penelope's Weh June 26 ; 
 and, according to Herbert, his Hiiphues Censure and Perimedes in 
 the course of the year. If his Tareicell to Folhj was published at 
 this time, we shall also be obliged to suppose that his ^lourning 
 Garment, referred to in that work, w^as already printed. Xow as the 
 Farewell to Folly is the novel in which the reference to Faii-e Em 
 occurs, it is important to fix its date, even at the cost of a somewhat 
 tedioiis discussion. 
 
 Farewell to Folly was registered on June 11, 1587. In the 
 
 epistle to the readers Greene tells us, ' I presented you alate with 
 
 my Mourning Garment.' But the Mourning Garment was registered 
 
 in 1590 (Herbert), and the earliest known etlition of the Farewell is 
 
 dated 1591. The question therefore occurs, was the Mourning 
 
 Garment, though registered in 1590, published in 15S7, and the 
 
 Farewell printed in 15 87, when it was registered; or was the 
 
 publication of the Farewell postponed for four years, so as to come 
 
 out in 1591? There is no difficulty in either supposition. The 
 
 first editions of many of Greene's works are unknown ; and if the 
 
 Mourning Garment was registered in 1590, after having been printed 
 
 in 1587, it is no more than we have seen in the case of Morando, 
 
 which was printed in 15S4 and registered in 1587. Moreover, of 
 
 his eight known works before 1587, only three were registered 
 
 previously to publication. "We must look, therefore, for internal 
 
 evidences of the dates. The dedication of the Mourning Garment 
 
 to the Earl of Cumberland will not help ns. In spite of his pro- 
 
 Imged absences from England, the Earl was at home all 1587,
 
 GREENE'S 'MOURNING GARMENT; 1587-90. 345 
 
 except (liirins: liis brief expedition to Plandors in Aii!:^ust. (Com- 
 pare the accounts of liis voyaf,'cs in I'urelias, Filf/rims, Lib. vi., c. 1.) 
 And he was at home also during the whole of 1590. So he might 
 have accepted the dedication in eitlicr year. It is more to the 
 point to remark, that if the Farewell had been four years in the 
 printer's hands, Greene would probably have told us. He does so 
 with regard to Orpharion} ' The printer had it long since ; marry, 
 wdiether his press were out of tune, paper dear, or some other secret 
 delay drave it off, it hath Hlmi tliis twelve-month in the suds ; now 
 at last it is crept forth.' Again, so rapid a writer as Greene is not 
 likely to have rewritten his productions, merely because their publica- 
 tion was delayed. If, therefore, we find in the body of such a 
 work a reference to another, it will be probable that this other was 
 already in existence. But in the internal structure of the Farewell 
 there are such references and allusions to the Mourning Garment. 
 For instance, whereas the latter (sig. D, verso) has an elaborate 
 story to illustrate the word misprinted Antlpechargehi, in the Fare- 
 well there is only this brief allusion (sig. B2, verso) : ' Themistocles 
 wore in his shield a stork, his motto antipelargein, for that he 
 would not l)e stained with ingratitude.' Hence the Mourning 
 Garment would appear to have been already WTitten when the Fare- 
 well was registered in 1587. Once more, there are three of Greene's 
 works which have all one drift, the abjuration of love. These are 
 Never too late (two parts), 1590; the Mourning Garment, first 
 known edition 1590; the Farewell to Folly, first known edition 
 1591. This must have been their order, if the two latter were not 
 published till 1590 antl 1591, for in the Farewell Greene seems to 
 speak of the Mourning Garment as his last work. In this case 
 ' Picgistered 15S9, first known edition 1599.
 
 346 GREENE'S REPENTANCE SERIES. 
 
 Never too late would be the first of the series, the earliest announce- 
 ment of the author's repentance. But it is quite CAadent, both from 
 the prefatory matter and from the internal structure of the novel, 
 that the Moto-ning Garment is the earliest of the series, the book in 
 which the writer broke new ground, and for the tirst time came out in 
 a new character. It is evident also that the dedication contains an 
 indication of the date in its unquestionable reference to the drama 
 on the subject of Jonah and the Ninevites, which Greene wrote in 
 conjunction with Lodge. This drama must have been written 
 before 15S9, when Lodge declares that Glaucus bound him by oath, 
 
 ' To -write no more of that whence shame doth grow, 
 Or tie my pen to Pennie-knaves delight, 
 But live with fame, and so ibr fame to write.' 
 
 That is, to write no more for the stage. (Scillaes Metamorj)liosis, 
 last stanza before I'envoy, 1589.) The following passages seem to 
 have been written while The Looldncj-gJass for England and London 
 was fresh in memory. They are from Greene's dedication of his 
 Mourning Garment to the Earl of Cumberland, and show that the 
 book they introduce was his first essay in doing public penance. 
 ' While wantonness ovei-weaned the Ninevites, their surcoats of 
 bisse were all polished with gold : but when the threatening of 
 Jonas made a jar in their ears, their finest sendall was turned to 
 sackcloth. , . . Having myself over-weaned with them of Nineveh in 
 publishing sundry wanton pamphlets, and setting forth anxioms of 
 amorous philosophy, tandem aliquando taught with a feeling of my 
 palpable follies, and hearing with the ears of my heart Jonas crying 
 except thou repent, as I have changed the inward affects of my mind, 
 so I have turned my wanton words to effectual labours, and pulling
 
 GREENE'S 'MOURNING GARMENT^ 1587-90. 347 
 
 off their vain-glorious titles have called this my Mourning Garment.' 
 The ' Epistle to the Gentlemen seholars ' can leave litlle doubt of 
 this being the earliest of the repentant series. ' Sudden changes of 
 mens allects crave great wonder but jillle belief, and such as alter 
 in a moment win not credit in a month. These premisses (gentle- 
 men) drives me into a great (piaudary, fearing I shall hardly insinu- 
 ate into your favours with changing the title of my pamphlets, or 
 make you believe the inward metamorphosis of my mind by the 
 exterior show of my works, seeing 1 have ever professed myself 
 Love's philosopher.' Then, after a reference to Ovid's Tridia, he 
 continues, ' Then Gentlemen let me find like favour, if i llial w holly 
 gave myself to the discoursing of amours be now applied to better 
 labours. Think, though it be Sero yet it is serio, and allhough 
 my showers come in autumn, yet think they shall continue the 
 whole year. Hoping you will grace me with your favourable 
 suspense till my deeds prove my doctrine, 1 present you wilii my 
 Mourning Garment. Wherein, Gentlemen, look to see the vanity 
 of youth so perfectly anatomized, that you may see every vein, 
 muscle, and artery of her unbridled follies. Look for the discovery 
 of wanton love, wherewith ripe wits are soonest inveigled, and 
 scholars of all men deepest entangled. Had Ovid been a dunce he 
 had never delivered such amorous precepts. . . Scholars have piercing 
 insights, and therefore they overween in their sights, feeding their 
 eyes with fancy that should be peering on the principles of Plato : 
 they read of Venus, and therefore count every fair face a goddess, 
 and grow so religious tliat they almost forget their God. They 
 count no philosophy like love, no author so good as Ovid, no object 
 so good as beauty, nor no exercise in schools so necessary as court- 
 ing of a fair woman in a chamber. But please you gentlemen to
 
 348 GREEXE'S ' MOURXLXG GARMENT,' 1587-90. 
 
 put on my mourning garment, and see tlie effects that grow from 
 such Avanton affects, you will leave Ovid's art and fall to his 
 remedy. . . You will think women inala, although they be to some 
 kind of men nccessaria ; you will hold no heresy like love, no infec- 
 tion like fancy, no object so prejudicial as beauty. . . I wish to you 
 as I would to myself, new loves, not to Yenus but to Yirtue. . . If 
 you enter into the depth of my conceit, and see how I have only 
 Avith humanity moralized a divine history,^ and some odd scoffing 
 companion that hath a commonwealth of self-love in his head say 
 every painted cloth is the subject of this pamphlet'-'; I answer him 
 with a common principle of philosophy, Bonum quo communius eo 
 viellas ; and if that will not serve, let him either amend it or else 
 sit down and blow his fingers till he find his Meme/ifo will serve to 
 shape my garment after a new cut. I know, gentlemen, fools will have 
 bolts, and they will shoot as well at a bush as at a bird ; and some 
 will have frumps, if it be but to call their father whoreson : but 
 howsoever, I know facilius est yuw/xjjirtTru quam ynixriairai ; and a 
 dog will have a barking tooth though he be warned : to such I 
 write not. . . .' 
 
 It wdll be seen by this Introduction that the Mourning Garment 
 was Greene's first penitential production. The same conclusion 
 may be drawn from a comparison of it with the two similar novels 
 which he afterwards published. Never too late, containing the story 
 of Prancesco's fortunes, in 1590, and the Groats/rorth of ?oit, con- 
 
 1 The novel is the story of the Prodigal Son, embroidered Avith additions. 
 In fact, we learn by Histriomastix, that Shakspere did write a drama of tlie 
 Prodifjal Son. If it is the same as that of which a translation into German 
 was published among the EmjliHli comedies in 1620, and outlined above, the 
 memory of the dramatist had somewhat availed itself of Greene's shaping of 
 the story. [Sec ante, pp. 12, 91. — G.] 
 
 * 1. e. that the story miglit be read on any piece of old tapestry.
 
 GREENE'S ' CROAT SWORTH OF Jl'/T,' 1592, &-c. 349 
 
 taining Eoberto's adventures, in 1592. Philador, the prodig.il in 
 the Mourning Garment, Francesco in Never too Late, and Roberto in 
 the Groatsivorth of icit, are all more or less autobiographical 
 sketches. But of these sketches Philador is the most rudimentary, 
 and Fioberto the most finished. Philador is evidently the first, 
 which by its success encouraged its aulhor to carry out the idea in 
 two other novels of the same form. If this was all, we might con- 
 clude that the Mourning Garment was first published in 1587, before 
 June, when the Faretcell to FoUy was also registered and published. 
 But the evidence on the other side is strons;cr. Not only was 
 the Mourning Garment, published just before the Farewell to Folhj, 
 registered in 1590, but also the dedication and the Epistle prefixed 
 to the Farewell contain two notes of time which force us to date it 
 in 1590 or 1591. In the Epistle, Greene says that the whole 
 impression of the Mourning Garment had been sold, and that the 
 pedlar, finding it too dear, had been forced to buy ' Tiie life of 
 Tomlivolin, to wrap up his sweet powders in those unsavoury 
 papers.' Tomlivolin is an obvious misprint for Tamburlain. 
 Marlowe's plays on the subject, though written in 1587, were not 
 published till 1590; nor is there any entry of ballads on the 
 subject in the Stationers' register, though, truly, ballads may 
 have been published without registration. Greene was at one 
 time an adversary of the 'atheist Tamburlain,' as may be seen 
 from his preface to Perimedes in 15 88. The other note of time is 
 decisive. He says : ' I cannot Martinize — swear by my fav in a 
 pulpit, and rap out gogs-wounds in a tavern.' That is, he cannot 
 do like Martin Mar- Prelate ; assume sanctity in church, and bring 
 out blasphemous and seurrillous libels through the press. Martin's 
 first appearance was early in 1589, and Greene could not have used
 
 330 GREENE'S 'FAREWELL TO folly; \s?>7-9^. 
 
 tlie word to Martinize in tliis sense in 15S7. We raip:lit fancv a 
 Catholic forming such a verb from the name of Martin Luther, but 
 Greene was not a Catholic ; and I know of no example of the word 
 so used before 1589. 
 
 We must therefore coucliuh^ that tlioui^^li the Fareu-dl to FoIIi/ 
 was designed, probably written, and registered in 1587, there is no 
 evidence that it was then published. And if it was so published, 
 it must have been without the dedication, and probably, also, with- 
 out the Epistle to the Readers which we fiiul in the edition of 1591. 
 And yet I imagine that the Farewdl to Folhj, as designed to ])« 
 published in 1587, had in the Introduction some such reference to 
 Faire Em as is now found in the Introduction to the edition of 
 1591. j\Iy reason is, that in tlie Penelope's Web, a work which Greene 
 seems to have given to Aggas, the Stationer, instead of his Farewell 
 to Folly — possibly because he was not yet fully prepared to publish 
 his penitential series — he betrays in what he calls his ' mystical 
 speech ' the same jealousy of a playwright, whose ' rudeness ' he 
 aft'ects to despise, as we iind in the Fareioell : ' They whicli smiled 
 at the Tlieutre in Rome, might as soon scoff at tlie rudeness of the 
 scene, as give a plaudite at the perfection of the action.' lie pre- 
 tends to doubt whether the applause at the Theatre at Shoreditch 
 in London — Rome was the canting name for London — was in 
 mockery at the rude ignorance of the dramatist, or in admiration of 
 the perfect acting of the players. AVe see already the rude and 
 self-taught wit beginning to supplant in popularity the technical 
 and pedantic university scholar, wlio thought his degree gave him 
 the monopoly of play-books, and tlic exclusive privilege of pleasing. 
 Greene's other work, in 1587, was Eiiphues Ids Censure to F/ii- 
 lautus, a philosophical combat between Hector and Achilles on the
 
 'EUPilUES censure; ' PENELOPE'S IVEB,' 1587. 351 
 
 virtues of a gentleman and the perfection of a soldier. Both this 
 book and the Penelope's TFeb are of adiderent texture from Greene's 
 usual amatory pastorals, one being designed to exhibit the virtues 
 of woman, ' Obedience, Chastity and Silence,' and the other the 
 virtues of the gentleman and soldier. They are such books as a 
 man niiiiht have written afur biddiii"- his farewell to follv. In 
 Euphiies Censure, Greene abandoned his old posy, omne tidit punc- 
 tum, and adopted another, Ea habeatar optiiua quce et jucunda lion- 
 esta et ntUia. 
 
 In 158S, Greene's earliest publication was Perimedes the Black- 
 smith. By its Introduction we learn that the change in his posy 
 had been made a joke of, and that some one of his plays had been 
 ridiculed on the stage. ' I keep my old course still,' he says, ' to 
 palter up something in prose, using mine old posy still, omne tulit 
 ptinctum : although lately two gentlemen poets made two madmen 
 of Rome beat it out of their paper bucklers, and had it in derision, 
 for that I could not make my verses jet upon the stage in tragical 
 buskins, every word filling the mouth like the fa-burden of Bow- 
 bell, daring God out of heaven with that atheist Tand)urlain, or 
 blaspheming with the mad priest of the sun. But let me rather 
 openly pocket up the ass at Diogenes' hand than wantonly set out 
 such impious instances of intolerable poetry. Such mad and scoff- 
 ing poets that have poetical spirits as bred of Merlin's race, if there 
 be any in England that set the end of scholarism in an English 
 blank-verse, I think either it is the humour of a novice that tickles 
 them with self love, or too much frequenting the hot-house (to use 
 the German proverb) hath sweat out all the greatest part of their 
 wits.' The meaning of this ' dark speech,' as he calls it, is not 
 far to seek. Greene had hitherto, whether in his tales or plays,
 
 352 GREENE'S ' ALPHONSUS,' 1588. 
 
 confined himself to amatory subjects. This had been made a sub- 
 ject of criticism ; he therefore, first on the stage, afterwards as a 
 romance-writer, professed to change his subject, and to abjure love's 
 lazy languishment. The play in which he did this is stUl extant. 
 His Conical Iddonj of AlpJionsus Khig of Arragon begins with 
 Yenus's oU'cr to Calliope to be her scholar, and to write of deeds of 
 
 war — 
 
 ' And this my hand, which used for to pen 
 The praise of Love, and Cupid's peerless power, 
 Will now begin to treat of bloody Mars, 
 Of doughty deeds and valiant victories.' 
 
 The result was a play manifestly written in imitation and emula- 
 tion of Tamhurlain. The hero's histoiy is built on the same model; 
 he is a beggar's son, who by prowess, impudenc3, and adroitness, 
 wins crowns and kingdoms. Greene's challenge to Marlowe was 
 not successful ; and he attributes his failure to the absence of blas- 
 phemy in his lines. The criticism of the ' gentlemen poets,' how- 
 ever, was evidently that there was ' no point ' in his poetry. They 
 made two of their characters, ' two madmen of Eome,' beat his 
 motto, omne tidlt ■pnnctum, out of their paper bucklers. We can 
 fancy the kind of jest here referred to ; one like that with which 
 Shakspere in Loves Labour Lost (v. 2, 276) makes Maria spoil 
 the point of Dumain's words : 
 
 ' Dumain was at my service, and his sword. 
 "No point," cpioth I; my servant straight was mute.' 
 
 But Greene could not stand a joke ; he returned to his prose 
 again, and wrote his gibe at the ' novices ', ' that set the end of 
 scholarism in an English blank verse.' 
 
 The two ' madmen of Eome ' I suppose to be a kind of cant
 
 GREENE'S 'PANDOSTO; 1588. 353 
 
 term for two players. Circciie, as we liave seen in Perimedes, when 
 he wished to criticize the London Theatre, talks of the Theatre in 
 Rome. So in his Xerer too lale, when he talks of the London 
 actors, he pretends only to speak of Roscius and tlie actors of 
 Rome. In the pedlar's French of the day, Rome-vyle was London, 
 and Rome-mort the Queen. 
 
 It is to be noticed tliat the tale of Gradasso in Perimedes is in 
 many parts almost word for word the same as ' Venus Tragedy,' 
 or the tale of Valdrako in Planetomachia. The last-mentioned 
 was the first immature sketch of the Saturnist; the picture in 
 Perimedes is revised and augmented, superior both in volume and 
 finish to the first sketch. 
 
 Greene's other pul)lication of 1.5 S 8 was Pandosto, The Triumph 
 of Time. It has a double posy — Temporis filia Veritas, and omne 
 tulit punctim. It is dedicated to the Earl of Cumberland. Greene 
 tells the Earl ' they which fear the biting of vipers do carry in their 
 hands the plumes of a Phoenix,' and he shrouds his pamphlet under 
 the Earl's patronage, ' doubting the dint of such envenomed vipers 
 as seek with their slanderous reproaches to carp at all, being often- 
 times most unlearned of all; ' he assures himself, also, that the Earl's 
 name will protect him ' from the poisoned tongues of such scornin" 
 sycophants.' In the Epistle to the readers, also, he hopes that 
 ' though fond, curious, or rather currish, barkers breathe out slan- 
 derous speeches,' yet courteous readers will requite his travail, at 
 least with silence. 
 
 The contest we see was becoming bitter ; and it did not 
 sweeten with time. Greene had fondly imagined that the cry went 
 on him for the best playwright, but his pre-eminence was challenged; 
 and n'hen he found his rivals becoming more popular than he was, 
 
 VOL. II. 23
 
 354 GREENE'S 'MENAPHON; 1589. 
 
 lie wrote bis Menaphon (15 89), to show tliat if his plays were not 
 the best in their kind, he was at least still nnrivalled in what he was 
 pleased to think a higher kind of writing, the prose romance. 
 Menaplwn was accordingly introdnced to the world with an extra- 
 ordinary flonvish of trumpets. It had two commendatory copies 
 of verses, one by Henry Upchear, gentleman, who says, that as far 
 as he can see, Delos is no better than Ai'cadia — 
 
 ' [Wliere] feeds our Menaphon's celestial muse — 
 There makes his pipe his pastoral report, 
 Which strained now a note above his use 
 
 Foretells, he'll ne'er more chant of Choas sport.' 
 
 This looks as if Greene, like his partner playwright Lodge, now 
 declared that he would never more write for the stage. The other 
 copy of verses, by Thomas Brabiue, Gent, is plainer — 
 
 ' Come forth you wits that vaunt the pomp of speech, 
 And strive to thunder from a stageman's throat ; 
 
 View Menuplion, a note beyond your reach, 
 
 Whose sight will make your drumming descant doat. 
 
 Players, avaunt ! you know not to delight ; 
 
 Welcome, sweet shepherd, worth a scholars sight.' 
 
 The story itself was intended by Greene to bear a part in the 
 controversy between himself and the players. If, says he, in the 
 Epistle to the Readers, ' you find dark enigmas or strange conceits, 
 as if Sphinx on the one side and Eoscius on the other were playing 
 the wags,' I ' desire you to take a little pains to pry into my imagina- 
 tion.' It would not have been easy for us to discover his imagina- 
 tion, if he had not employed Thomas Nash to write an epistle, 
 addressed to 'the gentlemen students of both universities,' as a pre- 
 face to his pastoral. Nash had been rusticated from Cambridge in
 
 NASH'S INTRODUCTION TO ' MENAPHON: 355 
 
 158G, for his sliare in some satire, which, though resented by the 
 authorities, had served to discover liis powers to his friends. 
 Afterwards he went to Ireland and Italy, and from Italy he seems 
 to have been summoned to take part with Lily, Greene, and the 
 rest employed by Archbishop Whitgift, through Bancroft, to oppose 
 Martin Mar-Prelate with his own weapons of scurrility and lam- 
 poon. It appears from Nash's first production in this kind, his 
 Countercuffe given to Martin Junior hi/ . . . Pasquil of England, 
 which he dates ' from Gravesend Barge, the 8th of August, the 
 first and last year of ]\Iartinism,' that after spending two years 
 abroad, he had come ' lately over sea into Kent,' and from thence 
 had 'cut over into Essex from Gravesend.' After so long an absence 
 it is not likely that he could have been an original authority for 
 literary affairs which had occurred while he was away. He was in 
 demand for his style, and his business was to reduce to pointed 
 form the matter furnished him h\ others. Hence his publications 
 of 1589 must be supposed to represent, not the fraits of his own 
 experience, but tlie ideas decanted into him. Greene may be 
 assumed to have crammed him with what had to be said as intro- 
 duction to Menaphon ; and the identity of idea, as well as of phrase, 
 between Nash's epistle and things Avhich Greene subsequently 
 wrote will prove this assumption to be con-ect. We shall see that 
 the actor-author here attacked by Nash is assailed in the same 
 phrases as the one attacked by Greene three years later, in his 
 Groatsicorth of TFit. But in the latter case it is Shakespeare Avho is 
 thus assailed. Therefore it is probably, also, Shakespeare in the 
 former case. 
 
 Nash begins by recommending to the university men the 
 ' scholar-like shepherd ' who wrote 3lL'naj)Iion, as one of themselves;
 
 356 NASH JOINS GREENE IN 
 
 implying tliat his opponent was neither scholar-like nor a university 
 man. He immediately goes on to complain that university scholar- 
 ship is being eclipsed by the example and teaching of the stage. 
 The ' gowned age ' has grown eloquent, and every ' mechanical 
 mate abhors the English he was bom to, and plucks, with solemn 
 periphrasis, his id vales from the ink-horn.' This comes not, he 
 Bays, from art and study, but from ' the seiTile imitation of our 
 vain-glorious tragedians,' who study not grace of action, but 
 mouthing of words, and who delight ' to embowel the clouds in a 
 speech of comparison; thinking themselves more than initiated in 
 poets' immortality if they once get Boreas by the beard, and the 
 heavenly Bull by the dewlap.' This phrase serves to identify the 
 • vain-glorious tragedian ' of Nash with the ' Eoscius ' who, as 
 Greene tells us, plays the wag in MenapJion. In that pastoral 
 this personage appears i\nder the name of the shepherd Doron, and 
 the following ' speech of comparison ' is put into his mouth to de- 
 scribe Samela, the heroine. ' We had an ewe amongst our rams 
 whose fleece was white as the hairs that grow on father Boreas' chin} 
 or as the dangling dewlap of the silver bull ; her front curled like 
 the Erimanthian boar, and spangled like to the worsted stockings 
 of Saturn ; her face like Mars treading upon the milk-white clouds 
 , . . her eyes like the fiery torches tilting against the moon.' This 
 affectation of actors and audience, Nash continues, ' is all traceable 
 to their idiot art-masters,' that is, the self-dubbed masters of the 
 art, who have no university degree, ' that intrude themselves . . . 
 as the alchemists of eloquence, who (mounted on the stage of arro- 
 
 1 Tliis seems copied from Taming of a Shrew, p. 22, where Ferando 
 compares Kate to the white hairs on Boreas' chin ; Hyperion's curls {Ramlet), 
 not Erymanthian boar's; 'worsted-stocking knave' [Lear).
 
 ATTACKING SHAKSPERE AND THE PLAYERS. 357 
 
 gance) think to outbrave better peas witli tlie swelling bombast of 
 bragging blank verse.' It will be remembered that Greene after- 
 wards says of the stage-man, Shake-scene, that he ' supposes he is 
 as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you.' 
 Nash proceeds — ' Indeed it may be the ingrafted overflow of some 
 kill-cow conceit, that overcloveth their imagination with more than 
 drunken resolution, being not extemporal in the invention of any 
 other means to vent their manhood, commits the digestion of their 
 choleric encumbrances to the spacious volubility of a drumming 
 decasyllabon.' Killing the cow, or the calf, was a kind of extem- 
 poral performance of vagrant actors, and the tradition about Shake- 
 speare was that 'he would kill a calf in high style.' Xash says 
 that the person of whom he writes, instead of venting his kill-cow 
 conceit in the usual extemporal way, would commit it to the drum- 
 ming blank-verse. ' Amongst this kind of men,' he proceeds, 
 ' that repose eternity in the mouth of a player ' (seek the poets' im- 
 mortality in the passing popularity of the unprinted play), * I can 
 but engross some deep-read schoolmen or grammarians ' (whose 
 reading is so deep that it stopped at the grammar-school), ' who 
 having no more learning in their skull than will serve to take up a 
 commodity ' (to keep a tradesman's books) , ' nor art in their brains 
 than was nourished in a serving-man's idleness, will take upon 
 them to be the ironical censurers of all, when God and poetry doth 
 know they are the simplest of all,' — which is evidently a mere para- 
 phrase of a sentence of Greene's previously quoted from Pandosto, 
 about men who 'carp at all, being oftentimes most unlearned of all.' 
 Nash then passes from these lacklatins, whom he leaves ' to the 
 mercy of their mother-tongue, that feed on nought but the crumbs 
 that fall from the translator's trencher,' to Greene's Menaphon,
 
 •35S NASH ON SHAKSPERE, 
 
 T\-bicli he praises, first, for the rapidity of its composition, and 
 secondly, for being original, and not stolen from a foreign source ; 
 and then he digresses into an abuse of Martin Mar-Prelate, and its 
 supposed author Penry. But he soon returns to lighter literature, 
 and to the subject of ' our trivial translators,' and those who feed 
 from their trencher, among whom he cannot resist once more en- 
 grossing the actor-poet whom he has already attacked. ' It is a 
 common practice,' he says, ' now-a-days, amongst a sort of shifting 
 companions, that run through every art and thrive by none, to 
 leave the trade of 7iovermt whereto they were born, and busy them- 
 selves with the endeavours of art, that could scarcely latinize their 
 neck -verse, if they should have need. Yet English Seneca read by 
 candle-light yields many good sentences, as " blood is a beggar," 
 and so forth ; and if you intreat him fair in a frosty morning, he 
 will atford you whole Hamlets, I should say handfals, of tragical 
 speeches.' 'But. . . what's that which will last always? . . . Seneca, 
 let blood line by line, and page by page, at length must die to our 
 
 stage, which makes his famished followers leap into a new 
 
 occupation, and translate two-penny pamphlets from the Italian,^ 
 
 without any knowledge even of its articles.' ' And no matter 
 
 for what can be hoped of those that thrust Elisium into Hell, and 
 have not learned, so long as they have lived in the spheres, the just 
 measure of the horizon without an hexameter ? Sufficeth it them 
 to botch up a blank-verse with ifs and ands.'' Prom this abuse of 
 the translators and adapters from the Italian, Xash proceeds, fol- 
 lowing Ascham's Bchoolmader, which had also been Lily's text-book 
 for his Eiqjhues, to talk about the lights of St John's College, Cam- 
 bridge, and about Trinity College, which was only a Colonia deduda 
 ' i.e. take the plots of their plays from Italian sources.
 
 AND CONTEMPORARY POETS, 1589. 359 
 
 from it, and about the evil of epitomes and compcndiums. Then 
 he returns to the puritanical 'divinity-dunces,' and then gives a 
 list of the Enj^lish poets whom he approves. After some para- 
 graphs upon them, lie comes to ' George Peele, the chief supporter 
 of pleasaunce now living, the atlas of poetry, and primus verborum 
 arti/ex; whose first increase, the Arraignment of Par in, might plead 
 . . . his pregnant dexterity of wit and manifold variety of invention, 
 wherein (jnejiidice) he goeth a step beyond all that write.' 
 
 Nash was unable to mention a play and its writer without mak- 
 ing a third attack on the players, and their own poet, who, by his 
 works, maliciously enumerated here, is identified with the player- 
 poet attacked by Greene in his Gruatsworlh of IFlt. ' Sundry 
 other sweet gentlemen I do know, that we [sic] have vaunted their 
 pens in private devices, and tricked up a company of taffaty fools 
 will) tiieir feathers,^ whose beauty, if our poets had not pecked' [v/c; 
 apparently it should be ' decked '] ' with the supply of their perriwigs, 
 they might have anticked it untd this time up and down the 
 country with The King of Fairies, and dined eveiy day at the pease- 
 porridge ordinary with Dcfrigus.^ The King of Fairies and Bel- 
 frigus are the plays for which the player-poet in the Groatsicorth 
 of Tfit is famous, as will be seen below. Nash proceeds : ' But 
 Tolasso hath forgotten that it was sometime sacked, and beggars ^ 
 that ever they carried their fardels on footback ; and in truth no 
 
 1 Notice this ; it proves that when Greene, three years later, called Shake- 
 speare ' an upstart crow, heautitit'd with our feathers,' he need not have 
 meant anything more than that he was an actor, who had gained his reputa- 
 tion by speaking the verses that the poets liad written for him. 
 
 2 See Jonson's Toctastcr, III. i., where Tucca says to Ilistrio, 'If he pen 
 for thee once, thou shall not need to travel with pumps full of gravel any more, 
 after a blind jade and a hamper, and stalk upon boards and barrell-heads to an 
 old crackt trumpet.'
 
 36o NASH'S 'ANATOMY OF ABSURDITY; 
 
 marvel, whereas the deserved reputation of one Eoscius is of force 
 to enrich a rabble of counterfeits. Yet let subjects, for all their 
 insolence, dedicate a " de profundis " every morning to the preservation 
 of their Coesar, lest their increasing indignities return them ere long 
 their juggling to mediocrity, and they bewail in Aveeping blanks 
 the wane of their monarchy.' This sentence implies that the 
 players had been very successful, in spite of, perhaps because of, 
 their neglect of Greene, Peele, and the University crew ; but Nash 
 warns them, that as their first successes were in the plays which 
 these authors wrote for them, so the ultimate consequence of their 
 ceasing to write will be the ruin of the players. Nash then speedily 
 comes to an end ; he calls the preface he has just written ' the first- 
 lings of his folly,' his first published work, and announces another 
 work, the Anatomy of Absurdity, in which he will go on persecuting 
 the idiots who have made art bankrupt. 
 
 The Anatomy of Absurdity was published under the same cir- 
 cumstances as the preface just analyzed. Nash was recently amved, 
 and too busy to have been capable of forming an independent 
 critical judgment of the state of literature. The new work was 
 just as much dictated to him by Greene as the old one. The prime 
 idea of it was to inveigh against women, condemning almost all by 
 the example of one whose severity had caused hira to fly his country 
 two years before. It was dedicated to Sir Charles Blunt, to 
 whom at the end of the preceding year Greene had dedicated his 
 Alcida, a book of similar argument, discovering ' the anatomy of 
 women's affections, setting out as in a mirror how dangerous his 
 hazard is, that sets his rest upon love.' In the parts of his new 
 book that relate to literature, Nash repeats the ideas, almost the 
 phrases, that he had published in Greene's MeyiapJion. He talks
 
 DICTATED BY GREENE. 361 
 
 of those ' that obtrude themselves as the autliors of eloquence and 
 
 fountains of our liner plirases ' wlio, he says, resonljle 
 
 ' drums, which, being empty within, sound big without.' There is 
 the same gird at those who depend on translations, ' whose thread- 
 bare knowledge, being bought at second hand, is spotted, blemished, 
 and defaced through translators' rigorous rude dealing,' and the 
 ignorant sonnetteers and ballad-makers (under Mliich term we are 
 also to understand play-maker&) are thus attacked : ' What politic 
 counsellor or valiant soldier will joy or glory of this, iu that some 
 stitcher, weaver, spendthrift or tiddler, hath shullled or skiljbered 
 up a few ragged rhymes in the memorial of the ones pmdence or 
 the others prowess ? It makes the learned sort to be silent, where- 
 as they see unlearned sots so insolent. These buzzards think 
 knowledge a burden, tapping it before they have half tunned it, 
 venting it before they liave filled it. . . . Tliey come to speak be- 
 fore they come to know. They contemn arts as unprofitable, con- 
 tenting themselves with a little country grammar knowledge.' 
 Again : ' Far more ardent is the desire of knowing unknown things 
 than of repeating known things. This we see happen in stage 
 
 players, in orators ]\Iany there be that are out of love with 
 
 the obscurity wherein they live, that to win credit to their name . . . 
 encounter with them on whose shoulders all arts do lean ' (such as 
 Peele, the ' Atlas of Poetry '). ' These upstart reformers of arts . . . 
 will seem wise before their time, that now they both begin to coun- 
 terfeit that which they are not, and to be ashamed of that which they 
 are ' (/. e. to counterfeit being poets, and to be ashamed of being 
 
 players) ' He that estimates arts by the insolence of idiots, 
 
 who profess that wherein they are infants, may deem the university 
 nought but the nurse of folly, and the knowledge of arts nought
 
 362 GREENE'S 'TULLIES LOVE,' 1589. 
 
 but the imitation of the stagx'.' Here we see pLiinly Greene's in- 
 spii-ation, and the hatred wliich lie infused into Nash of the upstart 
 crow, the unlearned country wit, who was not contented with his 
 place, but took upon him to usurp the functions of the licenciates 
 of the Universities, and to instruct the people in novel principles 
 of art. 
 
 Doron, in Greene's MenapJion, whom we have already identified 
 with the poet-actor whom he wishes to criticize, is not a very 
 important person in the plot, nor are his several entrances very 
 consistent with each other. liis poetical description of Samela 
 satisfies the courtly Melicertus, who says it is worthy of Paris on 
 Helen. The 'jig' of 'plain Doron, as plain as a packstafife', is 
 ordinary pastoral. The joint eclogue of Doron and Carmela is 
 simple clownery, and justifies his being called the ' homely blunt 
 shepherd.' Nothing more can be extracted from this, than that 
 Greene wished to represent his ' vain-glorious tragedian ' as a boor 
 and a clown. So, three years later, he classes ' Shakescene ' among 
 the ' peasants.' 
 
 In the same year, 1589, Greene published his Ciceronis Tamor 
 or TaUies Love, and dedicated it to Ferdinando, Lord Strange.^ 
 He professes that it was meant, however unsuccessfully, to be an 
 imitation of Cicero. And he thus apologizes for its inferiority, if 
 it is inferior, to Menaphon : ' If my method be worse than it was 
 wont to be, think that skill in music marred all ; for the cleive was 
 so dissonant from my note, that we could not clap a concord 
 together by five marks. Chiron the Sagittory was but a feigned 
 conceit, and men that bear great shapes and large shadows, and 
 
 1 This dedication is one of the points of evidence. Lord Strange's players 
 ■were the actors of Fair Em.
 
 CREEXE'S 'SPANISH MASQUERADO; 1589. 363 
 
 have no good nor honest minds, are like the portraitures of Her- 
 cules drawn npon the sands. If I speak mystically, think 'tis 
 musically.' It is useless to attempt to <^ive any certain explana- 
 tion of these dark sayings, but the romance is important, for the 
 drama of Falre Em, in which the loves of William the Conqueror 
 and the jNIarqucss Lubeck for ilariana and Blanche, are the coun- 
 terparts of the loves of Lentulus and TuUy for Terentia and Flavia 
 in the story. Lentulus is the conqueror whose fancy is inflamed 
 for Terentia by the soldier's description of her. He employs his 
 friend Tully to woo for him. Tally, himself enamoured of her, 
 loyally urges his friend's suit, making sacrifice of his own love. 
 But the huly will not be thus bandied about. At length Lentulus, 
 seeing that he cannot win Terentia, is won by Flavia's constant 
 but hitherto slighted aftection, and so leaves Terentia to Tully. 
 There is certainly a general resemblance between the play and the 
 romance, but this resemblance does not decide which was the 
 earlier. My own impression is that the situation, and its appro- 
 priate passion, are more characteristic of Shakespeare than of 
 Greene, as will appear farther on. 
 
 The Spanish Masquerado (1589), a pamphlet occasioned by the 
 defeat of the Armada in the previous year, requires a passing notice. 
 Greene was a little late in the field, but it appears from some Latin 
 verses prefixed to Alcida, that in 1588 he was in the country, sick 
 of a tedious fever. Prom the Epistle introducing the Masquerado, it 
 is clear that Greene had not hitherto printed any of his penitential 
 books. ' Hitherto, gentlemen, I have written of love, and I have 
 found you favourable . . . now, lest I might be thought to tie my- 
 self wholly to amorous conceits, I have adventured to discover my 
 conscience in Religion.' At this time he was employed with Nash
 
 364 GREENE'S PENITENTIAL PIECES, 1587-91. 
 
 by Bancroft to lampoon Martin Mar-Prelate. An unwonted opening 
 
 to high society was thus given to the two satirists ; Nash brags of 
 
 it in his Pierce-Pennilesse ; the following lines of Lodge addressed to 
 
 Greene and prefixed to the Masquerado speak of him as the scourge 
 
 of the seditiouspuritans, and as having thereby become a companion 
 
 for the gods — 
 
 ' Ton nom (raon Greene) anime par mes vers 
 Abaisse I'oeil des gens seditieux. 
 Tu, de mortel, es compagiion de Dieux.' 
 
 y\Q come now to the series of penitential pieces, the Mourning 
 Garment, Never too Late, and Fareioell to Tolhj ; the two first dated 
 in 1590, the last written in 1587, but not published till 1591. I 
 have already spoken of the Mournhicj Garment, the first of the 
 series ; the second, Never too Late, is divided into two parts, both, 
 however, published the same year, 1590. Eoth arc dedicated to 
 Thomas Burnaby, and both introduced by commendatory verses by 
 Kalph Sidley and Kichard Hake. The first part has Greene's old 
 posy ' Omne tulit punetum ; ' the second a new one, taken from the 
 Introduction to the Mourning Garment, ' Sero sed serio.' Sidley's 
 lines prefixed to the first part seem to refer to the same book — 
 
 * There you may see repentance all in black. 
 Scourging the forward passions of fond youth.' 
 
 Both parts contain an account of ' Francesco's fortunes,' related by 
 a youthful and beautiful Palmer, who has reached Bergamo in his 
 pilgrimage from England to Venice, by way of France, Germany, 
 and the Ehine (B3 verso). The Palmer is evidently the same as 
 Francesco ; and Francesco, as j\Ir Dyce has shown in his life of the 
 poet, is Greene. He was ' wandering in a strange land to satisfy 
 the follies committed in England, travelling through many countries
 
 GREENE'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 365 
 
 to make other men learn to beware of his harms.' He resolved 
 how he would behave, and what he would say if he came amongst 
 youth, amongst courtiers, or amongst lovers. In accordance with 
 this triple division, his Mourning Garment is sent ' to all young 
 gentlemen that wish to wean themselves from wanton desires,' that 
 is, to lovers ; his Never too Late ' to all youthful gentlemen ; ' and 
 his Fareioell to Tolly to courtiers and scholars. 1 have hazarded 
 an opinion that Greene's tour must be placed in 1586. It must 
 have been made before August, 1589, since he says that he saw in 
 Paris ' a king fit for so royal a regiment, if he had been as perfect 
 in true religion as politic in martial discipline.' In fact, it must 
 have been before May, 1588, when Henry III fled from Paris, which 
 he was never to enter again. And it must have been considerably 
 before that date, as Greene describes a court altogether undisturbed 
 by proximate dangers. He had travelled in Spain and Italy before 
 1583; but afterwards he saw France, Germany, Poland, and 
 Denmark; and this was, I suppose, in 1586. Greene's sketch of 
 his own life tells us how after his marriage he liad occasion to go 
 to London,^ where he was entangled in the snares of Infida, a 
 
 ^ ' At Cambridge, I light amongst wags as lewd as myself, with whom I 
 consumed the tlower of my youth, who drew me to travel into Italy and Spain, 
 in which places I saw and practised such villany as is abominable to declare. . , 
 At my return into England, I ruffled out in my silks, in the habit of mal- 
 content . . . but after I had by degrees proceeded Master of Arts (1583) I left 
 the University and away to London, where (. . . after a short time . . .) I 
 became an author of plays, and a penner of love-pamphlets. . . Once I felt a 
 fear and horror in my conscience. . . This inward motion I received in Saint 
 Andrew's Church in the city of Norwich, at a lecture or sermon . . . being 
 new-come from Italy. . . But this good motion lasted not long in me. . . 
 Nevertheless, soon after I married a gentleman's daughter of good account, 
 with whom I lived for a while ; but . . . after I had a cliild by her I cast her 
 off . . . then left I her at six or seven, who went into Lincolnshire, and I to 
 London. ' It is clear, however, that his travels were more than to Spain and
 
 366 GREENE'S DENUNCIATION 
 
 woman who flattered liim till lie had spent all his money, and then 
 cast him off. He goes on to tell ns how Praneesco (as he calls 
 himself), in his poverty, cast abont for means of getting bread, and 
 in this humonr ' fell in amongst a company of players, who per- 
 snaded him to try his wit in writing of comedies, tragedies, or 
 pastorals, and if he conld perform anything worthy of the stage, 
 then they wonld largely reward him for his pains.' Therenpon 
 Francesco ' writ a comedy, which so generally pleased all the 
 audience, that happy were those actors in short time that could get 
 any of his works, he grew so exquisite in that faculty.' As his 
 wealth returned, Infida tried to lure him back ; but he had learned 
 wisdom, and therefore returned instead to his wife Isabel, who 
 would not allow him to utter his self-reproaches. ' I see thou art 
 penitent,' she said, 'and therefore I like not to hear what follies are 
 past. It sufficeth for Isabel that henceforth thou AAalt love Isabel ; 
 and upon that condition, without any more words, welcome to 
 Isabel.' 
 
 The mention of the players was an occasion for venting his dis- 
 content with them, which Greene could not afford to let slip. He 
 therefore makes one of the interlocutors ask about them, and then 
 gives this elaborate answer, wdiich, under the mask of a fictitious 
 history, conveys his own personal feelings towards the contemporary 
 stage. ' Although that some, for being too lavish against that 
 faculty, have for their satirical invective been well canvassed ; yet 
 seeing here is none but ourselves, and that I hope what you hear 
 shall be trodden under foot, I wall flatly say Avhat I can, both even 
 
 Italy. He says in his Notable discovery of Cosenage, ' I have smiled with the 
 Italian . . . eaten Spanish mirabolaues . . . France, Germany, Poland, Den- 
 mark, I know them all.'
 
 OF PLA VERS AND PLA YING. 367 
 
 by reading and experience. The invention of comedies were first 
 found amongst tlie Greeks and practised at Athens, some tliink l)y 
 Menander, whom Terence so liiglily conimends in his Jleauton- 
 Tmoriimenos. Tlie reason was, that under tlie covert of such 
 pleasant and comical events they aimed at the overthrow of many 
 vanities that then reigned in the city ; for tlierein tliey painted out 
 in the persons tlie course of tlie world, how either it was graced 
 with honour or discredited witli vices. There might vou see 
 levelled out the vain life that boasting Thrasos use, smoothed up 
 with the self-conceit of their own excellence ; the miserable state of 
 covetous parents, that rather let their sons taste of any misfortunes, 
 than to relieve them with the superfluity of their wealth ; ^ the por- 
 traiture of parasitical friends which sooth young gentlemen subtilly 
 in tlieir follies as long as they may ex eorum sullo [sic] vivere, was 
 set out in lively colours. In these comedies the abuse of bauds 
 that made sale of honest virgins, and lived by tlie spoil of women's 
 honours, was deeply discovered ; to be short, letchery, covetousness, 
 pride, self-love, disobedience of [sic] parents, and such vices pre- 
 dominant both in age and youth, were shot at, not only with 
 examples and instances to feed the eye, but with golden sentences 
 of moral works to please the ear. Thus did Menander win honour 
 in Greece with his works, and reclaim both old and young from 
 their vanities by the pleasant etl'ect of his comedies. After him this 
 faculty grew to be famous in Eome, practised by Plautus, Terence, 
 and other that excelled in this quality, all aiming, as Menander did, 
 in all their works to suppress vice and advance virtue. Now so 
 highly were comedies esteemed in those days, that men of great 
 honour and account Avcre the actors, tlic senate and the consuls 
 ^ But look in Cassiodonis, IV, Vinfi.
 
 368 GREENE ON THE DECADENCE 
 
 continually present as auditors at all sucli sports, rewarding the 
 author with rich rewards, according to the excellency of the coraedv. 
 Thus continued this faculty famous, till covetousness crept into the 
 quality, and that mean men, greedy of gains, did fall to practise the 
 acting of such plays, and in the theatre presented their comedies 
 but to such only as rewarded them well for their pains. When 
 thus comedians grew to be mercenaries, then men of account left 
 to practise such pastimes, and disdained to have their honours 
 blemished with the stain of such base and vile gains; insomuch 
 that both Comedies and Tragedies grew to less account in Eome, in 
 that the free sight of such sports was taken away by covetous 
 desires. Yet the people (\^ho are delighted with such novelties and 
 pastimes) made great resort, paid largely, and highly applauded 
 their doings; insomuch that the actors, by continual use, grew not 
 only excellent, but rich and insolent. Amongst whom, in the days 
 of Tully, one Eoscius grew to be of such exquisite perfection in his 
 faculty, that he offered to contend with the orators of that time in 
 gesture, as they did in eloquence, boasting that he would express a 
 passion in as many sundry actions as Tully could discourse it in 
 variety of phrases. Yea, so proud he grew by the daily applause of 
 people, that he looked for honour and reverence to be done him in 
 the streets, which self-conceit, when Tully entered into with a 
 piercing insight, he quipped at in this manner. 
 
 ' It chanced that Eoscius and he met at a dinner, both guests 
 unto Archias the poet, where the proud comedian dared to make 
 comparison with Tully; which insolency made the learned orator to 
 grow into these terms. "Why, Eoscius, art thou proud with 
 iEsop's crow, being pranked with the glory of others' feathers ? Of 
 thyself thou canst say nothing ; and if the cobler hath taught thee
 
 OF PLA YING, 1590. 369 
 
 to say Ave Casar ! disdain not thy tutor because tliou pratest in a 
 king's chamber. What sentence thou utterest on the stage flows 
 from the censure of our wits ; and what sentence or conceit of the 
 invention the people applaud for excellent, that comes from the 
 secrets of our knowledge. I grant your action, though it be a kind 
 of mechanical labour, yet well done, 'tis worthy of praise ; but you 
 worthless, if for so small a toy you wax proud." 
 
 ' At this Roscius waxed red, and bewrayed his imperfection with 
 silence. But this check of Tully could not keep others from the 
 blemish of that fault, for it grew to a general vice among the actors, 
 to excel in pride as they did exceed in excellence, and to brave it in 
 the streets as they brag it on the stage. So that they revelled it in 
 E-ome in such costly robes that they seemed rather men of great 
 patrimony thau such as lived by the favour of the people, which 
 Publius Servilius very Avell noted ; for he, being the sou of a senator, 
 and a man very valiant, met on a day with a player in the streets 
 richly apparelled, who so far forgat himself, that he took the wall of 
 the young nobleman, which Servilius, taking iu disdain, counter- 
 checked with this fruuip. " My friend " (quoth he), " be not so brag 
 of thy silken robes, for T saw them but yesterday make a great show- 
 in a broker's shop." At this the one was ashamed, and the other 
 smiled ; antl they which heard the quip, laughed at the folly of the 
 one and the wit of the other. Thus, sir, have you heard my opinion 
 briefly of plays ; that Menander devised them for the suppressing 
 of vanities, necessary iu a commonwealth as long as they are used 
 in their right kind ; the playmakers worthy of honour for their art j 
 and players men deserving both praise and profit as long as they 
 wax neither covetous nor insolent.' (Ed. 1590, sig. B4, recto and 
 
 verso, and C recto.) 
 
 VOL. II. 24
 
 J/> 
 
 GREENE'S PICTURE OF 
 
 It seems that this attack on the players in the first part of Never 
 too Late renewed the old quarrels, and subjected Greene to reprisals ; 
 to these Eichard Hake alludes at the end of his lines prefixed to the 
 second part — 
 
 ' But en\'y lives too much in these our days — Firt litis comes invidla.^ 
 And Ralph Sidley still more clearly — 
 
 ' The more it works, the quicker is the wit ; 
 
 The more it writes, the better to be 'steem'd. 
 By labour ought men's wills and wits be deem'd, 
 Though dreaming dunces do inveigh against it. 
 But write thou on, though jVIomus sit and frown ; 
 A Carter's jig is fittest for a clown. 
 Bonum quo commimiiis eo melius.' 
 
 The ' carter's jig ' was probably some country drama in which 
 Greene was glanced at. And as in Menaphon he had shown up, as 
 Doron, the Roscius who had offended him, so in the second part of 
 Never too Late he introduces an episode at the end, ' The Host's 
 tale,' in whicli tlie same jig-maker and player is more virulently 
 attacked under the name of Mullidor. The story is, — A beautiful 
 shepherdess, Mirimida, is woo'd by three lovers ; Eurymachus the 
 shepherd, Radagon the courtier, and Mullidor the clown. The last 
 will be seen to be identical with Doron in Menaphon by any one 
 who will take the trouble to compare the two novels. He is said 
 to be ' a fellow that was of honest parents, but very poor; and his 
 personage was as if he had been cast in iEsop's mould; his back 
 like a lute, and his face like Thersites', his eyes broad and tawny, 
 his hair harsh and curled like a horse-mane, his lips were of the 
 largest size in folio. . . The only good part that he had to grace his
 
 DO RON, FOR SHAk'SPERE, 1590. 371 
 
 visage was his nose, and that was conqueror-like, as beaked as an 
 eagle. . . Into his great head [Nature] put little wit, that he knew 
 rather his sheep by the number, for he was never no good arithme- 
 tician, and yet he was a proper schohir, and well seen in ditties ' 
 (sig. G3). The speeches put into his mouth, and the letter he is 
 • supposed to write, arc the things which serve to identify him with 
 Doron. Thus his address to Mirimida (sig. II), ' Here is weather 
 that makes grass plenty and sheep fat ; by my troth, there never 
 came a more plenteous year ; and yet I have one sheep in my fold 
 that's quite out of likiiii;,-. . . The other day as he was grazing he 
 spied a spotted ewe feeding before him ; with that he fell to gaze on 
 her, and that so long, that he wagged his tail for very joy, and with 
 a sheepish courtesy courted her ; the ewe was coy and butted him,' 
 &c. . . ' You are the ewe that hath so caught MuUidor captive.' 
 . . . Again (sig. H3), ' Oh love, thou art like a flea which bitest sore, 
 and yet leapest away and art not to be found ; or to a pot of strong 
 ale that maketh a man call his father whoreson.' Again (sig. K), 
 ' MuUidor the malcontent, with his pen clapt full of love, to his 
 Mistress Mirimida, greeting. After my hearty commendations 
 remembered, hoping you be in as good health as I was at the 
 making hereof. This is to certify you that love may be compared 
 to a bottle of hay ... or to a cup full of strong ale. . . After the 
 furious flames of your two eyes had set my poor heart on the coals 
 of love, I was so scorched on the gridiron of afl^ection that I had no 
 rest till I was almost turned to a coal ; and after I had tasted of 
 the liquor of your sweet phisnomy, I never left supping of your 
 amiable countenance till with love I am almost ready to burst.' 
 That which is common to Doron and MuUidor is the simple country 
 clownery which eschews, because it knows not, the refinements of
 
 372 ' FAIRE EM' ATTACKED BY GREENE. 
 
 pedantry and scliolarsliip. It is not very consistent that MuUidor's 
 madrigal should have a Trench refrain. 
 
 Whether this episode was an answer to Faire Em, or whether 
 the story of Faire Em and her three lovers was a reply to this 
 episode, I cannot tell. But it is certain that about this time the 
 play of Fah-e Em was in existence, for in his next publication 
 Greene attaclced it with great vii-ulence. Tlie probability is that 
 it was already an old play, Avritten perhaps in 1587, before the 
 Farexoell to Folly was entered on the Stationers' registers. It was 
 meant for a country play, written for Lord Strange's men to act 
 in Lancashire and Cheshire. The references to the ' good Sir 
 Edmond TrafFord ' would be hardly intelligible elsewhere, and 
 Greene's attack upon it would scarcely be made till it had been 
 played on the London boards, and become known to the London- 
 ers, for whom he wrote his pamphlets. 
 
 The play is built on two plots interwoven together. The 
 secondary plot tells of the loves of William the Conqueror, and 
 discusses in the manner of Greene's Arbasto and his Tidlys Love 
 the question, ' What happens when a man loves a lady who dis- 
 likes him, and dislikes another who loves him ? ' The chief plot 
 tells the story of Faire Em, the miller's daughter of Manchester, and 
 her three lovers, Mande^dlle, the Manchester gentleman, and Moun- 
 teney and Valingford, the nobles of William's court. The desertion 
 of Em by Mandeville, after gaining her heart, is a feature also 
 contained in the episode of Alexis and Eosamund in the Mourning 
 Garment. Eosamund, like Em, was beloved by all who saw her, 
 whether king, courtier, or clown. Brought into court to choose 
 her mate, she fixed on the shepherd Alexis ; he carried her home 
 in triumph, but soon secretly transferred his affections to Phillida.
 
 ' FA IRE EM:' ITS PLOT AND MEANING. 373 
 
 This 'at last came to the ears of Rosamund, but she, incredulous, 
 would not believe, nor Alexis confess it, till at last Sydaris [Rosa- 
 mund's father] espied it, and told it to his daughter, wishing her 
 to cast off so inconstant a lover. But love that was settled in the 
 centre of her heart made her passionate, but with such patience 
 that she smothered the heat of her sorrows with inward conceit, 
 pining away as a woman forlorn, till on a day Alexis, over-doating 
 in his fancies, stept to the church and married himself to Phillida.' 
 Rosamund then sings her swan-song and dies ; and Alexis goes 
 down to the water-side and hangs himself in a willow-tree. 
 
 In the play, Em is soon consoled for the loss of Mandeville, 
 but in other respects the foregoing extract is a good summary 
 of some of its scenes. In the last act, where Mandeville, repent- 
 ant, seeks to return to Era, and is rejected both by her and by 
 his new love, comes what Greene perhaps considered the greatest 
 insult. Mandeville rejects love entirely, just as Greene does in 
 the Mourning Garment. Women, he says, are evils; he will none of 
 them. As Philador says to the lover whom he saves from suicide 
 in the Mourning Garment, ' did'st thou know what a world of woes 
 thou dost enter into by taking a wife, thou would'st say, " Fie on 
 love, and farewell to women ! " Re she never so fair, thou shalt 
 find faults enow in her face shortly to mislike .... they are sullen; 
 and be Morosa .... or scolds .... or froward .... deceitful, 
 flattering, sick with the puff of every wind, and lowering at the 
 show of every storm.' 
 
 The play, however, has a symbolical meaning. Roth branches 
 of the plot refer to events in the history of the stage. William the 
 Conqueror is William Kempe, who in 1586 went as head of a 
 company to Denmark to espouse the princess Blanch, that is.
 
 374 'FAIRE EM:' ITS CHARACTERS. 
 
 to make himself the master of the Danish stage. But on his 
 arrival there he was more struck with the chances of another 
 career, and very soon eloped to Saxony, to turn his histrionic 
 talents to more account there. Mounteney and Valingford are two 
 of his company whom he would have taken with him, hut who 
 preferred to stay behind, and contend for the prize of the Man- 
 chester stage, which Lord Strange's players were then bringing 
 into repute.' 
 
 And the second part of the plot carries on the history of this- 
 Manchester contention. The windmill, with its clapper and its 
 grist, is the type of the theatre; the wind is either the encouraging 
 breath of the audience, or the voice of the actors,'' the clapper the 
 applause, and the grist the gains. The miller's daughter is the 
 prize ; he who wins her bears the bell as play-wright. Her three 
 wooers are, 1. Mandeville, Greene, the double-man with two mis- 
 tresses, who knows not whether to devote himself to the play or the 
 pastoral tale, and at last falls between two stools, is rejected by 
 both, and in return rejects both. 2. There is the stilted Mounteney 
 
 1 Look into the histories of Manchester and Lancashire for any notices 
 of the stage, or of town festivals and shows there. 
 
 ' Without favour art is like a windmill without wind. Danish proverb, 
 Bohn's Handbook, p. 270. 
 
 Also B. R.'s dedication of ' Greene's Kews loth from Heaven and HelV 
 to Gregory Coole, to recall him ' from that melancholy conceit that hath so 
 long pestered your brains for the loss of a mill dismembered and shaken down 
 by the rage of a felling putf of wind ; but such a paltry tempest should not 
 dismay a man of your spirit.' 
 
 The Windmill is the tavern where the wedding supper is given in Jonson's 
 Every man in his hiinumr. 
 
 Buckle notices that 'a windmill' is mentioned in the Council Eegister of 
 Aberdeen in 1602. (Posthumous Works, iii. p. 593, No. 684.) 
 
 The player to Eoberto in Greene's Groatsworth of Wit, ' So I am [i.e. 
 a substantial man] where I dwell, reputed able at my proper cost to build a 
 windmill.'
 
 GREENE WRITES AGAINST ' FAIRE EM! 375 
 
 with liis liighflying rodomontade, always losing liis head in the 
 clouds. Tins is Marlowe. 3. There is also the plain-spoken and 
 homely Valingford, who is Shakespeare. !Mandeville is the first 
 love of Em, the first to gain a transient reputation as the most 
 eminent dramatist; Eiu will look on no other, but feigns herself 
 deaf and blind, to prevent the advances of Mounteney and Valing- 
 ford. Mandeville and Mounteney come to think her really deaf 
 and blind, so they forsake her. Valingford sees through the 
 pretence, and by his constancy and perseverance wins her. Moun- 
 teney and Yidingford conclude with making a scorn of Man- 
 deville. 
 
 This satire moved Greene's indignation, and he replied in the 
 introduction to his next work, the Farewell to Tolbj. In the bitter 
 conclusion he tells the writer of Taire Em, that so far from being 
 the first dramatist, he is a dunce who draws his plots from ballads, 
 and cannot write English without the help of parish clerks. The 
 introduction is as follows : 
 
 ' Gentlemen and students (my old friends and companions), I 
 presented you alate with my Mourning Garment. How you censure 
 of the cloth or cut I know not ; but the printer hath passed them 
 all out of his shop, and the pedlar found them too dear for his 
 pack, that he was fain to bargain for the life of Tomlivolin [Tam- 
 burlain] to wrap up his sweet powders in those unsavoury papers. 
 If my garment did any gentleman good I am glad ; if it offended 
 none, I am proud ; if goodman Find-fault, that hath his wit in his 
 eyes, and can cheek what he cannot amend, mislike it, I am 
 careless ; for Diogenes hath taught me that to kick an ass when he 
 strikes were to smell of the ass for meddling with the ass. Having, 
 therefore, gentlemen (in my opinion), mourned long enough for the
 
 376 GREENE'S ATTACK UPON THE AUTHOR 
 
 misdeeds of my youth, lest I should seem too pharisaical in my 
 fasts, or, like our dear English brethren, that measure their prayers 
 by the hour-glass, fall asleep in preaching of repentance, I have now- 
 left off the intent and am come to the effect, and after my mourn- 
 ing, present you with my farewell to follies, an ultimum vale to all 
 youthful vanities, wishing all gentlemen, as well courtiers as 
 scholars, to take view of those blemishes that dishonour youth with 
 the quaint show of pleasant delights. What a glorious show would 
 the spring present if the beauty of her flowers were not nipped w'ith 
 frosts ! How would autumn boast of her fruits if she were not dis- 
 figured with the fall of the leaf! And how would the virtues of 
 youth shine (polished with the ripe conceit of wit) if they were not 
 eclipsed with the cloud of vanity ! Then, sweet companions and 
 love-mates of learning, look into my Farewell, and you shall find 
 the poisons which infect young years, and, turning the leaf, read 
 the antidotes to prevent the force of such deadly confections. Lay 
 open my life in your thoughts, and beware by my loss ; scorn not 
 in your age what you have learned in your accidence ; though stale, 
 yet as sure a c\eck—felix quemfaciunt aliena pericula cautum. Such 
 wags as have been wanton with me, and have marched in the Mercers 
 book to please their mistress eye with their bravery, that, as the 
 frolic phrase is, have made the tavern to sweat with riotous expenses, 
 that have spent their wits in courting of theii- sweet-hearts, and 
 emptied their purses with being too prodigal, let them at last look 
 back to the follies of their youth, and with me say farewell unto all 
 such vanities. But those young novices that have not yet lost the 
 maidenhead of their innocency, nor have not heard the melody of 
 such alluring syrens, let them read, that they may loathe, and that, 
 seeing into the depth of their folly, they may the more detest that
 
 OF ' FAIRE em; i. e. SHAKSPERE. 377 
 
 whose poisoned sweetness they never tasted. Thus, jrenerally, I 
 would wish all to beware by me, to say with me, farewell to folly. 
 Tlicn should I glory that my seed, sown with so much good-will, 
 should yield a harvest of so great advantage. 
 
 ' But, by your leave, gentlemen, some, overeurious, will carp and 
 say, that if I were not beyond I would not be so bold to teaeh my 
 betters their duty, and to show them the sun that have brighter eyes 
 than myself. Well, Diogenes told Alexander of his folly, and yet 
 he was not a king. Others will flout and over-read every line with 
 a frump, and say 'tis scurvy, when they themselves are such scabbed 
 lads that they are like to die of the fazion ^ ; but if they come to 
 write, or publish anything in print, it is either distilled out of 
 ballets,- or borrowed of Theological poets,^ which, for their calling 
 and gravity being loth to have any prophane pamphlets pass under 
 their hand, get some other Batillus to set his name to their verses. 
 Thus is the ass made proud by this underhand brokery. And he 
 that cannot write true English without the help of clerks of parish 
 churches will needs make himself the father of interludes. 'tis 
 a jolly matter when a man hath a familiar style, and can endite a 
 
 1 Fazion, i.e. the fashions, a disease of horses, like glanders. See Taming 
 of the Shrew, iii. 2. It is usually derived from Itai. farcina, Fr. farcin. 
 Fasch, in German, is the thrush, ulcers in children's throats. This, perhaps, 
 is more akin to the disease which Greene evidently alludes to. 
 
 * Part of the plot of Faire Em was prohably distilled from the ballad 
 licensed to Henry Carre, March 2, 1580-1, under the title of The Miller's 
 Daughter of Manchester, 
 
 3 There are pieces of piety in Faire Em worthy of the Elizabethan pulpit, 
 and quite justifying Greene's reference to the Theological poets. That Shake- 
 speare had been compared to an unletter'd clerk by his rivalj appears from 
 Sonnet 80, where he says he caa only — 
 
 ' Like unletter'd clerk still say Amen 
 To eTery hymn that able spirit affords.'
 
 378 GREENE'S MENDACITY. 
 
 wliole year, and never be beholding to art. But to bring Scripture 
 to prove anything he says, and kill it dead with the text in a triflino- 
 subject of love, I tell you is no small piece of cunning. As, for ex- 
 ample, two lovers on the stage arguing one another of unkiud- 
 ness, his mistress runs over him with this canonical sentence, " A 
 man's conscience is a thousand witnesses " ; and her knight again 
 excuseth himself with that saying of the Apostle, " Love covereth 
 the multitude of sins." I think this was simple abusing of Scrip- 
 ture. In charity be it spoken, I am persuaded the Sexton of St 
 Giles without Cripplegate would have been ashamed of such blas- 
 phemous rhetoric. But not to dwell on the imperfection of these 
 dunces, or trouble yon with a long commentary of such witless 
 cockscombs. Gentlemen, I humbly intreat pardon for myself, that 
 you will favour my Farewell, and take the presentation of my book 
 to your judicial insights in good part ; which courtesy if I find at 
 your hands, as I little doubt of it, I shall rest yours, as I have ever 
 done, Eobert Greene.' 
 
 Greene was never careful to be accurate. The lines he quotes 
 are from the closing scene of Faire Em, but are not bandied between 
 two lovers as he describes. Blanche has run away with the man 
 she wants to marry, and begs her father's pardon. He answers, 
 that though she deserves punishment — 
 
 ' Yet love, that covers multitude of sins, 
 Makes love in parents wink at children's faults.' sc. xvii, 1. 1271-2. 
 
 And then, a little way on, when Manville is being examined, whether 
 it was to Em or to Elinor that he first made love, and he says it 
 was to Em, Elinor replies, 
 
 ' Yea, Manville, but there was no w^itness by.'
 
 GREENE'S 'FAREWELL TO FOLLY; &^c. 379 
 And Em retorts, 
 
 'Thy conscience is a thousand witnesses.' sc. xvii, 1. 130S. 
 
 Greene, we see, here pretends that Shakespeare could not have 
 written the play himself : it was written by some Theological poet, 
 and fathered by him. Por himself, he could not write true English 
 without the help of a parish clerk, and the sexton of St Giles' 
 Cripplegate woidd have been ashamed to have had a hand in such 
 blasphemy as this. These insinuations are nothing extraordinary 
 ill the polemics of the period. "When ])ocker began to ridicule 
 Ben Jonson fur his ' lime and hair,' i. e. his trade of a bricklayer, 
 under the mask of Eraulo in FatknL Grmel, he ventured to say of 
 the scholar that a challenge sent by him was not his own, but that 
 ' he gave a sexton of a church a groat to write it, and he set his 
 mark to it, for the gull can neither write nor read.' In the satirists 
 of this period we must not always look for truth, however distorted. 
 It was rather their cue to abuse with the most grotesque and im- 
 probable lies. 
 
 [11 this Farewell to Folly Greene changed his usual ' posy ' 
 omne tulit pimctum, into sero sed serio, a sentence adopted from the 
 Introduction to his Morning Garment. He dedicated it to Eobcrt 
 Gary, son of Lord Ilunsdon, who had been a fellow-collegian at 
 Oxford with his friend Lodge, through whom, perhaps, he obtained 
 the introduction to him. In the dedication he says that he is ' in- 
 debted to all gentlemen, that with favours have overslipt mv 
 follies. Follies I term them, because their subjects have been 
 superficial and their intents amorous, yet mixed with such moral 
 principles that the precepts of virtue seemed to crave pardon for all 
 those vain opinions love set down in his periods.' But age, he says,
 
 38o GREENES OTHER WORKS j 
 
 compels him petere graviom ; and lie writes his Farewell to Folly to 
 satisfy the hope of his friends, and to make the world privy to his 
 private resolution. In this work he ' renounces love for a fool, and 
 vanity as a vein too unfit for a gentleman.' But, he adds, ' some 
 are so peremptory in their opinion, that if Diogenes stir his stumps 
 they will say it is to mock dancers, not to be wanton ; that if the 
 fox preach, it is to spy which is the fattest goose, not to be a 
 ghostly father ; that if Greene write his Farewell to Folly, 'tis to 
 blind the world with folly, the more to shadow his own folly. My 
 reply to these thought-searchers is this— I cannot Martinize, swear 
 by my fay in a pulpit, and rap out gogs-wounds in a tavern, feign 
 love when I have no charity, or protest an open resolution of good 
 when I intend to be privately ill ; but in all public protestations 
 my words and my deeds jump in one sympathy, and my tongue and 
 my thoughts are relatives,' 
 
 This dedication to Eobert Gary is evidently posterior to the 
 dedication to him of Orpharion (licensed in 1589), when Greene 
 had no other knowledge of his patron but what he had heard, 
 probably from their common friend Lodge. . . . ' Hearing your wor- 
 ship to be indued with such honourable virtues and plausible 
 qualities as draws men to admire and love such united perfection, 
 I embolden myself to trust upon your worships courteous accept- 
 ance, which if it be such as others have found and I hoped for,' &c. 
 
 Greene declared that his Farewell to Folly was ' the last of such 
 superficial labours,' and he told his readers to look for graver mat- 
 ter at his hands. This graver matter was his attack on coney- 
 catchers, contained in several pamphlets, one of them a mere piracy 
 from Harman's Caveat to cursitors'^. In his Repentance (1592, sig. 
 
 1 See the edition by Mr Viles and Mr Furnivall, Early English Text 
 Society.
 
 HIS DEATH; ' CROATSWORTH OF IVIT; 1592. 381 
 
 C3) he thanked God for haviuf^ put this course into his head ; 
 beeause these discourses were his only publications which he could 
 hope would do good, lie did not, however, loii^' confine himself 
 to his new trade. Early in 1592 he published his PJulomela, and 
 in the address he wrote : ' 1 promised, Gentlemen, both in my 
 Monrnbig Garment and Farewdi to FoUi/, never to busy myself 
 about any wanton pamphlets again ... but yet am 1 come, contrary 
 to vow and promise, once again to the press with a labour of love, 
 which 1 hatched long ago, though now brought forth to light.' 
 The Quip for an npdart Courtier published the same year is not ' a 
 labour of love,' and so argues no breach of promise, though it is a 
 flat piracy from the anonymous dialogue between velvet breeches 
 and cloth breeches.^ Not so, however, his posthumous publication, 
 written shortly before his death in September, 1592 (he was buried 
 on the 4th of that month), A Groatuworth of wit bought with a 
 million of repentance.^ This novel is to most intents a reproduction 
 of Francesco's fortunes in Never too Late ; its great interest centres 
 in the letter to his brother play-wrights which the author appended 
 to it, addressed ' To those gentlemen his quondam acquaintance, 
 that spend their wits in making plays, E. G. wisheth a better exer- 
 cise, and wisdom to prevent his extremities.' First he addresses 
 Marlowe, the ' famous gracer of tragedians,' whom he implores to 
 abandon his ' pestilent Machiavclian policy.' ' The broaeher of this 
 diabolical atheism is dead,' he says, . . . ' ended in despair,' and 
 ' inherited the portion of Judas.' It was a favourite myth that 
 Machiavelli had died by suicide. Malone made a bad guess when 
 
 1 Not Francis Thynne's. The written F. T. on the title is a forgery. 
 See my edition of Thynne's Auimadvcrsiuns. — F. J. F. 
 
 2 Reprinted in New Shakspere Soc.'s Allusion-Books, 1874.
 
 3S2 GJ^EEyE'S ADDRESS TO THE PLAYWRIGHTS, 
 
 lie supposed that Kett, -who was burnt for heresy at Norwich in 
 1589, was the person here referred to. After Marlowe, Greene ad- 
 dresses ' young Juvenal, that biting Satirist, that lastly Avith me writ 
 a comedy,' and calls him ' Sweet boy.' This is generally supposed 
 to be Thomas Lodge, who was even at this time a satirist, for his 
 book, A Fig for Momm, 1595, was only a selection from volumin- 
 ous manuscripts that he had by him ; he also had written a comedy, 
 A looking glass for London and England, in conjmiction witli Greene. 
 Dr Parmer thought the man referred to was Nash ; but Malone 
 thought this impossible, as Chettle, the publisher of the Groats- 
 icorlli of TTit, laboured to vindicate Nash from being the writer of 
 it, which he would not have needed to do, if any part of it had been 
 professedly addressed to Nash. Yet I think it was Nash : for, 
 first. Lodge was absent from England ; he had sailed with Caven- 
 dish on the 26th of August, 1591 ; on the 13th of September, 1592, 
 the ships got sight of the South Sea, and after cruel storms hardly 
 escaped. One of the vessels reached Ireland June 11, 1593. 
 Lodge can scarcely have been in England much before ; and at the 
 time when Greene is supposed to have been addressing him he was 
 being bulFetted in the Straits of Magellan. Secondly, Greene would 
 scarcely have dwelt so strongly on Lodge's youth, or called him 
 ' sweet boy,' when Lodge was his elder by about two years. Nash, 
 on the other hand, was younger than Greene by seven years. Once 
 more, the ' young Juvenal ' does not seem to have been a professed 
 play-writer, and is only addressed as such by Greene because he 
 had ' lastly with him together writ a comedy.' Lodge and Greene's 
 joint play was probably some five years old in 1592. But Greene 
 and Nash had been since associated together in writing biting 
 satires on Mar-Prelate and the puritans. Some of these satires
 
 IN HIS 'GROATS IV OR Til OF WIT,' 1592. 383 
 
 were ' May games' exhibited on the stage. 1 would even go so far 
 as to risk the conjecture that the Knack to know a Knave} as we 
 have it now, is tlic very comedy which was patched up by Nash 
 and Lireene out of an older phiy, as an attack on Marlinism. On 
 the other hand, Chcttle's ignorance of Lodge and Nash is no marvel. 
 He was unacquainted also -with Shakespeare. Moreover, those who 
 thought Nash tlie author of tlu; Groahirorlh af Jf'it may well have 
 thought that he addressed himself as a device to blind readers to 
 his authorship. 
 
 The third of the persons addressed by Greene is George Peele ; 
 and then comes the joint address to all three of them : ' base minded 
 men all three of you, if by niy misery ye be not warned ; for unto 
 none of you, like me, sought those burs to cleave ; those puppets I 
 mean that speak from our mouths, those antics garnished in our 
 colours. Is it not strange ^ that I to whom they all have been 
 beholding — is it not like that you to whom thev all have beholdiu"- 
 shall, were ye in that case that I am now, be both of them at once 
 forsaken? Yes, trust them not; For there is an upstart crow 
 beautified with our feathers, that with his ti//res heart tcrapt in a 
 players hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank- 
 verse as the best of you ; and being an absolute Johannes-fac-totum, 
 is in his own conceit the only Shakescene in a country. Oh 
 that I might intreat your rare wits to be employed in more pro- 
 fitable courses, anil let these apes imitate your past excellence, and 
 never more acquaint them with your admired inventions ! . , . seek 
 
 ^ The Knafk to know a Knave was acted, as a new play, by Lord Strange's 
 men, in June, 1592. The Looking glass was acted by them, as an old play, on 
 the Sth of March, three months previously. The date of the Knack thoroughly 
 well agrees with Greene's expression lastly. 
 
 * «". f., If it is not.
 
 384 GREENE'S ALLUSIONS TO 
 
 you better masters ; for it is pity men of sucli rare wits should be 
 subject to tbe pleasures of such rude grooms. 
 
 ' In this I might insert two more that both have w^rit against 
 these buckram gentlemen ; but let their own work serve to witness 
 against their own wickedness if they persevere to maintain any more 
 such peasants. For other new comers, I leave them to the mercy of 
 these painted monsters. . . Trust not then . . . such weak stays, for 
 they are as changeable in mind as in many attires. "Well, my hand 
 is tired, and I am forced to leave where I would begin ; for a whole 
 book cannot contain their wrongs, which I am forced to knit up ia 
 some few lines of words.' 
 
 The quarrel, which thus at last found articulate utterance, had 
 been long brewing. There can be very little doubt that the Shake- 
 scene who ' supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank- 
 verse as the best of you,' is the same man whom Nash, under 
 • Greene's instructions, had attacked three years before as one of the 
 ' idiot art-masters ' of the players, ' that intrude themselves ... as 
 the alchemists of eloquence, who (mounted on the stage of arro- 
 gance) think to outbrave better pens with the swelling bombast of 
 bragging blank -verse.' The idea ' beautified with our feathers ' 
 had been constantly used both l)y Greene and Nash. In Nash's 
 Preface to Menaphou, 1589, the actors were ' taffata fools tricked 
 up with our feathers;' in Never too Late, 1590, Greene makes 
 Cicero say to Koscius, ' Why art thou proud with ^sop's crow 
 being pranked with the glory of others feathers ? ' The phrase, 
 therefore, does not necessarily mean that Shakespeare had altered 
 and appropriated ' certain plays which had been written either 
 separately or conjointly, by Greene, Marlowe, Lodge, [Nash] or 
 Peele,' as Mr Dyce says. It simply means that he was an actor.
 
 SHAKSrERE AND OTHERS. 385 
 
 who had acted in plays written by those men, and was thus dressed 
 out in their feathers. And althougli the obscure author of Greene i 
 Funeralt, who thought Greene Jove for judgment, Apollo for learn- 
 ing, Mercury for eloquence, and Guy for courtesy, chooses to 
 interpret the passage, ' the men that so eclipsed his fame purloined 
 his plumes,' yet Chettle who luul published the accusation had to 
 retract it, and to confess that ' divers of worship have reported his 
 [Shakespeare's] uprightness of dealing which argues his honesty, 
 and his facetious grace in writing that approves his art.' Shake- 
 speare, he says, had too much honesty to steal, and too much 
 facility in writing to need to steal. 
 
 So much for the epistle annexed to the Groatsicorth of Wit. In 
 the novel itself, Greene gives us a new and improved version of his 
 tirst introduction to the players, and his subsequent life. In Never 
 too Late he called himself Francesco ; here he calls himself Roberto, 
 and opens the story with his marriage, his desertion of his wife, and 
 his attachment to a courtezan, on whom he wasted aU his substance. 
 When he is reduced to poverty his leman discards him ; he sits like 
 an outcast under a hedge, and bemoans his wretched plight. ' On 
 the other side of the hedge sat one that heard his son-ow, who, 
 getting over, came . . . and saluted Roberto. . . " If you vouchsafe 
 such simple comfort as my ability will yield, assure yourself that I 
 will endeavour to do the best that . . . may procure your profit . . . 
 the rather, for that [ suppose you are 1 scholar ; and pity it is men 
 of learning shouhl live in lack." Iloberto . . . uttered his present 
 grief, beseeching his advice how he might be employed. " Why 
 easily," quoth he, "and greatly to your benefit; for men of my 
 profession get by scholars their whole living." " What is your 
 
 profession?" said Roberto. "Truly, sir," said he, "I am a 
 VOL. II. 26
 
 386 THE ACTORS' QUARREL 
 
 player." " A player ! " quoth Eoberto ; " I took you rather for a 
 
 gantleman of great living ; for if by outward habit men should be 
 
 censured, I tell you you would be taken for a substantial man." 
 
 "So am I, where I dwell," quoth the player, "reputed able at my 
 
 proper cost to build a windmill. What though the Avorld once 
 
 went hard with me, when I was fain to carry my playing fardel a 
 
 foot-back ? Tempora mutantur — I know you know the meaning of 
 
 it better than I, but I thus construe it — // is oihcrwhe 7iow ; for 
 
 my very share in playing apparel will not be sold for two hundred 
 
 pounds." "Truly," said Eoberto, "it is strange that you should 
 
 so prosper in that vain practice, for that it seems to me your voice 
 
 is nothing gracious." " Nay, then," said the player, " I mislike 
 
 your judgment ; why, I am as famous for Ddphry/jus and The King 
 
 of Fairies as ever was any of my time ; The twelve labours of 
 
 Hercules have I terribly thundered on the stage, and played three 
 
 scenes of the Devil in The Highway to Heaveti." " Have ye so ? " 
 
 said Eoberto ; " then I pray you pardon me." " Nay, more," quoth 
 
 the player, " I can serve to make a pretty speech, for I was a country 
 
 author, passing at a Moral ; for it was I tliat penned The Moral of 
 
 Marl's roit, The Dialogue of Lives, and for seven years space was 
 
 absolute intei-preter of the puppets. But now my almanac is out of 
 
 date : 
 
 ' The people make no estimation 
 Of morals, teaching education — ' 
 
 TVas not this pretty for a plain rhyme extempore ? If ye will ye 
 shall have more." " Nay, it is enough," said Eoberto; " but how 
 mean ye to use me ? " " Why, sir, in making plays," said the other, 
 " for which you shall be well paid, if you will take the pains." 
 Eoberto, perceiving no remedy, thought it best to respect his
 
 WITH GREENE. 387 
 
 present necessity, [and,] to try his wit, went with him willingly ; 
 who lodged him at the town's end in a house of retail . . . there by 
 conversing with bad company, he grew a malo hi pejita, fulling from 
 one vice to another. . . But Tlobcrto, now famoused for an arch- 
 playmaking poet, his purse, like the sea, sometime swelled, anon, 
 like the same sea, fell to a low ebb ; yet seldom he wanted, his 
 labours were so well esteemed. Marry, this rule he kept, whatever 
 . he fingered beforehand, was tlic certain means to unbind a bargain ; 
 and being asked why he so slightly dealt with them that did liiiu 
 good, "It becomes me," saith he, "to be contrary to the world. 
 Por commonly when vulgar men receive earnest, they do perform. 
 When I am paid anything aforchand, I break my promise." ' 
 
 This last sentence, taken in conjunction with the following para- 
 graph from Cuthbevt Cony-catchers Defence of Cony -catching, 1592, 
 easily justifies the actors in their conduct to Greene. ' "What if I 
 should prove you a cony-catcher, Master E[obert] G[reene], would 
 it not make you blush at the matter? . . . Ask the Queen's players 
 if you sold them not Orlando Ftirioso for twenty nobles, and when 
 they were in the country sold the same play to the Lord Admiral's 
 men for as many more? ... But I hear, when this was objected, 
 that you made this excuse ; that there was no more faith to be held 
 with players than with them that valued faith at the price of a 
 feather; for as they were comedians to art, so the actions of their 
 lives were Camelion-like ; that they were uncertain, variable, time- 
 pleasers, men that measured honesty by profit, and that regarded 
 their authors not by desert, but by necessity of time.' 
 
 It is singular that Greene should here select Delphrygus and the 
 King of Fairies as the note of the actor whom he denounces, just as 
 Nash bad done three years before in his preface to Menajihon.
 
 388 SHAKSPERE AS AN ACTOR. 
 
 Whether Delphrygus is the ' laureate bachelor Del Phrj^gio ' men- 
 tioned by Guilpin in his SJiialetheia, or a mistake for BdpJiegor, 
 maliciously foisted on the actor, I know not. Belphegor, Oberon, 
 the Devil in the Highvai/ to Heaven, Merlin and his spirit father 
 (referred to in Pertmedes), are all characters which Ave may well 
 suppose the youthful Shakespeare meditated upon. What he has 
 done with Oberon we all know. There are scenes in the Birth of 
 Merlin, one of the plays attributed to him, that are almost worthy 
 of his pen. Even the scenes respecting Belphegor in Grim the 
 Collier may retain something of the corrections and alterations of 
 the managing Johannes-fac-totum. But to leave such mere con- 
 jectures, and to come to more safe ground. Whoever studies this 
 series of quotations from Greene's publications will see that this 
 attack on Shakespeare in 1592 is no sudden thought, no isolated 
 ebullition, without antecedents and preparation, but that it is the 
 crowning blossom of a long jealousy, Avhich began with Greene's 
 first introduction to the actors, and his discovery that there were 
 those among them who dared to pen interludes and morals, and to 
 write speeches to be introduced into the plays. His enormous idea 
 of his own genius, his jealousy, his dictatorial nature, and his 
 intolerance of critic or rival, are discoverable in his earliest writings, 
 and he seems to have entered into engagements with the players on 
 the assumption that he and his fellow-scholars were to have the 
 monopoly of writing, as the players had the monopoly of acting 
 what he wrote. This was his idea of the just division of labour, 
 and the player wlio transgressed these limits was to be treated 
 as an intruder and trespasser, and attacked with any scurrility 
 that could be found at the bottom of his inkhorn. Greene 
 was as thoroughly unscrupulous in his literary relations as in his
 
 GREENE'S CHARACTER. 389 
 
 domestic and social life. As he made no scruple of selling; tlie same 
 play to two sets of actors, so lie made no scruple of stealing the 
 printed dialogue between ' velvet and cloth breeches ' and Harman's 
 * revelations of rogues,' and publishing them as his own. We have 
 seen by his remarks on Faire Em how totally untrustworthy he is 
 as a critic. He was a man whose direct assertions upon oath were 
 not worthy of credit, and whose insinuations are no foundation for 
 any conclusion in favour of the truth of the particular circumstances 
 he wishes to insinuate. Yet it is upon these insinuations that most 
 of the current surmises about the early authorship of Shakespeare 
 are founded. That he appropriated and refurbished other men's 
 plays ; that he was a lacklatin who had no acquaintance with any 
 foreign language, except perhaps Trench, and lived from the trans- 
 lator's trencher, and such like. Throughout we see Greene's 
 determination not to recognize Shakespeare as a man capable of 
 doing anything by himself. At first, Greene simply fathers some 
 composition of his upon ' two gentleman poets,' because he, in 
 Greene's opinion, was incapable of writing anything. Then as to 
 Faire Em, it is either distilled out of ballads, or it is written by 
 some theological poet who is ashamed to set his own name to it ; 
 it could not have been written by one who cannot write English 
 without the help of a parish clerk. Then at last, Greene owns that 
 his rival might have written a speech or two, might have interpreted 
 for the puppets, have indited a Moral, or might be even capable of 
 penning the JFiudmll — the Miller s Dauglder^ — without help ; but 
 Greene will not own that the man is capable of having really done 
 that which passes for his ; all that can be said is, that in his self- 
 
 1 So I interpret the words before quoted, ' reputed able at my proper cost 
 to build a windmill.'
 
 390 ' FAIRE EM', EXTERNAL AND INTERNAL 
 
 conceit lie supposes lie is able to bombast a blank verse, or that lie 
 is the first of Shakescenes. Here is a long and vain struggle of 
 five years against the growing popularity of a rival whom Greene 
 was determined never to recognize, but sooner to withdraw from 
 writing plays at all, and to persuade all his friends to do the same. 
 
 Such, then, is the external evidence for attributing Jaire Em to 
 Shakespeare. It remains to inquire how far the play itself is con- 
 sistent with his authorship. 
 
 1. The play was written for the company of actors that belonged 
 to Lord Strange, to whom Greene dedicated his TulUes Love, a 
 book which seems to have been glanced at by the dramatist in one 
 portion of his double plot. That Shakespeare was known to Lord 
 Strange is clear from Spencer's words about him^ in his Teares of 
 the Muses, 1591, dedicated to the wife of Lord Sti-ange, then Earl 
 of Derby, ' Our pleasant JFilly, ah ! is dead of late.' According to 
 tradition, Shakespeare was employed by the family to write the fine 
 epitaph on Sir Thomas Stanley in Tonge Church. Shakespeare's 
 mother, if she belonged to the Cheshire Ardens, as the arms sketched 
 by Dethicke indicate, would have been a connection of the Stanleys. 
 Perhaps, also, the play may have been written during the time when, 
 according to Spenser, Shakespeare was dead to the London stage, 
 that is, in 1589 and 1590, while the Martinist controversy filled 
 the theatres wath theological scurrility. The play was written for 
 Lancashire. Not only are the chief scenes at Manchester, Avith 
 references to Chester and Liverpool, but it has allusions which 
 would be unintelligible in London, or, if understood, flat and unin- 
 teresting. In the second scene the Miller of Manchester reveals to 
 
 » The general opinion of the best critics now is, that these words do not 
 refer to Shakspere, but probably to Lilly.— F.
 
 EVIDENCE OF ITS BEING SHAKSPERE'S. 391 
 
 the audience that he is not a miller, but a kniglit, obliged so to dis- 
 guise himself on account of the Norman invasion — and then he 
 says — 
 
 'Why should not I content me witli this state, 
 As good Sir Edmond Trafford did the flail ? ' 
 
 The tradition in the Trafford family is, that during a struggle 
 with the Norman invaders the Trafford of the dav had to disguise 
 himself as a thresher, and was found with the flail by the soldiers, 
 Hearne {Curious Discourses, i. 262, 8°. 1771) says, ' The ancientest 
 [armorial device] I know or have read is that of Trafords or 
 Trafard in Lancashire, whose arms [crest] are a labouring man 
 with a flail in his hand threshing, and this written mott, Noic Thus, 
 which they say came by this occasion : that he and other gentle- 
 men opposing themselves against some Normans who came to 
 invade them, this Traford did them much hurt, and kept the pas- 
 sages against them ; but that at length the Normans having passed 
 the liver came suddenly upon him, and then he, disguising himself, 
 went into his barn, and was threshing when they entered ; yet being 
 known by some of them, and demanded why he so abased himself, 
 answered " Now Thus ".' In Flower's Visitafwi of Lancashire, 
 1567, this crest is said to have been granted to the family by 
 Lawrence Dalton, Norroy. This makes its date about the middle 
 of the 16th century. At that time several of the great Chester and 
 Lancashire families made simdar additions of crests to the plain 
 prescriptive coat-armour which they had previously borne. Sir 
 Edmond Trafford was the head of the family at the period of the 
 play, a well-known man, more than once sherift' of the county, and 
 keeper of the prison for recusants at Manchester. Sir Thomas
 
 392 CHARACTERISTICS OF SHAKSPERE'S 
 
 Goddard, on the contrary, is, so far as Lancashire is concerned, a 
 mythical personage, and Trafford's name is only connected with his 
 in order to give an air of local probability to the story. 
 
 2. When we come to estimate the internal evidence of author- 
 ship we are at once confronted with this difficulty. , The play has 
 come to us badly edited from a bad manuscript, which was 
 probably no transcript from the original, but only from some steno- 
 graphic report made by a zealous spectator. It was not printed 
 till forty years after its first production, and is probably no better 
 a representation of its author's mind than some of the early and 
 defective quartos of Shakespeare's known works are of the works as 
 Le really wrote them. In examining Ya'ire Em it must not be 
 compared to Hamlet or the Merry JFlves of Winchor as we have 
 them, but to those plays in the quartos of 1603 and 1G02. But 
 even as the play stands there is much, both in its general structure 
 and its details, that is Shakespearian. 
 
 The plot, like the plots of many of Shakespeare's known plays, 
 is a not unskilful combination of two stories. These are conducted 
 independently of each other in alternate scenes, like the serious and 
 comic parts in 1 Hen. IV., till in the last scene they unite. The 
 two plots are similar, and at the same time contrasted. One gives 
 the story of one man contracted to two women, and losing them 
 both ; the other tells of one woman contracted to two men, and 
 successfully palming off a substitute on the less favoured lover. 
 Tliis lover is made, in the last scene, the judge of the inconstant 
 man of the former plot, by which means the several issues of their 
 loves stand out in stronger contrast ; and it is at last by the de- 
 cision that celibacy is the fit punishment for the jealousy and 
 fickleness of the inconstant man, that the judge is reconciled to a
 
 WORK, AND OF 'FA IRE EM: 393 
 
 woman fraudulently imposed upon him. This weaving together of 
 distinct plots into a unity is eminently Shakespearian in its broad, 
 principles. 
 
 3. And the same thing must be said of some of the special 
 points in the conduct of the plot. Thus the identity of effect pro- 
 duced iirst upon Mountency, and then upon Yaliiigfonl, by the 
 feigned blindness and deafness of Em, in Scene VII., which raises 
 in each, independcutly of the other, the same suspicions, and the 
 same determination, has its exact counterpart in Much Ado about 
 NotJiing, II. sc. 3, and III. sc. 1, where Benedick and Beatrice are 
 imposed on by the same device. Stevens remarks that this is an 
 imperfection similar to that which Dr Johnson has pointed out in 
 the Merry IFiix's of JFiudsor : — ' the second, contrivance is less in- 
 genious than the first : — or, to speak more plainly, the same inci- 
 dent is become stale by repetition.' It is interesting to observe 
 how the repetition of similar situations was one of Shakespeare's 
 principles of art, to be used, not always, but in proper place and 
 time. The same remark applies to the two enamoured men over- 
 hearing each other's soliloquies, in Scene iv., and thereby finding 
 each other out — an incident similar to that in Loves Labour Lod, 
 iv. sc. 3.^ (The same thing occurs in Richard III.) 
 
 4. In the method of exposition of the plot, Faire Em is quite 
 Shakespearian. There is hardly a drama older than 1591 which 
 does not set forth its story either epically, by narrative, or 
 pantomime-like, by a dumb show, with or without the interpreta- 
 tion of a chorus. One of the great characteristics of Shake- 
 speare's art is, that he did away with this artless method, and 
 
 1 Also the tsvo similar episodes of the son who has killed his father, and the 
 father who has killed his only son, in 3 Hen. F/,' 2 . 5.
 
 394 SHAKSPERE'S REFORMS IN 
 
 showed how to make the exposition grow naturally and by degrees 
 out of the dialogue, without formal naiTative or dumb show. This 
 was one of the steps in his great design of simplifying the materials 
 of his dramas, and of doing away with all that was incongruous. The 
 audience finds itself gradually becoming acquainted with all neces- 
 sary preliminaries, not directly, by any formal process, but indirectly, 
 through the chance references of the speakers. In Falre Em the 
 exposition of the plot is of this simple character, 
 
 5. This reform in the exposition of the plot stands in close 
 connection with a similar reform in the exposition of the characters 
 of the persons of the drama. With our earlier dramatists the 
 principles of the dumb show, or rather puppet show, affect the 
 whole form of their dramas. As poets, they speak rather like in- 
 terpreters to the puppets than like dramatists. An example will 
 best show what is meant. A puppet, let us say, is brought on the 
 stage for Friar Bacon. The interpreter, who has to speak for him, 
 beholding his ovnx assumed personality objectively before him, 
 naturally speaks in the third person — 
 
 ' Bacon can by looks 
 Make storming Boreas thunder from his cave — 
 The great Arch-ruler, potentate of hell, 
 Trembles when Bacon bids him.' 
 
 And so forth. But a human being acting the part, and entering 
 into the character subjectively, would desire to say all this in the 
 first person. The professional and scholastic poets, who probably 
 held aloof from acting, were much scandalized when an actor 
 usm-ped their function, and undertook to write dramas. But the 
 actor knew what was wanted better than they. They w^ere not 
 used to transfuse their souls into their characters, and speak be-
 
 DRAMATIC WRITING. 395 
 
 lilnd the mask. Tliey contemplated the outside of the characters 
 wliioli tlicy manufactured rather tliau created. They set about 
 making speeches for them by the written rules of rhetoric, not by 
 any secret formative psychological process. In their dramas it 
 often seems as if the speaker of tlie words and the actor of the 
 part were two different beings, whom the dramatists did not see 
 the necessity of uniting into one. Each character is divisible into 
 actor and speaker, and the speaking soul addresses the acting soul 
 
 as a distinct entity. Bacon enters, addresses himself, ' Now, 
 
 Bacon, rouse thy slumbering courage, address thee to thy task,' 
 and so forth, and then turns to the audience, and tells them who 
 Bacon is, and whjat Bacon does or will do. Is he in difficulties ? 
 He exhorts himself, and uses the same rhetoric to himself that he 
 would use to another. Does he threaten ? He tells Avhat he will 
 do, as if it was to be done not by him, but by another. Tliis 
 pedantic and scholastic method is characteristic of Lily, and the 
 Euphuists. Traces of it occur now and then in Shakespeare ; but 
 he uses it not as a permanent form, but as a transient figure of 
 speech. Each of his dramatic persons has his own self-conscious- 
 ness, and says, like a reasonable being, ' I am hungry,' not like 
 an idiot, ' Poor Tom's a-cold.' Perhaps in Taire Em the figure in 
 question is used somewhat oftener than in Shakespeare's acknow- 
 ledged dramas, yet it occurs but seldom, and then only as a tran- 
 sient figui'e, and with a good psychological reason for its use. As 
 when in Scene VIII Lubeck persuades his affianced lo\cr, ^lariana, 
 to take William instead, she asks, ' Wherein hath ]\Iariana given 
 you occasion ? ' and complains, ' Lubeck regards not Mariana.' 
 Feminine modesty prompts such a change of person when a woman 
 is holding a man to his bargain of marriage.
 
 396 ' COMMON SENSE' OF SHAKSPERE'S 
 
 6. Another of the cliaracteristics of Shakspere is his unerring 
 common sense ; his feeling of congruity, whether in manners or 
 morals, in taste or in feeling. With all his inexhaustible wealth of 
 imagination, and his daring use of it, he has always the fear of 
 the ridicnlous before his eyes, and never gets upon stilts. His 
 imagery may be colossal, it is never disproportioned. The moon- 
 raking grandiloquence of Marlowe, Greene, and Peele, Shakespeare 
 only laughed at, or treated with ' ironical censure.' Peek's inven- 
 tion of Mahamet robbing a lioness of a lump of flesh to feed his 
 fainting Callipolis was a perpetual amusement to him, and he 
 patches together Pistol's speeches with the tatters of this tawdry 
 eloquence. That Falre Em is not generally at fault on this score is 
 proved by the sense of incongruity with which we stumble on this 
 figure in Scene IV. — 
 
 ' Her beauty and her virtues may suffice 
 To hide the blemish of her birth in hell, 
 Where neither envious eyes nor thought can pierce, 
 But endless darkness ever cover it.' 
 
 It is true that this speech is given to Mounteney, who, in accord- 
 ance with his name, is often tall in talk, like a mountain in labour. 
 But the violent contrast and far-fetched image which makes a girl's 
 beauty hide her low birth in hell is almost too much even for 
 Greene. Once more, a characteristic of our earlier dramatists is 
 their absurd manner of making each character his own trumpeter, 
 by applying to himself the most glorious epithets. Of this practice 
 there is one apparent example in Faire Em, where William says, in 
 reference to his fancy suddenly fired by the sight of a picture — 
 
 ' No sooner had my sparkling eyes beheld 
 The flames of beauty blazing on this piece, 
 Than suddenly,' &c.
 
 METHOD, CONTRASTED WITH MARLOWE'S, ^c. 397 
 
 But here 'sparkling' is clearly contrasted willi 'blazing' and 
 ' flames ' in the next line, and is consequently used rather in a 
 modest than a vainglorious sense, disparaging the embryo fires of 
 his own eyes in comparison to tlie bhize of Blanch's beauty. 
 
 7. Closely connected witli yiiakespcare's artistic moderation 
 and common sense is his moral uprightness, rectitude of judgment, 
 and soundness of feeling. Moral surprises are as frequent as 
 artistic plunges in jNIarlowe, Greene, and Peele. One is never sure 
 of a character. Actions are heaped up together, not as growing 
 out of a man's nature, but as if he was a mere puppet obliged to do 
 what circumstances suggested, without any choice of his own. 
 When once such a theory was admitted, the more violent the sur- 
 prises, the more effective they would be ; and doubtless it would be 
 considered quite grand to make a man in peril begin his prayer — 
 
 ' O Gods and stars — damned be the gods and stars ! ' 
 
 or to make him kill himself at the end of a scholastic exposition of 
 the guilt of self-murder. Tn Taire Etn, though there are plati- 
 tudes enough, as Avhen the ' Denmark King ' says of Duke William, 
 
 ' I so admire the man 
 As that I count it heinous guilt in him 
 That honcui's not Duke William with his heart.' 
 
 Yet these blemishes are in the corrupt and defective dialogue, In 
 the plot itself, the moral developments are all thoroughly natural, 
 and the reader is never shocked, or alffctcd witli incredulous surprise, 
 at the forced sequence of moral cause and efl'ect. Perhaps the most 
 unusual moral situation is where Lubeck avoos his own affianced 
 bride for Duke William (scene viii.). But this is taken from 
 Greene's romance of Tallies Love, and is, moreover, in itself Shake-
 
 398 PHILOSOPHY OF SHAKSPERE'S SONNETS. 
 
 spearian. It is like Valentine resigning all Lis part in Silvia to 
 Proteus, in The two Gentlemen of Verona, and is justified by the 
 pliilosophy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, one of the chief lessons of 
 which is, that friendship between two men is greater than love 
 between man and woman, and that friendship gives and forgives 
 things which love itself would jealously guard and revenge. 
 
 S. AVheu from the generalities of the plot and the characteriza- 
 tion we come down to tlie more special forms of speech, we still, in 
 spite of the copyist and printer, find much that may remind us of 
 Shakespeare. Shakespeare was a great creator in language ; yet the 
 constant criticism which his contemporaries, from Greene to Ben 
 Jonson, passed on him was that he Avas ignorant of language, and 
 no scholar. This may be true, for there is more than one kind of 
 ignorance. There is a crass ignorance, both of form and matter, 
 which can create nothing ; and there is an ignorance of detail, joined 
 with a knowledge of form, which may be the parent of a matchless 
 strength. If it were not for a kind of judicious forgetfulness, there 
 could be neither philosophy nor poetry. Generalization would be 
 impossible if every accidental detail were as vividly represented to 
 the mind as the more general forms. There must be a voluntary 
 or involuntary oblivion of individualities, in him who forms to him- 
 self the idea of the species. And as it is in philosophy, so it is 
 also in poetry. The figures and images of the poet, — who paints 
 with words, and tells you what he means not so much by sounds as 
 by signs, by pictures conjured up before the eye rather than by the 
 wonted significance of the words that enter the ear, — would be 
 almost impossible if an abstract mode of thought always presented 
 him on the instant with the proper generalized word to express his 
 meaning. The forgetfulness, the want of instantaneous power iu
 
 SHAKSPERE'S SCHOLARSHIP. 399 . 
 
 one direction, obliges him to put out his strength in another direc- 
 tion. Thus the philosopher's abstract thought is the compensation 
 for a difficulty in instantaneously recalling the concrete details, and 
 the poet's pictorial and concrete exposition is the compensation for his 
 habitual oblivion of the philosophical abstract. The poet and the 
 philosopher each has his weak side ; and this weakness is, as it were, 
 the matrix of his strength. Sir William Hamilton's philosophy 
 assigns to the limitation and impotence of the faculty a great part 
 in the genesis of its universal ideas. As in morals, humility is at 
 the root of grandeur of character, so in philosophy and poetry there 
 is a weakness which generates strength. 
 
 It is not diliicult to imagine how ignorance of linguistic details, 
 in a mind rich in ideas, and travailing with the domineering neces- 
 sity of expressing them, should produce new forms and methods of 
 expression, some perhaps doomed to immediate and deserved 
 oblivion, others at once seized on by the popular mind, and assimi- 
 lated to the connnon speech. In a language like ours, which 
 borrows so largely of other tongues, the scholar feels constrained 
 not to wander too far from the native meaning and use of the 
 borrowed word ; but the orator, or poet, who is not a scholar, will 
 venture on combinations which scholars would never dare produce, 
 and the result will be happy according to his genius. In such a 
 man we should be likely to see a laborious endeavour, a struggle to 
 make words mean something which commonly they do not mean, 
 and to tmst them and coil them together so as to condense a long 
 thought into a short phrase. We find this in Shakespeare ; and to 
 some extent also in Faire Em. Thus (Scene i. 1. 11) : 
 
 ■ I amorously do bear to your intent,'
 
 400 SHAKSPERIAN PHRASES, 
 
 wliere 'bear' is for 'bear myself,' and the line means, 'I accept 
 your intentions with all love.' In the same scene William describes 
 the effect produced on him by Blanch's picture, borne by Lubeck : 
 
 ' A sense of miracle 
 Imagined on thy lovely mistress face, 
 Made me abandon bodily regard, 
 And cast all pleasure on my wounded soul.' 
 
 [p. 408, 1. 37, et seq.-\ 
 
 Meaning ' the picture made me imagine a miracidous beauty in the 
 original ; and this imagination caused me to abandon all regard for 
 the bodily feats of the tournament, and to find my pleasure only in 
 the fresh wound love had given my soul.' In the same scene, 
 
 ' Advance your drooping spirits,' 
 
 reminds one more directly of Shakespeare. In the next scene — 
 
 ' Our harmless lives, which, led in greater port. 
 Would be an envious object to our foes.' 
 
 Port of course means carriage, or career; it is a Avord common 
 enough. But the phrase ' envious object,' for ' object of envy,' is 
 quite characteristic. So is this line — 
 
 ' ThraUed to drudging, stayless of the Avorld.' [p. 413, 1. 114.] 
 
 ' To whom the world affords no stay.' So in scene iv. 1. 2S5 — 
 
 ' He ruminates on my beloved choice.' 
 
 ' On her whom I have chosen to love.' In scene v. Ave have 
 ' testies ' for testimonies, and ' suspicious ' for suspected. In scene 
 vi., ' It might be alleged to me of mere simplicity,' for ' I might 
 well be called a simpleton for it.' In scene vii. — 
 
 ' I should ghostly give my life to sacred prayers.' [1. 600.]
 
 FIGURES, P^c, IN' F AIRE FM: 401 
 
 ' I should become a nun, and dedicate my spiritual life to prayer.' 
 lu scene viii. 1. 747 — 
 
 ' Lest that suspicion, conscious of our weal, 
 Set iu a foot to hinder us.' 
 
 There seems somethinp; beyond the common in tluis malcing a 
 vague guess equivalent to the consciousness or full knowledge of 
 personified suspicion. In scene x. — 
 
 ' And get we once to sea, I force not then 
 We quiclvly shall attain tlie English shore.' [11. 810-11.] 
 
 ' To force ' in passages like this usually means ' to regard,' ' to 
 heed,' as 'I force not argument a straw.' But Shakespeare uses 
 the word just in those border spaces where the meaning of ' heed ' 
 passes over into that of ' doubt.' ' You force not to forswear ' 
 {Love's Labour's Lost, V. ii., 41-0), 'you doubt not,' 'you boggle 
 not,' rather than ' you heed not,' or ' regard not.' So in tlie lines 
 of Faire Em, ' I doubt not we shall soon reach England.' Observe, 
 too, the absolute infinitive in the passage in scene xii. 1. 910 — 
 
 ' she likewise loved the man. 
 Which he, to blame, did not at all regard.' 
 
 In scene xiii. we have ' revengement ' for revenge ; and in scene 
 
 xiv., ' I betake you to your journey,' for ' [ commend you,' or ' I 
 
 bid you betake yourself.' In scene xvi., 'Because I shall complete 
 
 my full resolved mind,' for ' In order (hat I may fidly carry out mv 
 
 resolutions.' Here we iiiul also ' reproaehment ' for ' reproach.' In 
 
 scene xvii. we have 'competitors' in the sense of fellow-seekers, 
 
 associates, not rivals (cf. Shakespeare, Richard III, iv. 4). And 
 
 here also occurs the characteristic line Avhen Mandeville turns from 
 VOL. II. 26
 
 402 INTERNAL EVIDENCE THAT 
 
 Em, who rejects liiin, to Elinor, wlio, as lie supposes, will accept 
 liiin. 
 
 ' Then fare-well, frost ! well-fare a wench that will! ' [1. 1358.] 
 
 Cases of the substantive used as an adjective, such as ' the 
 Britain Court,' ' the Denmark King,' and of the adjective for the 
 substantive, as ' Duke of Saxon,' are scarcely characteristic enough 
 to need quotation. 
 
 9. To pass from words and figures of speech to forms of thought 
 and imagery, we need only make cursory reference to the studied 
 antithesis, which, as being no more special to Shakespeare than to 
 Lily and the Euphuists, are of no value in determining a question 
 of authorship. Such an antithesis as — 
 
 ' I turn my conquering eyes 
 To cowards looks and beaten fantasies ' [p. 408, 1. 14]— 
 
 is rather characteristic of the time than of any particular author. 
 If, however, it were required to produce from Faire Em passages 
 which have the true Shakespearian ring in them, it would be diffi- 
 cult to do so. It is true that the chain of precepts given by the 
 miller to his daughter, in Scene ii., is similar to that given by 
 Polonius to Laertes in Hamlet, and by the Countess to Bertram in 
 AlVs Well that Ends Well, and the concluding lines of the advice 
 might pass for Shakespeare's — 
 
 ' Chaste thoughts and modest conversations. 
 Of proof to keep out all enchanting vows, 
 Vain sighs, forced tears, and pitiful aspects, 
 Are they which make deformed ladies fair. 
 Poor, rich : and all enticing men 
 That seek of such but only present grace, 
 Shall, in persev'rancc of a virgins vow,
 
 ' FAIRE EM' IS SHAKSPERES. 403 
 
 Prefer the most refusers, to the choice 
 
 Of such a soul as yielded what they sought.' 
 
 [p. 413, 11. 141, &c.] 
 
 So might "William's reflections when he first sees Mariana — 
 
 * Not very fair, but richly decked with favour ; — 
 A sweet face ; — an exceeding dainty hand ; — 
 A body — were it IVaiiiM of wax 
 By all the cunning artists of the world, 
 It could not better be proportioned.' [p. 41 7, 11. 228—32.] 
 
 This reference to artists is quite a characteristic touch. Another 
 hint of Shakespeare's sesthetics is given later on when he speaks 
 of sweet Em as one in whom 
 
 ' Nature, in her pritlc of art, 
 Hath wrought perfections.' [p. 427, 11. 474-5.] 
 
 The following lines also from scene iv. [11. 2G.')- — -'J] may be quoted 
 
 in this relation — 
 
 ' Ah, Em ! the subject of my restless thoughts — 
 The anvil whereupon my heart doth beat, 
 Framing thy state to thy desert — 
 Full ill this life becomes thy heavenly look. 
 Wherein sweet love and virtue sits enthroned.' 
 
 And, if we are seeking for the Shakespearian ring, it must, we 
 think, be owned that the whole of scene viii., where Lubeck 
 courts ilariana for William, and the concluding scene of all, are 
 neither of them quite unworthy of our great poet. 
 
 If, however, it be asked whether Ta'ire Em is on the whole a 
 play which, from internal evidence, would seem to be Shakespeare's, 
 the candid answer must be, No. On the other hand, its defects, so 
 far as they are not fairly attributable to defective editing and print- 
 ing, are not greater than those of the older parts of Pericles and
 
 404 THE ' MUCEDORUS' ADDITIONS, SHAKSPERES. 
 
 Timon of Athens, or tlie wliole of The irouhlesome raigne of King 
 John, and not much greater than those of the EamUt of the quarto 
 of 1603. That is to say, the internal evidence, though not suf- 
 ficient by itself to establish Shakespeare's claim to the play, is not 
 inconsistent with its being his, if there is competent witness that it 
 is so. The fact that the first scene in the play is a rather inferior 
 imitation of the first scene of Greene's Friar Bacon rather confirms 
 than invalidates the conclusion drawn above, that it is a play 
 written by Shakespeare upon Greene. 
 
 A question may arise, whether, if we give any value to the 
 evidence of the 'bookbinder' who included Faire Em in vol. i. of 
 Shakespeare's works, the same evidence will not oblige us to con- 
 fess that Mucedorus and the Merry Devil of Edmonton are also his. 
 As for Mi'.cedorus, although the old play, as we have it in the 
 editions of 159 S and 1606, is too bad to be Shakespeare's, un- 
 less it was written in his verv earliest davs, vet the additions in 
 the edition of 1610, which contain a manager's apology for an offence 
 given by his company, have in them a ring quite consistent with 
 Shakespeare's authorship, who, though too good an artist to patch 
 cloth of frieze with cloth of gold, yet could hardly help showing a 
 fibre of his golden vein in anything that he scribbled. These 
 additions are. Scene i. after the Induction ; the scene beginning on 
 Sign. D3 ; the part relating to the entrance of ' the Yalentia Lord,' 
 on Sig. F 2, verso ; and the whole concluding scene between 
 Comedy and Envy except the fifteen opening lines.' As for the 
 Merry Devil of Edmonton, though it was entered on the Stationers' 
 books in 1608 bv Hunt and Archer as 'written bv T. B.,' vet 
 
 1 See Mr Simpson's Paper on Mucedorus and Faire Em in the Xtto 
 Shakspere Society's Trans., 187-3-6, pp. 157 — 180.
 
 ' THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON: 403 
 
 in 1653 H. Moseley entered it as the production of Shakespeare. 
 Perhaps a proper investigation miglit find evidences of his hand in 
 parts of this play also. At any rate Moseley's entry proves that 
 the tradition did not arise simply from the carelessness of a book- 
 binder. 
 
 It might be worth while to gather up the traditional fragments 
 concerning the connection between William I. and Sven Esthrithson, 
 K. of Denmark. The Berkeley tradition says that E<)bert Fitz- 
 Ilarding was son of Harding, Mayor of Bristol, Governor of 
 Bristol, son of the King of Denmark, and a follower of William the 
 Conqueror. See the Berkeley Legend in the Antiquary.
 
 A PLEASANT COMEDIE OF FAIRE EM, 
 
 ^ke JHiUcr's daughter oi ^Unrhcstcr. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 William the Conqueror, after- 
 march disguised as Hubert de 
 Windsor. 
 
 Marquess Lubeck, a Danish 
 noilemati. 
 
 MouNTENEY, ) Gentlemen of WH- 
 
 Valingford, ) Ham's Court. — 
 Suitors to Faire Em. 
 
 Mandeville, a gentleman of 
 Manchester. 
 
 Duke Dirot, ) Norman nobles, 
 
 De March. ) left governors of 
 England during Williavis ab- 
 sence. 
 
 Sir Thomas Goddard, disguised 
 
 as tJie Miller of 3Ianchester. 
 
 Fair Em, Jiis daughter. 
 
 Trotter, his man. 
 
 King of Denmark {SwcT/n). 
 
 Blanch, his daughter. 
 
 Makiana, a Swedish captive of 
 Siveyn, beloved bg Lubech. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 ROSILIO, courtier of King of Den- 
 marli. 
 
 Ambassador from. Siveyn to Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 Soldiers — A ttendants. 
 
 Citizen of Chester. 
 
 Elinor, his daughter.
 
 407 
 
 A PLEASANT COMEDIE OF FAIRE EM, 
 
 "Ullvc ^lillcv's daughter ot ^l.mclustcr; 
 
 WITH Tin: LOVE OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.' 
 
 ACTUS rillMUS. SCiENA PRLMA. 
 
 Enter William the Conqueror; Marques Lubeck, icith a 
 picture; MouNTNEY; Manvile; Valingfordj a/id Duke 
 
 DiROT. 
 
 Marques. What means fairc Britaiiics miglity Conqueror 
 So suddenly to cast away his staff, 
 And all in passion to forsake tlic tilt r 
 
 I). Dirut. My Lord, this triumph we solemnize here'* 4 
 
 Is of mere love to your increasing joys, 
 Only expecting cheerful looks for all ^ ; 
 What sudden pangs then moves your majesty 
 To dim the brightness of the day with frowns ? 8 
 
 W. Conqueror. Ah, good ray Lords, misconster not the cause ; 
 At least, suspect not my displeased brows : 
 I amorously do bear to your intent '', 
 For thanks ; and all that you can wish, I yeeld. 12 
 
 1 See Note 1, p. 4G7. ^ we have here set forth (Clietwood). 
 
 3 For similar absolute use of at all, see p. 421, 1. 334. 
 
 * See Introd., p. 399.
 
 4oS A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Eut that wliicli makes mc blusli and sliame to tell 
 
 Is cause why thus I turn my conquering eyes 
 
 To cowards looks and beaten fantasies. 
 
 Mourdnei/. Since we are guiltless, we the less dismay 16 
 
 To see this sudden change possess your cheer, 
 
 For if it issue from your own conceits 
 
 Bred by suggestion of some envious thoughts, 
 
 Your highness wisdom may suppress it straight. 20 
 
 Yet tell us (good my Lord) what thouglit it is 
 
 That thus bereaves you of your late content, 
 
 That in advice we may assist your Grace, 
 
 Or bend our forces to revive your spirits, 24 
 
 W. Con. Ah, Makques Lubeck, in thy power it lies 
 
 To rid my bosom of these thraled^ dumps 2; 
 
 And therefore, good my Lords, forbear awhile 
 
 That we may parley of these private cares, 28 
 
 Whose strength subdues me more than all the world. 
 Valhujford. We go, and wish thee^ private conference 
 
 Public affects*, in this accustomed peace. 
 
 \Exit all hut William and the Makques. 
 William. Now, Marques, must a conqueror at arms 32 
 
 Disclose himself thrald -5 to unarmed thou'^hts 
 And, threatened of a shadow, yield to lust''. 
 No sooner had my sparkling eyes beheld 
 
 The flames of beauty blazing on this piece, 36 
 
 But suddenly a sense of miracle, 
 Imagined on thy lovely mistress'' face, 
 
 1 Thralled 2 woes (Ch.) 3 the 
 
 * effects « thralled e loy^ ^qij^^ 7 maistres
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 409 
 
 Afade me abandon bodily regard, 
 
 And cast all pleasures on my wounded soul ^ : 40 
 
 Then, gentle ^I.vrques, tell me what she is, 
 
 That thus thou honourest on thy warlike shield ; 
 
 And if thy love and interest be such 
 
 As justly may give place to mine — 44 
 
 That if it be, my soul with honour's wings 
 
 May fly into the bosom of my dear — 
 
 If not, close them, and stoop into my grave ! 
 
 Marques. If this be all, renowned Conqueror, 48 
 
 Advance your drooping spirits and revive 
 The wonted courage of your conquering mind ; 
 For this fair picture painted on my shield 
 
 Is the true counterfeit of lovely Blanch, 52 
 
 Princess and daughter to the King of Danes, 
 "Whose beauty and excess of ornaments 
 Deserves another manner of defence. 
 
 Pomp, and high person to attend her state 5G 
 
 Than Marques Lubeck any way presents. 
 Therefore her virtues I resign to thee, 
 ALreadv shrin'd in thy religious breast. 
 
 To be advanced and honoured to the full. 60 
 
 Nor bear I this- an argument of love. 
 But to renown fair Blanch, my Sovereign's child. 
 In every place where I by arms may do it. 
 
 William. Ah, Marques^, thy words bring heaven vnto my 
 <soul! 6t 
 
 1 See Iiitrod., p. 400. 2 this as.— G. 
 
 3 friend (Ch.) * Word out : soul is in Ch.
 
 4IO A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act I. 
 
 And had I heaven to give for thy rcAvard, 
 
 Thou shouklst be throned in no unworthy place — 
 
 But let my uttermost ^ wealth suffice thy worth. 
 
 Which here I vow : And to aspire the bliss 68 
 
 That hangs on quick achievement of my love, 
 
 Thyself and I will travel in disguise. 
 
 To bring this lady to our Brittain court. 
 
 Margiies. Let William but bethink what may avail, 72 
 
 And let me die if I deny my aid. 
 
 William. Then thus — The Duke DiROT,and th' Earl Dimarch^. 
 Will I leave substitutes to rule my Realme, 
 
 While mightie love forbids my being here ; 76 
 
 And in the name of Sir Egbert of Windsor^ 
 Will go Anth thee unto the Danish Court. 
 Keep William's secrets, Marques, if thou love him. 
 Bright Blanch, I come ! Sweet fortune, ^favour me*, 80 
 
 And ^ I will hmd thy name eternally ^ ! [Exeunt. 
 
 [SCENE II.] 
 
 Enter the Miller, and Em his daui/Jder. 
 
 Miller. Come, daughter, we must learn to shake off pomp, 
 To leave the state that erst beseemed a knight 
 And gentleman of no** mean discent, 84 
 
 To undertake this homely millers trade : 
 
 1 utmost (Ch.) 2 Dimach (Bodleian, no date). 
 
 3 dele Sir. Ch. Las, — feigned name of Robert Windsor. 
 
 * — ■* smile on me. Ch. 
 
 " — ^ altars shall be raised to worship thee. Ch. 
 
 ^ dele no (Ch.) not a ? :
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 4" 
 
 Thus must we mask to save our wretched lives, 
 
 Threatened by Conquest of tl)is hapless Isle, 
 
 Whose sad invasions by the Conqueror^ 88 
 
 Have made a number such as we subject 
 
 Their erentlc necks >aito their ^ stubborn yoke 
 
 Of drudging labour and base peasantry. 
 
 Sir Thomas Goddard noAv old Goddard is, 92 
 
 GoDDARD the miller of fair Manchester. 
 
 "Why should not I content me with this state, 
 
 As good Sir Edmond Trofferd did the flail ? 
 
 And thou, sweet Em, must stoop to- high estate 96 
 
 To join with mine, that thus we may protect 
 
 Our harmeless lives, wbicli, led in greater port, 
 
 Woidd be an envious object to our foes. 
 
 That seek to root all Britain's Gentry [up] lOU 
 
 From bearing countenance against their tyranny '*. 
 
 Em. Good father, let my full resolved thoughts 
 With settled patience to support this chance 
 
 Be some poor comfort to your aged soul; 104 
 
 For therein rests the height of my estate — 
 That you are pleased with this dejection"*, — 
 And that all toils my hands may undertake 
 May serve to work your worthiness content. 108 
 
 Miller. Thanks, my dear daughter. These thy pleasant words 
 Transfer my soul into a second heaven : 
 And in thy settled mind my joys consist, 
 My state revived^, and I in former plight. 112 
 
 ' the 2 io }iigji probably a misprint for to like. 
 
 * These two lines out of Ch. ■• Line out of Ch. ' Eevives
 
 412 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Altliough our outward pomp be tlius abased, 
 
 And tlirall'd to drudging, stayless of the world ^, 
 
 Let us retain those honourable minds 
 
 That lately governed our superior state, 116 
 
 Wherein true gentry is the only mean 
 
 That makes us differ from -base millers born 2. 
 
 Though we expect no knightly dclicates, 
 
 Nor thirst in soul for former sovereignty, 120 
 
 Yet may our minds as highly scorn to stoop, 
 
 To base desires of vulgars worldliness, 
 
 As if we were in our precedent way. 
 
 And, lovely daughter, since thy youthful years 124 
 
 Must needs admit as^ young affections, 
 
 And that sweet love unparti-al perceives * 
 
 Her dainie^ subjects thorough every parf^. 
 
 In chief receive these lessons from my lips, 128 
 
 The true discoverers of a Virgin's due. 
 
 Now requisite, now that I know thy mind 
 
 Something inclined to favour Manvils suit, 
 
 A gentleman, thy lover in protest ; 132 
 
 And that thou mayst not be by love deceived. 
 
 But try his meaning fit for thy desert. 
 
 In pursuit of all amorous desires, *" 
 
 Regard tliine honour. Let not vehement sighs, 136 
 
 ' Stayless of the. world out of Cli. See Introd., p. 400. 
 2—2 plebeian birth (Ch.) ^ of (Ch.) 
 
 * ' perceives ' is clciu-ly wrong : perhaps deceives, or peruses, or pursues, or 
 perverts ; a dissyllable is wanted it' wc read uii-par-ti-al, a trisyllable if tm- 
 par-tial. * Of course dediity. 
 
 6 These two lines out of Ch. ' This line out of Ch.
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 413 
 
 Nor earnest vows iinportinj^ fervent love, 
 
 Render thee subject to tlie wrath of hist ^. 
 
 For tliat, transformed to former- sweet delight, 
 
 Will bring thy body and thy soul to shame. 1-iO 
 
 Chaste thoughts and modest conversations, — 
 
 Of proof to keep out all enchanting vows, 
 
 Vain sighs, forced tears, and pitiful aspects — 
 
 Are they that make deformed ladies fair, lit 
 
 3 Poor wretch^, and all* enticing men, 
 
 That seek of such but only present grace, 
 
 Shall in persevcraiice of a Virgins due^ 
 
 Prefer the most refusers, to tlie choice 148 
 
 Of such a soul as yielded what they '^thought" — 
 
 But ho ! where's Trotter^? 
 
 Here enters Trotter, the Miller'^ man, to them: and they wilh'in 
 call to him for their grid. 
 
 Trotter. Where's Trotteu? why. Trotter is here. I' faith, 
 you and your daughter go up and down weeping and waraenting, 
 and keeping of a wamentation, as who should say, the Mill would 
 Ko with your wamenting. 
 
 1 love (Ch.) 
 - form of. The use of former is a proof that the copy was taken by short- 
 hand, from hearing, not from a MS. 
 
 ^ — 3 And poor ones rich ; 
 
 * all here should be such, and such in next line should be all. 
 
 ^ ? vow 6 ; sought. 
 
 ' Compare this entire speech with Polonius' advice to Laertes {Hamlet, 
 
 1603, C2), and to Oplielia (lb., same loaf, verso). In that play the precepts 
 
 are more concentrated than here. It is clearly a later performance. See also 
 
 Introd. p. 402. 8 These six lines are out of Ch.
 
 414 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Miller. How now, Trotter, wliy complaiu'st tlioii so? 155 
 
 Trotter. Wliy, yonder is a company of young men and maids, 
 keep such a stir for their grist, that they woukl have it before my 
 stones be ready to grind it. But, i' faith, I woukl I could break 
 wind enough backward : you should not tarry for your grist, I 
 warrant you. 160 
 
 Miller. Content thee, Trotter, I'll ^ go pacify them, ^^f^g^^j^®^.^ 
 
 Trotter. I Avis you \\ill when I cannot. ^Vhy look, neck. 
 you have a mill — why, what's your mill without me ? Or rather, 
 Mistress, what were I without you? 164< 
 
 Em. Nay, Trotter, if you fall a chiding, I will give you over. 
 
 Trotter. I chide you, dame, to amend you. You are too fine to 
 be a Miller's daughter; for if you should but stoop to take up the 
 toll-dish, you will have the cramp in your finger at least ten weeks 
 after. 169 
 
 Miller. Ah, well said, Trotter. Teach her to play the good 
 huswife, and thou shalt have her to thy wife, if thou canst get her 
 good wiU. 173 
 
 Trotter. Ah, words ! wherein I see Matrimony come loaden 
 
 with kisses to salute me : Now let me alone to pick the mill, to fill 
 
 the hopper, to take the toll, to mund the sails, yea, and to make the 
 
 mill to go with the very force of my love. 176 
 
 \IIere tliey must call for tJieir griat withl>i.'\ 
 
 I come, I come ! I' faith, now you shall have your grist, or else 
 Trotter will trot and amble himself to death. 
 
 \They call him again. Exit. 
 
 1 I will (B. n. d.)
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 415 
 
 [SCENE III.] 
 
 Enter King of Denmark, wi7/i some attendanU ; Blanch, his 
 daagJder; Mariana; Marques Lubeck; V^uaaxu, disf/ulsed. 
 
 King of Denmark. Lord INIarques Lubeck, welcome home. 
 Welcome, brave Knight, unto the Denmark King, 180 
 
 Eor William's sake, tlie noble Norman Duke, 
 So famous for liis fortunes and success. 
 That graccth him with name of Conqueror; 
 Eight double welcome must thou l)e to us. 184 
 
 Rob. IFindsor. And to my Lord the King shall I recount 
 Your graces courteous entertainment. 
 That for his sake vouchsafe to honour me, 
 
 A simple knight, attendant on his grace. 188 
 
 King Den. But say. Sir Knight, what may I call your name ? 
 Hob. Win. Robert Windsor, and like your majesty. 
 King. Den. I tell thee, Robert, I so admire the man 
 As that I count it heinous giult in liim 192 
 
 That honours not Duke William with his heart. 
 Blanch, bid this stranger welcome, good my girl. 
 
 Blanch. Sir, 
 Should I neglect your highness charge herein 196 
 
 It might be thought of base discourtesy. 
 Welcome \ Sir Knight, to ^Denmark, heartily 2. 
 
 Eobert TFind. Thanks, gentle lady. Lord Marques, what is 
 she? 200 
 
 1 Elanch's speech commences with Welcome in Ch. 
 2 — 2 Denmark's royal court (Ch.).
 
 41 6 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act I. 
 
 Luheck. That same is Blanch, [the] daughter to the King, 
 The substance of the sbadow that you saw. 
 
 Rob. Wind. May this be slie for whom I cross'd the seas ? 
 I am ashamed to think I was so fond — 204 
 
 In whom there 's nothing tliat contents mv mind — 
 ^ 111 head, worse featured 2, uncomely, nothing courtly ; 
 Swart and ill-favoured, a collier's sanguine skin. 
 I never saw a harder favour'd slut^; 208 
 
 Love ber? for what? I can no wbit abide her ! 
 
 King of Ben. Makiana, I bave tbis day received letters 
 From SwETiiiA, that lets me understand 
 
 Your ransom is collecting there with speed, 213 
 
 And shortly shall be hither sent to us. 
 
 Mariana. Not that I find occasion of'* mislike 
 My entertainment in your graces court. 
 But tbat I long to see my native home. 216 
 
 King Ben. And reason bave you, j\Iadam, for the same ^. 
 Loud Marques, I commit unto your charge 
 The entertainment of Sir Egbert here; 
 
 Let him remain with you within tbe Court, 220 
 
 In solace and disport to spend tbe time. 
 
 Roh. Wind. I thank your highness, '^ whose bounden I remain ^. 
 
 {Exit King or Denmark. 
 
 Blanch {Hpealieth this aecrethj at one end of the stage). 
 Unhappy Blanch, what strange effects are tbese 
 Tbat works within my thoughts confusedly ? 224 
 
 1 See note to next p., with quotation from Comedy of Error. t. 
 
 2 face 3 maid "(Ch.) 
 
 * to 5 xhis lino not in Ch. 6_6 Xot in Ch.
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 417 
 
 That still, metliiiiks, aflcctioii draws nie on, 
 To take, to like, nay more, to love this knight. 
 
 Roh, Wind. A modest countenance ; no heavy sullen look ^ ; 
 Not very fair, but richly deck'd witli favour ; 228 
 
 A sweet face; an exceeding; dainty hand; 
 A bodv, were it framed ^ of wax 
 By all the cunning Artists of the world. 
 It could not better be proportioned^. 232 
 
 Lubeck. How now. Sir Robert ? In a study, man ? 
 Here is no time for contemplation. 
 
 Rob. TF'uid. ]\Iy Lord, there is a certain odd conceit 
 Which on the sudden greatly troubles me. 23G 
 
 Ltibeck. How like you Blaxcii ? I partly do perceive 
 The little boy hath played the wag with you. 
 
 Sir Robert. The more I look the more I love to look. 
 Who says that Mariana is not fair? 2 KJ 
 
 I'll gage my gauntlet 'gainst the envious man 
 That dares avow there livetli her compare. 
 
 Lnbeck. Sir Uobert, you mistake your counterfeit — 
 This is the lady which you came to see. 244 
 
 Sir Rob. Yea, my Lord : she is counterfeit indeed, 
 For there 's the substance that best contents mc*. 
 
 Lubeck. That is my love. Sir Uobert, you do wrong me. 
 
 1 looking at Mariana. - all of 
 
 3 It is cliai'acteristic that the writer looks to art, not to nature, for the 
 highest beauty. See my MS. on tlie Sonnets, p. 27. Cf., or contrast, Comedy 
 of Errors, iv. 2. 20— 
 
 ' 111 fac'd, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere ; 
 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, tinkind ; 
 Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.' See also Introd. p. 403. 
 * doth best, &c. Or, substance best contenteth me. 
 VOL. II. 27
 
 4i8 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act I. 
 
 Robert. The better for you, sir, she is your love — 248 
 
 As for the Avrong, I see not how it grows. 
 
 Lubeck. In seeking that which is anothers right. 
 
 Robert. As who should say your love were privileged, 
 That none might look upon her but yourself. 252 
 
 Lubeck. These jars becomes not our fxmiliarity, 
 Nor will I stand on terms to move your patience. 
 
 Rob. Wliv, mv Lord, 
 Am not I of flesh and blood as well as you ? 256 
 
 Then give me leave to love as well as you. 
 
 Liih. To love, Sir Robert; but whom? not she I love. 
 Nor stands it with the lionour of my state 
 To brook corrivals with me in my love. 260 
 
 Rob. So, Sir, we are thorough^ for that L[ady]2. 
 Ladies, farewell. Lord Maeques, will you go ? 
 I'll find a time to speak with her I trow^. 
 
 Lubeck. With all my heart. Come, ladies, will you walk ? 264 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [SCENE IV.] 
 
 Enter Manvile alone, disguised. 
 
 Manv. Ah, Em ! the subject of ray restless thoughts — 
 The anvil whereupon my heart doth beat, 
 Framing thy state "^ to thy desert — 
 
 Eull ill this life becomes thy heavenly look, 2G8 
 
 Wherein sweet love and virtue sits enthroned ^^ 
 
 ^ TItorough, a mistake — perhaps thwart. 'So, sir, we're thwart for.' 
 
 2 dele Ch. 3 dele Ch. 
 
 * lowly state (Ch.) 6 gge Introd., p. 403.
 
 Act I.] OF FAIRE EM. 419 
 
 Bad world ! wlierc riches is esteemed above them both ^ ; 
 
 In whose base eyes nought else is bountiful ! 
 
 A millers daughter, says the multitude, 2/2 
 
 Should not be loved of a gentleman — 
 
 But let them breathe their souls into the air -, 
 
 Yet will I still affect thee as myself, 
 
 So thou be constant in thy plighted vow. 27G 
 
 But here comes one — I'll listen to his talk. 
 
 [Manvile days, lading himself. 
 
 Enter Valingford at another door, disrjuhed'^. 
 
 Valing. Go, William Coxquebou, and seek thy love — 
 Seek thou a minion in a foreign land, 
 
 AYhilst I draw back and court my love at home — 280 
 
 The Millers daughter of fair Manchester 
 Hath bound my feet to this delightsome soil. 
 And from her eves do dart such golden beams 
 That holds my heart in her subjection. 284- 
 
 Mauv. He ruminates on my beloved choice : 
 God grant he come not to prevent my hope. 
 But here's another, him I'U listen to. 
 
 Enter Mountney, disguised, at another door. 
 L. Mount. Nature unjust, in utterance of thy ai-t, 288 
 
 1 'bove both are esteemed most (Ch.) 
 
 » 2 116, III. ii. 391 : ' Here could I breathe my soul into the air.' (It is 
 in the 1. Coiit., p. 4G.) 
 
 2 Something like the scene in Love a Lahout^s Lost. See Introd., p. 393.
 
 420 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act I. 
 
 To grace a peasant with a prince's fame ^ ! 
 
 Peasant am I, so to misterm my love : 
 
 Althoua:li a ■Millers daughter by licr birth, 
 
 Yet may her l)oauty and her virtues well suffice 292 
 
 To hide the blemish of her birth in hell, 
 
 Where neither envious eyes nor thought can pierce, 
 
 But endless darkness ever smother it ^. 
 
 Go, William Conqueror, and seek thy love, 296 
 
 Whilst I draw back and court mine own the while. 
 
 Decking her body with such costly robes 
 
 As may become her beauty's worthiness ; 
 
 That so tliy labours may be laughed to scorn, 300 
 
 And she thou seekest [out] in foreign regions 
 
 Be darkened and eclipsed when she ariives 
 
 By one that 1 have chosen nearer home. 
 
 Manv. AVhat comes he to', to intercept my love ? 304 
 
 Then hie thee, Manvile, to forestall such foes. \_Exit Man. 
 
 Mount. Wliat now, Lord Yalingford, are you behind? 
 The King hath chosen you to go with him. 
 
 Vol. So chose he you, therefore I marvel much 308 
 
 Tliat both of us should linger in this sort. 
 What may the King imagine of our stay ? 
 
 Mount. Tlie King may justly think we are to blame : 
 But I imagin'd I might well be spared, 312 
 
 And that no other man had borne my mind. 
 
 Val. The like did I : in friendship then resolve 
 What is the cause of your unlookt for stay ? 
 
 1 frame,— Ch. - Sec Introd., p. 39G. 
 
 ' too (Cli.)
 
 Act II.] OF FAIRE EM. 421 
 
 Mount. Lord Valingfokd, I tell thcc as a friend: 316 
 
 Love is the cause wliv 1 have staved behind. 
 
 Val. Love, ray Lord 'f of w lioin ? 
 
 Mount. Em, the millers daughter of Manchester. 
 
 Val. But raay this be? 3:20 
 
 Mount. Why not, my Lord? I hope full well you know 
 That love respects no diUerence of state, 
 So beauty serve to stir affection. 
 
 Val. But this it is that makes me wonder most, 324 
 
 That you and I should be of one conceit. 
 In such a strange unlikely passion. 
 
 Mount. But is that true? My Lord', I hope you do but jest. 
 
 Val. I would 1 iliil; then were my grief the less. 828 
 
 Mount. Nay, never grieve ; for if the cause be such. 
 To join our thoughts in such a sympathy, 
 All envy set aside. Let us agree 
 To yield to cither's fortune in this choice. 332 
 
 Val. Content, say 1 : and whatsoe'er befall, 
 Shake hands, my Lord, and fortune thrive at all 2. [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. [ACT II. Cu.] 
 
 Enter Em and Trotter, the Millers man, with a leer chief on his head, 
 and an urinal in his hand. 
 
 Em. Trotter, where have you been? 
 
 Trot. "Where have 1 been? Why, what signifies this? 336 
 
 Em. a kerchief, doth it not ? 
 
 * dele Lord. ^ ? o'er all. See also supra. Act I. I. 6.
 
 422 A PLEASANT COME DIE [Act II. 
 
 Trot. What call you this, I pray ? 
 
 Em. I say it is an Urinal. 
 
 Trot. Then this is mystically to give you to understand, 340 
 I have been at the Phismicaries house. 
 
 Em. How long hast thou been sick ? 
 
 Trot. Ifaith, e'en as long as I have not been half ^ well, and that 
 hath been a long time. 344 
 
 Em. A loitering time, I rather imagine. 
 
 Trot. It may be so : but the Phismicary tells me that you can 
 help me. 
 
 Em. Why, anything I can do for recovery of thy health be right 
 well assured of. 349 
 
 Trot. Then give me your hand. 
 
 Em. To what end ? 
 
 Trot. That the ending of an old indenture is thie beffinnin"; of a 
 new bargain. 
 
 Em. What bargain ? 
 
 Trot. That you promised to do anything to recover my health. 
 
 Em. On that condition I give thee my hand. 356 
 
 Trot. Ah, sweet Em ! \_nere lie offers to kiss her. 
 
 Em. How now, Trot ^ ! your master's daughter ? 
 
 Trot. I'faith, I aim at the fairest. Ah, Em, sweet Em ! 
 
 Fresh as the flower, SCO 
 
 1 half, dele Ch. 
 • Trotter (B. n. d.) 
 
 ' Of me, poor thief, 
 
 In prison bound — 
 So all your rhyme 
 Lies on the ground.' 
 The third line must have rhymed with the first, according to all rules of 
 capping verses. — See the last scene of Rowley's II. 8.
 
 Act II.] OF FAIRE EM. 423 
 
 That hath [the] power 
 To wound uiy heart, 
 And ease ray smart, 
 
 Of me, poor thief, in prison bound — 3G4 
 
 Bm. So all your rime lies on the ground. 
 Jiut what means this ? 
 
 Trot. Ah, mark the device — 
 For thee, my love, full sick I was, in hazard of my life, 3C8 
 
 Thy promise was to make me whole, and for to be my wife. 
 Let me enjoy my love, my dear, 
 And thou possess thy Tkotter here. 
 Em. But I meant no such matter. 372 
 
 Trot. Yes, woos, but you did. I'll go to our Parson, Sir John, 
 and he shall mnmble np the marriage out of hand. 
 Em. But here comes one that will forbid the bans. 
 
 Here enlern Manvile to them. 
 
 Trot. Ah, sir, you come too late. 376 
 
 Manv. "WTiat remedy, Trottee ? 
 
 Em. Go, Trottee, my father calls. 
 
 Trot. "Would you have me go in, and leave you two here ? 
 
 Em. Why, darest thou not trust me? 380 
 
 Trot. Yes, faith, e'en as long as I see you. 
 
 Em. Go thy ways, I pray thee heartily. 
 
 Trot. That same word (lieartily) is of great force. I will go. 
 But I pray, sir, beware you ; come not too near the wench. \_Exit. 
 
 Man. I am greatly beholding to you. 385 
 
 Ah, ^Mistress, sometime I might have said, my love, 
 
 1 Four lines commencing with this are in two in original.
 
 424 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act II. 
 
 But time and fortune liatli bereaved me of that, 
 
 And I am^ abject in those gracious eyes, 388 
 
 That Avith remorse erst saw into mv a'rief, — 
 
 May sit and sig-h the sorrows of my heart. 
 
 Em. Indeed my Manvile hath some cause to doubt, 
 When such a swain is rival in his love. 392 
 
 Man. Ah, Em, were he the man that causeth this mistrust, 
 I should esteem of thee as at the first. 
 
 Em. But is my love in earnest all this while ? 
 
 Man. Believe me, Em, it is not time to jest, 396 
 
 When others 'joys what lately I possest. 
 
 Em.. If touching love ray ]\Iaxvile charge me thus, 
 Unkindly must I take it at his hands. 
 For that my conscience clears me of offence. 400 
 
 Man. Ah, impudent and shameless in thy ill. 
 That with thy cunning and tlefraudful tongue 
 Seeks 2 to delude the honest-meaninc: mind ' 
 
 Was never heard in Manchester before, 404 
 
 Of truer love than hath been betwixt- us twain : 
 And for my part how I have hazarded 
 Displeasure of my father and my friends, 
 
 Thyself can witness ; yef* notwithstanding this, 408 
 
 Two gentlemen attending on Duke William, 
 MouNTNEY, and Valingfoed, as I heard them named, 
 Ofttiraes resort to see and to be seen 
 
 Walking the street fost by thy father's door, 413 
 
 Whose glancing eyes up to [thy ^] windows cast 
 
 ' ^"- - Seekese. B. n. d. 3 'twixt. Cli. 
 
 * dele yet. s t]ie (B. n. d.)
 
 Act II.] OF FAIRE EM. 4^5 
 
 Give testies of tlicir IMasters amorous heart. 
 
 This, Em, is noted, ami [i^J to'J miich talked on — 
 
 Some see it without mistrust of ill — 41G 
 
 Others there are that, scorning, grin thereat. 
 
 And saitli, ' There goes the Millers daughters wooers.' 
 
 Ah me ! whom eliiclly and most of all it dolli concern — 
 
 To spend my time in grief, and vex my soul, 420 
 
 To think my love should be rewarded thus, 
 
 And for thy sake abhor all womcn^-kind I 
 
 Em. May not a maid [then] look upon a man 
 Without suspicious judgment of the world ? 424 
 
 Man. If sight do move offence, -it is the^ better not to see. 
 But thou didst more, unconstant as thou art. 
 For with them thou hadst talk and conference. 
 
 Em. May not a maid talk with a man without mistrust ? 428 
 
 Man. Not with such men suspected amorous. 
 
 Em. I grieve to see my Manvile's jealousy. 
 
 Man. Ah, Em ^. faithful love is full of jealousy. 
 So did I love thee true and faithfully, 432 
 
 Eor which I am rewarded^ most uuthankfully. 
 
 \E.xit, in a rage : Ma net Em. 
 
 Em. And so away? "What, in displeasure gone, 
 And left me such a bitter sweet to gnaw upon'''? 
 Ah, Maxvile ^ little wottest thou 43G 
 
 How near this parting goeth to my heart. 
 Uncom'teous love, whose followers reaps reward 
 
 1 maiden kind (Ch.). -— - 'tis ^ Dele Em. 
 
 * So I'm rewarded. * ou 
 
 " Maitville duplicated. Ch.
 
 4=6 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II. 
 
 Of hate, disdain, reproacli and infamy, 
 
 The fruit of frantic, bedlam jealousy ! 440 
 
 Here enters Mountney to Em. 
 
 But here comes one of these suspicious^ men : 
 
 Witness, my God, without desert of me. 
 
 For only Manvile honour I in licart, 
 
 Nor shall unkindness cause me from him to- start ! 444 
 
 Mount. For tliis good fortune, Venus, be thou blest, 
 To meet my love, the mistress of my heart, 
 Where time and place gives opportunity. 
 
 At full to let her understand my love. 448 
 
 \_He tarns to Em, and offers to tal-e Jier hy the hand, and she 
 goes from him. 
 Fair mistress, since my fortune sorts so well, 
 Hear you a word. What meaneth this ? 
 Nay, stay, fair E^r. 
 
 Em. I am going homewards, sir. 452 
 
 Mount. Yet stay, sweet love, to whom I must disclose 
 The hidden secrets of a lovers thoughts, 
 Not doubting but to find such kind remorse 
 As naturally you are enclined to. 456 
 
 Em. The gentleman, your friend, sir, 
 I have not seen him this four days, at the least. 
 
 Mount. Whats that to me ? 
 I speak not, sweet, in person of my friend, 460 
 
 But for myself, whom, if that love deserve 
 To have regard, being honourable love, 
 
 1 i. e. suspected ^ Dule to
 
 Act II.] OF FAIRE EM. 427 
 
 Not base afTects of loose lascivious love, 
 
 Whom youthful wantons play and dally with, 404 
 
 But that unites in honourable bands of holy rites, 
 
 And knits the sacred knot that Gods — {Ilare Em cuU 1dm off. 
 
 Em. "What mean you, sir, to keep me here so long ? 
 I cannot understand you by your signs ; 468 
 
 You keep a prattling with your lips, 
 But never a word you speak that I can hear. 
 
 Mount. What? is she deaf ? a great impediment ! 
 Yet remedies there are for such defects. 472 
 
 Sweet Em, it is no little grief to me, 
 To see, where Nature, in her pride of art, 
 Hath wrought perfections rich and admirable. 
 
 Em. Speak you to me, Sir? 476 
 
 Mount. To thee, my only joy. 
 
 Em. I cannot hear you. 
 
 Mount. O plague of fortune ! Oh ^, hell without compare ! 
 What boots it us to gaze and not enjoy"? 480 
 
 Em. Fare you well, sir. \_Exit Em. Manet Mouxtxey. 
 
 Mount. Farewell, my love, nay, farewell life and all ! 
 Could I procure redress for this infirmity. 
 
 It might be means she would regard my suit. 484 
 
 I am acquainted with the Kings physicians. 
 Amongst the which there's one, mine honest friend, 
 Signor Alberto', a very learned man — 
 
 His judgment will I havc'^ to help tliis ill. 488 
 
 Ah, Em, fair Em, if art can make thee whole, 
 
 ^ Dele oh. * Probably and not to hear ? so to rbyme M'ith compare. 
 
 ' ? crave
 
 428 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act II. 
 
 I'll buy tliat sense for thee, '^altliougli it^ cost me dear. 
 
 But, MouNTNEY, stay : tliis may be but deceit, 
 
 A matter feigned only to delude tliee, 492 
 
 And, not unlike, perhaps by Valingford. 
 
 He loves faii-^ Em as well as I — 
 
 As well as I ? ah, no, not half so well — ■ 
 
 ^Put case : yet may he be thine enemy ^, 496 
 
 And give her counsel to dissemble thus. 
 
 I'll try the event, and if it fall out so, 
 
 Friendship, farewell : Love makes me now a foe. \_Exlt Mountney. 
 
 [SCENE VI.] 
 Enter Marques Lubeck and Mariana. 
 
 Mar. Trust me, my Lord, I'm sorry for your hurt. 500 
 
 Luh. Gramercy, Madam ; but it is not great : 
 Only a thrust, prick't with a rapier's point. 
 
 Mar. How grew the quarrel, my Lord? 503 
 
 Luh, Sweet lady ■*, for thy sake. There was, this last night, two 
 masks in one-^ company; myself the foremost : the other strangers 
 were: amongst the which, when the music betran to sound the 
 measures, each masker made choice of his lady ; and one, more 
 forward, than the rest, slept towards thee, which I perceiving, 
 thrust him aside and took thee myself. But this was taken in so 
 ill part that at my coming out of the court gate, with justling 
 together, it was my chance to be thrust into the arm. The doer 
 
 1—1 though 't 2 the lovely. Ch. 
 
 3 — 3 Yet he may prove thy favoured friend. Ch. Delias (ed. 1871) prints 
 this substituted Chetwood line before I. 496 above. 
 
 * Dele lady. Ch. s our
 
 Act II.] OF FAIRE EM. 429 
 
 thereof, because lie was llie original cause of the disorder at that 
 inconvenient time, was presently coniniittcd, and is this morning 
 sent for to answer the matter. And i think here he comes. 
 What, Sill HoBERT OF Windsor, how now? 515 
 
 \JIere enters Sir Robert of Windsor, jcllh a jailor. B. u. </.] 
 
 Sir Rob. rfaith, my Lord ^ a prisoner : but what ails your arm? 
 
 Liib. Hurt the last night, by mischance. 
 
 Sir Rob. What, not in the mask at the Court gate ? 518 
 
 Lub. Yes, trust me, there. 
 
 Sir Rob. Why, then, my Lord, I thank you for my nights 
 lodging. 
 
 Lub. And I you for my hurt, if it were so. Keeper, away; 1 2 
 discharge you of your prisoner. [^Exit the Keeper. 
 
 Sir Rob. Lord Marques, you offered me disgrace to shoulder 
 me. 525 
 
 Lub. Sir, I knew you not, and therefore ^you must pardon me^: 
 and the rather, it might be alleged to me of mere simplicity to see 
 another dance with my Mistress, disguised, and I myself in presence. 
 But seeing it was our haps to damnify each other unwillingly, let 
 us be content with our harms, and lay the fault where it was, and 
 so become friends. 531 
 
 Sir Rob. I'faith, I am content with my nights lodging, if you Le 
 content with your hurt. 
 
 Lub. Not content that I have it, but content to forget how I 
 came by it. 535 
 
 Sir Rob. My Lord, here comes Lady Blanch ; lets away. 
 
 ' Dele my Lord ^ Dele I ' — ' crave excuse. Ch.
 
 430 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act II. 
 
 loiter Blanch. 
 
 Luh. "With good will. Lady, will you stay ? 
 
 \Ilxit LuBECK and Sir Eob, 
 
 Mar. Madam — 538 
 
 Blanch. Mauiana, as I am grieved witli thy presence so am I 
 not offended for thy absence ; and, were it not a breach to modesty, 
 thou shouldest know before I left thee. 
 
 Mar. How near is this humour to madness ? If you hold on as 
 you begin, you are in a pretty way to scolding. 
 
 Blanch. To scolding, huswife ^ ? 544 
 
 Mar. ]\Iadam, here comes one. \IIere enters one vnth a letter. 
 
 Blanch. There doth indeed. Fellow, would's thou have anything 
 with anybody here ? 
 
 Messenger. I have a letter to deliver to the Lady Mariana. 
 
 Blanch. Give it me. 
 
 3Iess. There must none but she have it. 550 
 
 [Blanch snatcheth the letter from him, Et exit Messenger. 
 
 Blanch. Go to, foolish fellow. And therefore, to ease the anger 
 I sustain, I'll be so bold to open it. Whats here? Sir Robert 
 greets you- well ! You Mistress, his love, his life ! Oh, amorous 
 man, how lie entertains his new Mistress, and bestows on Lubeck, 
 his odd^ friend, A horn nightcap to keep in his wit, 555 
 
 Mar. Madam, though you have discourteously read my letter, 
 yet, I pray you, give it me. 
 
 Blanch. Then take it, there, and there, and there. 558 
 
 [She tears it; Et exit Blanch. 
 
 1 madam ? Ch. 2 ej, your 3 old. Ch. 'od (B. n. d.)
 
 Act 11.] OF FAIRE EM. 431 
 
 Mar. How far dolh tliis tliller from modesty ! Yet will I ^^atlicr 
 up the pieces which, haply, may show to me the intent thereof, 
 though not the meaninj;-. 50 1 
 
 \She gathers vp the pieces and joins them. 
 'Your servant and love \ Siu K(jHi;irr ov Windsoii, ai.ils 
 William the Conqueror, wishcth long- health^ and happincssc.' 
 Is this William the Conqueror, shrouded under the name of Sir 
 Robert of Windsor? — Were lie the monarch of the world he 
 should not dispossess Lubeck of his love. Therefore I will to the 
 Court, and there, if I can, close to be friends with Lady Blanch; 
 and thereby keep Lubeck, my love, for myself, and further the 
 Lady Blanch in her suit, as much as I may. \_Exil. 
 
 [SCENE YIL] 
 
 Enter Em, solus. 
 
 [Ah], Jealousy, tliat sharps the lovers sight, 570 
 
 And makes him conceive and conster liis intent, 
 
 Hath so bewitched my lovely M an vile s senses 
 
 That he misdoubts his Em, that loves his soul, 
 
 He doth suspect corrivals in his love — 574 
 
 Which, how untrue it is, be judge, my God^ ! 
 
 lUit now no more — Here cometh Yalingfobd ; 
 
 Shift him oil" now, as thou hast done the otiicr. 
 
 Enter Yalingfobd. 
 
 Val. See how fortune presents me with the hope I lookt for! 
 
 Fair Em ! 579 
 
 1 lover : Dclius.— G. [Needless. See Merch. of Vtn. TV. i. 277.— F.] 
 * life: Dclius. — G. ' high heaven ! Cli.
 
 432 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act II, 
 
 Em. Who's that ? 
 
 VaJ. I am Yalingfoed^, thy love and friend. 
 
 Em. I cry you mercy, sir; I thought so by your speech. 582 
 
 Tal. What ailetli thine eyes ? 
 
 Em. Oh blind, sir, blind, stridden blind, by mishap, on a sudden! 
 
 Yal. But is it possible you should be taken -on such a sudden 2? 
 Infortunate Valingford, to be thus crost in thy love ! Pair Em, 
 I am not a little sorry to see this thy hard hap, yet nevertheless I 
 am acquainted with a learned physician, that will do anything I'or 
 thee, at my request; to him will I resort, and enquire his judgment, 
 as concerning the recovery of so excellent a sense. 590 
 
 Em. O Lord, Sir ! and of all things, I cannot abide physic : the 
 very name thereof to me is odious. 
 
 Veil. No? not the thing will do thee so much good ? Sweet Em^ 
 hither I came to parley of ^ love, "^ hoping to have found thee in thy 
 wonted prosperity; and have the Gods so unmercifully thwarted my 
 expectation, by dealing so sinisterly with thee, sweet Em *? 596 
 
 Em. Good sir, no more. It fits not me 
 To have respect to such vain phantasies 
 As idle love presents my ears withal. 
 
 More reason I shoidd ^ghostly give my lite^ 600 
 
 To sacred prayers, for this my f(jrmer sin, 
 Eor which this plague is justly fall'u upon me, 
 Than to** hearken to the vanities of love. 
 
 Vol. Yet, sweet Em ", accept this jewel at my hand, which I 
 bestoAv on thec^ in token of my love. 605 
 
 1 Delo A'nliiisfi)rd 2—2 thiip. Cli. 
 
 3 Dele of. Ch. *— 4 dele. Ch. 
 
 6—5 myself. Ch. and B. ti. d. « Dele to '^ Dele Em 
 
 ^ Dele on thee. Ch.
 
 Act III.] OF FA IRE EM. 433 
 
 Em. A jewel, sir ! what pleasure can I liave 
 In jewels, treasure, or any worldly tiling 
 
 That want mine sight that should discern thereof ? 608 
 
 Ah, sir, 1 must leave you, 
 The pain of mine eyes is so extreme, 
 ^ 1 cannot long stay in a place. I take my leave. \_ExU Em. 
 
 Val. Zounds, Avhat a cross is this to my conceit ! But, Yaling- 
 FORD, search the depth of this device. Why may not this be some- 
 feign'd subtlety, by Mountenys invention, to th' intent that I 
 seeing such occasion should leave off my suit, and not any more 
 persist to sollicit her of love ? ^ I'll try th'event.' If I can by any 
 means perceive the eflcct of this deceit to be procured by his means, 
 friend Mounteny, the one of us is like to repent our bargain. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE YIII. [ACT III. Ch.] 
 
 Enter Mariana and Marques Lubeck. 
 
 Lub. Ladv, 1 
 
 Since that occasion, forward in our good, 820 
 
 Presenteth place and opportunity. 
 Let me intreat your wonted kind consent 
 And friendly furtherance in a suit I have. 
 
 Mar. My Lord, you know you need not to intreat, G2 t 
 
 But may command Mariana to her power, 
 Be't no impeachment to my honest fame. 
 
 ' The reduplication of the same situation, when Mountncy finds Em dea 
 in scene v., and Vulingford finds her blind in scene vi., is something like the 
 reduplication in Much Ado criticized by Johnson. 
 2 Dele some. Ch., and B. n. d. »-3 Dele. Cb. 
 
 VOL. II. 28
 
 434 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 Lnh. Free are my thouglits from such base vUlany 
 As may in question, Lady, call your name; 628 
 
 Yet is the matter of such consequence, 
 Standing upon my honourable credit, 
 To be effected with such zeal and secresy 
 
 As, should I speak and fail my expectation, 632 
 
 It would ^ redound greatly to my prejudice. 
 
 Mar. My Lord, wherein hath ]\L\tiiana 
 Given you ^ occasion that you should mistrust, 
 Or else be jealous of my secresy ? 636 
 
 Luh. Mariana, do not misconster me : 
 I not mistrust thee, nor thy secresy ; 
 Nor let my love misconster my intent. 
 
 Nor think thereof but well and honourable ^ — • 640 
 
 Thus stands the case : 
 
 Thou knowest from England hither came with me 
 RoBEKT OF WiNDSOK, a noble man at arms, 
 
 Lusty and valiant, in spring time of his years, 644 
 
 No marvel then though he prove amorous. 
 
 Mar. True, my Lord, he came to see fair Blanch. 
 
 Lulj. No, Makiana, that is not it — his love to Blanch 
 Was then extinct, when first he saw thy face. 648 
 
 'Tis thee he loves : yea, thou art only she 
 That 's mistress and commander of his thouc-hts. 
 
 Mar. Well, well, my Lord, I like you : for such drifts 
 Put silly Ladies often to their shifts'*. 652 
 
 Oft have I heard you say you loved me well, 
 
 1 'twould - Dele you 
 
 3 honourably * Two lines ending here omit. Ch.
 
 Act III.] OF r AIRE EM. 435 
 
 Yea, sworn the same, and I believed you too. 
 
 Can this be found an action of good faith 
 
 Thus to dissemble where you found true love? 656 
 
 Luh. Mariana, I not dissemble on mine honour. 
 Nor fails my faith to thee. But for inv fnciid, 
 For princely William, by whom ^ thou sliult possess 
 The title of estate and majesty, 660 
 
 Fitting the 2 love and virtues of thy mind — 
 For him I speak, for him do I intreat, 
 And, Avith thy favour, fully do resign 
 
 To him the claim and interest of my love — 664 
 
 Sweet Makiana, then, deny me not : 
 Love William, love my friend, and honour me. 
 Who else is clean dishonoured by thy means. 
 
 Mar. Born to mishap, myself am only she 668 
 
 On whom the sun of fortune never shined : 
 But planets imled by retrograde aspect 
 Foretold mine ill in mv nativity ! 
 
 Lab. Sweet Lady, cease, let my intreaty serve 672 
 
 To pacify the passion of thy grief. 
 Which well I know proceeds of ardent love. 
 
 Mar. But Lubkck now regards not Mariana, 
 
 Lub. Even as my life, so love I Mariana. 676 
 
 Mar. AVhy do you post me to another then ? 
 
 Lub. He is my friend, and I do love the man. 
 
 Mar. Then will Duke William rob me of my love ? 
 
 Lub. No, as his life Mariana he doth Idve. 680 
 
 Mar. Speak for yourself, my Lord, let him alone. 
 
 1 b'whom ■ tbv. Ch.
 
 436 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act 111. 
 
 Luh. So do I, Madam, for he and I am one. 
 
 Mar. Then loving you I do content you l)otli. 
 
 Luh. In lovino; him vou shall content us both — 684 
 
 Me, for I crave that favour at yoiu- hands, 
 Him, ifor he hopes that comfort at your hands'-^ — 
 
 Mar. Leave off, my Lord, here comes the Lady Blanch. 
 
 Enter Blanch to them^. 
 
 Luh. Hard hap, to break us off our talk so soon ! 
 Sweet Mariana, do remember me. [_Exit Lubeck. 
 
 Mar. Thy Mariana cannot choose but * remember thee. 
 
 Blanch. Mariana, avcU met. You are verv forward in vour 
 love. 693 
 
 Mar. Madam, be it in secret spoken to your self, if you will but^ 
 follow the complot ^ I have invented you will not think me so 
 forward as yourself shall prove fortunate. 
 
 Blanch. As how ? 696 
 
 Mar. Madam, as thus : It is not unknown to you that Sir 
 Robert of Windsor, a man that you do not a little esteem, hath 
 long importuned me of love. But rather than I wiU be found false 
 or unjust to the Marques Lubeck, I will, as did the constant 
 lady Penelope, undertake to effect some great task. 
 
 1 He for hopes. B. n. d. 
 
 2 The two lines endin;T here are omitted in Ch. 
 
 ' This scene, between Blanch and Mariana, is printed in verse-lines in the 
 original. — L. T. S. 
 
 * This idea, that love is to be sacrificed to friendship, because friendship 
 among men is greater than the love of man to woman, is found in Tlie Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona, where Valentine gives up Silvia to Proteus, and lies 
 at the foundation of Shakspere's sonnet philosophy. See my book, p. 18, 
 and p. 58. Also Vernon, in the first act of Stiikhij : ante, vol. i. p. 161, 
 1. 93. 5 Dele but. Ch. s plot. Ch.
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRR FM. 437 
 
 Blanch. What of all lliis? 703 
 
 Mar. The next time that Sir IIobert shall come in his wonted 
 sort, to solicit me with love, I will seem to agree, and like of 
 anything that the knight shall demand, so far forth as it be no 
 impeachment to my chastity ^ And, to conclude, point some place 
 for to meet the man, for my conveyance from the Denmark conrt : 
 which determined upon, he will appoint some certain time for our 
 departure : whereof, you having intelligence, you may soon set 
 down a plot to wear the English crown, and then — 
 
 Bl. What then? 711 
 
 Mar. If Sir IIobert prove a King and you his Queen, how 
 then ? 
 
 Bl. Were I assured of the one as I am persuaded of the other 
 there were some possibility in it. lUit here comes the man. 
 
 Mar. Madam, begone, and you shall see I'll work to your desire 
 and my content. \Exit Blanch. 
 
 William Conq. Lady, this is well and happily met; for -Fortune 
 hitherto hath been my foe, and though I have oft sought to speak 
 with you, yet still i have been crost with sinister^ haps. 720 
 
 I cannot, INIadam, tell a loving tale ^, 
 Or court my Mistress with fabulous discourses ^ 
 That am a soldier sworn to follow arms — 
 
 But this I bluntly let you understand — 724 
 
 1 honour you with such religious zeal 
 As may become an honourable mind. 
 Nor may I make my love the siege of Troy, 
 
 .1 honour. Ch. - for, not iti orig. ' pron. 'sinstcr.' 
 
 •• Compare Henry Vth's eourtslii[) : Ihn. V. v. 2, 11. 98 et seq. 
 * Otherwise. — or witli discourses fabulous court my mistress. Cb. has 
 'false vows of love.'
 
 438 A PLEASANT COME DIE [Act III. 
 
 ^ That am a stranger in tliis country ^. 728 
 
 Pii'st, what T am I know you are resolved, 
 
 For that my friend hath let you t' ^ understand, 
 
 The Maeques Lubeck, to whom I am so bound 
 
 That whilst I live I count me only his. 732 
 
 Mar. Surely you are ^ beholding to the Marques ^, 
 For he hath been an earnest spokesman in your cause. 
 
 Wm. And yields my lady then, at his request, 
 To grace Duke William with her gracious love? 736 
 
 Mar. ]My lord, 1 am a prisoner, and hard it were 
 To get me from the court. 
 
 Wm. An easy matter, to get you from the Court, 
 If case that you will thereto give consent. 740 
 
 Mar. Put case * I should, how would you use me then ? 
 
 Win. Not otherwise but well and honourably. 
 I have at sea a ship that doth attend, 
 
 "Which shall forthwith conduct us into England ; 744 
 
 Where, when avc are, I straight will marry thee. 
 We may not stay deliberating long. 
 Lest that suspicion, conscious ^ of our weal, 
 Set in a foot to hinder our pretence. 748 
 
 Mar. But this I think were most convenient. 
 To mask my face, the better to scape unknown. 
 
 Wm. A good device. TiU then farewell, fair love. 
 
 Mar. But this I must intreat vour c^race — 752 
 
 1—1 Line omitted ia Ch. ^ ti^at t^^ i^ oj-ig, 
 
 3—3 beholden to that lord. Ch. 
 * Bode. n. d. also has Put case I ; but Ch. has What if I. 
 * envious. Ch. and B. n. d.
 
 Act III.] OF FA IRE EM. 439 
 
 You would not seek by lust uiilawTulIy 
 To wrong my chaste determinations. 
 
 TFm. I hold that man most shameless in his sia 
 That seeks to wrong an honest ladys name, 750 
 
 Whom he thinks worthy of his marriage bed. 
 
 Mar. In hope your oath is true, 
 I leave your grace till the appointed time. \_Exit Mauiana. 
 
 IFm. O happy William, blessed in thy love ^ 760 
 
 Most fortunate in Mariana's love ! — 
 Well, LuBECK, well, this courtesy of thine 
 I will requite, if God permit me life. \_Exil. 
 
 . [SCENE IX.] 
 
 Enter Valingford and Mountney at two sundry doors, looking 
 angerhj each on other with rapiers drawn. 
 
 Mount. Valingford, so hardly I digest an injury thou'st 
 proffered me, 765 
 
 As, wer't not I detest 
 
 To do what stands not with the honour of my name. 
 Thy death should pay the ransom of thy fault. 768 
 
 Val. And, Mountney, had not my revenging wrath, 
 Incensed with more than ordinary love. 
 Been such for to dejjrive thee of thy life, 
 
 Thou hadst not lived to brave me as thou dost. 773 
 
 Wretch as thou art 2, 
 Wherein hath Valingford offended thee? 
 
 1 } fortune 2 Line omitted by Ch.
 
 440 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act III. 
 
 That lionourable bond -wliicli late we did 
 
 Coiifirni in presence of the gods, 776 
 
 AVlien -with the Conqueror we arrived here, 
 
 For my part hath been kept inviokdjly. 
 
 Till, now, too much abused by thy villany, 
 
 I am enforced to cancel all those bands, 780 
 
 By hating him which I so well did love. 
 
 Mount. Subtle thou art, and cunning in thy fraud, 
 That, giving me occasion of offence. 
 
 Thou pick'st a quarrel to excuse thy shame. 784 
 
 AVliy, Valingford, was't ^ not enougk for thee, 
 To be a rival 'twixt me and my love, 
 But counsel her, to my no small disgTace, 
 
 That, when I came to talk with her of love, 788 
 
 She should seem deaf, as feigning not to hear ? 
 
 Val. But hath she, Mountney, used thee as thou savest? 
 
 Ilount. Thou knowest too well she hath — wherein 
 Thou couldst not do me greater injury. 793 
 
 red. Then I perceive we are deluded both, 
 Eor when I offered many gifts of gold. 
 And jewels, to entreat for love, 
 
 She hath refused them with - coy disdain ^, 796 
 
 Alleging that she could not see the sun. 
 The same conjectured I to be thy drift. 
 That feigning so she might be rid of me. 
 
 ' it in orig. 2 a coy in orig. 
 
 3 TliG three lines ending here, like many others in this text, are differently 
 divided in the original. — L. T. S.
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 44 1 
 
 Mount. The like did I by thcc. But are not these 800 
 
 Natural iuipediments ? 
 
 Val. In my conjecture merely counterfeit : 
 Therefore let's join hands, in friendship once again, 
 Since that the jar grew only by conjecture. 804 
 
 Mount. \\\{\\ all my heart : yet let us ^ try the truth thereof. 
 
 Val. With right good will. We will straight unto her father, 
 And there to learn whether it be so or no. [^Exeunt. 
 
 [SCENE X.] 
 
 Enter William, and Blancu d'lsguised with a manic over her face. 
 
 11' III. Come on, my love, the comfort of my life. 808 
 
 Disguised thus, we may remain imknown, 
 And get we once to seas, I force - not then 
 We quickly shall attain the English shore. 
 
 Blanch. But this I urge you with your former oath — 813 
 
 You shall not seek to violate mine honour 
 Until our marriage rights be all performed. 
 
 Wm. Mariana, here I swear to thee by heaven, 
 And by the honour that I bear to arms, 816 
 
 Never to seek or crave at hands of thee 
 The spoil of honoiu-able chastity, 
 Until we do attain the English coast, 
 W'here thou shalt be my right espoused Queen. 820 
 
 Blanch. In hope your oath proceedeth from your heart. 
 Let's leave the Court, and betake us to his power 
 
 1 let 's in orig. • doubt. Ch.
 
 442 A PLEASANT CO MED IE [Act III. 
 
 That governs all tilings to ^ liis miglity will, 
 
 And will reward the just with endless joy, 824 
 
 And plague the bad with most extreme annoy. 
 
 Wm. Lady, as little tarriance as we may, 
 Lest some misfortune happen by the way. \Ilxeunt. 
 
 [SCENE XL] 
 Enter the Miller, his man Trotter, and Manvile. 
 
 Mil. I tell you, sir, it is no little grief to me you should so hardly 
 conceit of my daughter, whose honest report, though I say it, was 
 never blotted with any title of defamation. 
 
 Man. Father Miller, the repair of those gentlemen to your house 
 hath given me great occasion to mislike. 832 
 
 Mil. As for those gentlemen, I never saw in them any evil 
 intreaty ; but should they have proffered it her chaste mind hath 
 proof enough to prevent it. 
 
 Trot. Those gentlemen are as honest as ever I saw. For i'faith 
 one of them gave me sixpence to fetch a quart of seck^. — See, 
 master, here they come. 838 
 
 Enter Mountxey ««c^ Yalingford. 
 
 Mil. Trotter, call Em. Now they are here together I'll have 
 this matter thoroughly debated. [_Exit Trotter. 
 
 Mount. Father, well met. AVe are come to confer with vou. 
 
 Man. Nay, with his daughter rather. 
 
 Val. Thus it is, father, we come to crave your friendship in a 
 matter. 844 
 
 1 by. CIi. 2 Falstaff was charged 'Si\d. a quart for sack.
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 443 
 
 Mill. Gentlemen, as you are strangers to uic, yet Ijy tlic uay of 
 courtesy you shall dcinand ^ any reasonable thing at my hands. 
 
 Man. What, is the matter so forward they come to crave his 
 goodwill ? SiS 
 
 Fal. It is given us to understand that your daughter is suddenly 
 become both blind and deaf. 
 
 Mil. Marry, God forbid ! 1 have sent for her. Indeed she hath 
 kept her chamber this tlu'ee days, it were no little grief to me if it 
 should be so. 
 
 Man, This is God's judgment for her treachery ! 854 
 
 Unter Tkotter leading Em. 
 
 Mil. Gentlemen, I fear your words are two true : see where 
 Trotter comes leading of her. What ads my Em ? not blind, I 
 hope? 857 
 
 Em. MouxTNEY and Valixgford both together ! and Man- 
 vile, to whom 1 have lailhfully vowed my love! Now, Em, 
 suddenly help thyself. 8G0 
 
 Mount. This is no dissembling, Yalingford. 
 
 Val. If it be it is cunningly contrived of all sides. 
 
 Hm. Trotter, lend me thy hand ; and as thou lovest me, keep 
 my counsel, and justify whatsoever 1 say, and I'll largely requite 
 thee. 865 
 
 Trot. Ah, that 's as much as to say you would tell a monstrous, 
 ten-ible, horrible, outrageous lie, and I shall sooth it — No, -by our- 
 lady ! 868 
 
 Em. My present extremity wills me, if thou love me. Trotter. 
 
 Trot. That same word love makes me to do anything^. 
 
 ^ ? command. - — - b'er orig. 
 
 2 Grim, the Collier of Croydon, is a Clown ■with muuy of the same cha-
 
 444 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Em. Trottee, wliere's ray father ? 871 
 
 Trot. Why what a blind dunce arc you, can you not see? He 
 standcth rio;ht before you. \Jie thrusts Em upon her father. 
 
 Em. Is this my fatlicr ? Good father, give me leave to sit where 
 I may not be disturbed, sith God hatli visited me both of my sight 
 and hearing. 876 
 
 Mil. Tell me, sweet Eir, how came this blindness? Thy eyes 
 are lovely to ^ look on, and vet have they -lost the benefit of their ^ 
 sight? What a grief is this to thy poor father ! 
 
 Em. Good father, let me not stand as an open gazing stock to 
 every one, but in a place alone, as fits a creature so miserable. 
 
 Mil. Trotter, lead her in : the utter overthrow of poor GoD- 
 dard's joy and only solace ! 883 
 
 \_Exit the Miller, Trotter, and Em. 
 
 Man. Both blind and deaf ! Then is she no wife for me ; and 
 glad am I so good an ^ occasion is happened. Now will I away to 
 Manchester'-^, and leave these gentlemen to their blind fortune. 
 
 [^Exit Manvile. 
 
 Mount. Since fortune hath thus spitefully "^ crost our hope, let us 
 leave this guest ~, and liearken after our king, who is at this day 
 landed at Lirpoole. \Exit Mountney. 
 
 Vol. Go, my Lord, I'll follow you. Well, now Mountney is 
 
 ractcristics as Trotter. Note especially the way in wliicli lie receives any 
 kind word of Joan's. Thus, Act II. so. i. : 
 
 ' Oh, ^Ir Parson, write down this sweet sayinj^ of hers in Grim's commend- 
 ation. Slie hath made my heart leap like a hohby-Iiorsc.' And again, a 
 little farther on: ' If I love thee, Joan I Those very words are a purgation 
 to me.' 
 
 1 yet to. Ch. ^ they not in Ch. ^ tluir not in Ch. 
 
 * an not in B. r.. d. * Chester. 
 
 * spiteful. Ch. '' ? gear, or quest.
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 445 
 
 gone, I'll stay behind to solicit my ' love ; for T imagine that I shall 
 find tliis but a feigned invention, thereby to have us leave off our 
 suits 2, 893 
 
 [SCENE XII.] 
 
 Enter Marques Lubeck and the K. of Denmark, anf/erlj/, with 
 
 some attendants. 
 
 Zweno. K. "Well, Lubeck, well, it is not possible 
 But you must be consenting to this act. 
 
 Is this the man so highly you extolled ? 896 
 
 And play a part so hateful with his friend ? 
 Since first he came with thee in to the Court, 
 What entertainment and what countenance 
 
 He hath received none better knows than thou — 900 
 
 In recompense whereof he quits me well 
 To steal away fair ^ Mariana my prisoner 3, 
 Whose ransom, being lately * 'greed upon"*, 
 
 I am deluded of by tliis escape. 90-4 
 
 Besides, I know not how to answer it. 
 When she shall be demanded home to Swethia. 
 
 Lub. iMy gracious Lord, conjecture not, I pray, 
 Worser ^ of Lubeck than he doth deserve : 908 
 
 Your highness knows Mariana was my love, 
 Sole paragon and mistress of my thoughts. 
 Is't likely I should know of her departure, 
 Wherein there 's no man injured more than I ? 912 
 
 Zweno. That carries reason, Marques, I confess. 
 
 1 fair ]ovc. Ch. - All this scene is printed as verse in orin:inal. — G. 
 
 3 — 3 Marian, my captive. Ch. ■• — ^ fixed on. Ch. * More ill. Cli.
 
 446 A PLEASANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 Call forth my daiigliter. Yet I am persuaded 
 
 That she, poor soul, suspected not her going ; 
 
 For as I hear, she likewise loved the man, 916 
 
 Which he, to blame, did not at all regard ^. 
 
 Rocilia. My Lord, here is the Princess Mariana ; 
 It is your daughter is conveyed away. 
 
 Zweno. What, my daughter gone ! 920 
 
 Now, Marques, [now] - your villany breaks forth ; 
 This match is of your making, gentle sir, 
 And you shall dearly know the price thereof. 
 
 Liib. Knew I thereof, or that there was intent Ogl 
 
 In HoBERT thus to steal your highness daughter. 
 Let heavens in justice presently confound me ! 
 
 Zweno. Not all the protestations thou canst use 
 Shall save thy life. Away with him to prison; 928 
 
 And, minion, otherwise it cannot be 
 But you arc an agent in this treachery, 
 I will revenge it throughly on you both. 
 
 Away with her to prison ! — 932 
 
 Here's stuff indeed ! My daughter stolen away ! 
 It booteth not thus to disturb myself. 
 But presently to send to English William, 
 
 To send me that proud knight of Windsor hither, 936 
 
 Here in my Court to suffer for his shame. 
 Or at my pleasure to be punished there, 
 
 1 Merry Wives, 1602, p. 35, 1. 8: 
 
 ' You know my answer, sir ; she's not for you ; 
 Knowing my vow, to blame to use me thus.' 
 2 now not in orig.
 
 Act III.] OF FA IRE EM. 447 
 
 AVithal that Blaxcii be sent me home again, 
 
 Or I shall fetch her unto TFindaors cost, 9-10 
 
 Yea, and William's too, if he deny her me. \_Exit Zweno. 
 
 [SCENE XIII.] 
 
 Enter William, takeii with soldiers. 
 
 TFm. Could any cross, could any plaj,aic be worse ? 
 Could heaven or hell, did both conspire in one 
 To afflict my soul, invent a greater scourge Sl^ 
 
 Than presently I am tormented with ? 
 Ah, Makiana, cause of ray lament ! 
 Joy of my heart, and comfort of ray life. 
 
 For thee ^ I breathe ray soitows in the air 948 
 
 And tire myself, for - silently I sigh, 
 My sorrows^ afflicts my^ soul with equal passion. 
 
 Soldier. Go to, sirrah, put up, it is to small purpose. 
 
 Win. Hence, villains, hence ! Dare you [to] lay your hands 
 Upon your sovereign ! 953 
 
 Sol. Well, sir, we will deal for that. 
 Eut here comes one will reraedy aU this, [Enter Demarch. 
 
 My lord, watching this night in the camp 956 
 
 We took this man, and know not what he is ; 
 And in his company was a gallant dame, 
 A woman fair in outward show she seemed. 
 But that her face was masked we could not see 9 GO 
 
 1 ? Whether. 2 p or. 
 
 3 griefs. Ch. * nic. n. il.
 
 44S A PLEASANT CO ME DIE [Act III. 
 
 The grace and favour of her countenance. 
 
 De March. Tell me, good fellow, of whence and what art tliou ? 
 Sol. Whv do vou not answer niv lord ? 
 He takes scorn to answer ! 964 
 
 Demarch. And tak'st thou scorn to answer my demand ? 
 Thy proud behaviour very Avell deserves 
 This misdemeanour at the worst be construed. 
 Why dost thou neither know, nor hast thou heard, 96S 
 
 That in the absence of the Saxon Duke ^ 
 Demakcii is his especial substitute. 
 To punish those that shall offend the laws ? 
 
 Wm. In knowing this, I know thou art a traitor; 973 
 
 A rebel and [a] mutinous conspirator. 
 Why, Demauch, knowest thou who I am ? 
 
 Bern. Pardon, my dread Lord, the error of my sense, 
 And misdemeanor to your princely excellency ! 976 
 
 TFm. Why, Demarch, what is the cause my subjects are in 
 
 arms ? 
 Bern. Free are my thoughts, my dread and gracious Lord, 
 From treason to your state and common weal; 980 
 
 Only revengement of a private grudge, 
 By Loud Dirot lately proffered me, 
 That stands not with the honour of my name, 
 Is cause I have assembled for my guard 98i 
 
 Some men in arms, that may withstand his force 
 Whose settled malice airaeth at my life. 
 
 1 lie was Xorman. William is variously termed King and Duke William, 
 Duke of Saxony, Normandy, and Duke of Britain. Do not these differences 
 show diflferent hands in the play ?
 
 Act III.] OF FA IRE EM. 
 
 449 
 
 IFm. Where is Lord Diuot ? 
 
 Bern. Ill arms, my gracious Lord, 988 
 
 Not past two miles from hence, 
 As credibly 1 am ascertained. 
 
 Win. Well, come, let's go. 
 I fear 1 shall lind traitors of you both. \_Ei'it. 
 
 [SCENE XIV 1.] 
 
 Enter the Citizen of Manchester'^, and his daughter Elxer, and 
 
 Manvile. 
 
 at. Indeed, sir, it would do very well if you could intreat your 
 father to come hither ; but, if you think it be too far, I care not 
 much to take horse and ride to Manchester. I am sure my daughter 
 is content with either. How sayest thou, Elner, art thou not ? 
 
 Eln. As you shall think best I must be contented. 997 
 
 Man, Well, Elner, farewell. Only thus much, I pray : make 
 all things in a readiness, either to serve here, or to carry tliither 
 with us. 1000 
 
 at. As for that, sir, take vou no care : and so I betake vou to 
 your journey — {Enter Valingford. 
 
 But soft, what gentleman is this ? 
 
 Vol. God speed, sir. Might a man crave a word or two with you ? 
 
 at. God forbid else, sir ; I pray you speak your pleasure. 
 
 Val. The gentleman that parted from you, was he not of ]\Ian- 
 chester, his father living there of good account ? 
 
 1 Act IV. Ch. 
 2 Are they not at Chester, and should not this be Citizen of Chester ? 
 VOL. II. 29
 
 450 A PLEASANT CO ME DIE [Act III. 
 
 at. Tes, marry is he, sir. Why do you ask ? Belike you have 
 had some acquaintance with him? 1009 
 
 Val. I have been acquainted, in times past, but, through his 
 double dealing, I am growen weary of his company; for, be it 
 spoken to you, he hath been acquainted with a poor miller's 
 daughter, and divers times hath promised her marriage, but what 
 with his delays and flouts he hath brought her into such a taking 
 that I fear me it will cost her her life. 1015 
 
 Clt. To be plain with you, sir, his father and I have been of 
 old acquaintance, and a motion was made between my daugh- 
 ter and his son, which now is throughly agreed upon, save only 
 the place appointed for the marriage, whether it shall be kept 
 here or at Manchester ; and for no other occasion he is now 
 ridden. 
 
 Elner. "What hath he done to you, that you should speak so ill 
 of the man? 1022 
 
 Val. Oh, gentlewoman, I cry you mercy : he is your husband 
 that shall be. 
 
 Elner. If I knew this to be true, he should not be my husband 
 were he never so good. And therefore, good father, I would desire 
 you to take the pains to bear this gentleman company to Man- 
 chester, to know whether this be true or no. 1028 
 
 at. Now trust me, gentleman, he deals with me very hardly, 
 knowinsT how well I meant to him. But I care not much to ride to 
 Manchester, to know whether his father's will be he should deal with 
 me so badly. Will it please you, sir, to go in ? We will presently 
 take horse and away. 1033 
 
 Val. If it please you to go in, I'll follow you presently. \_Exit 
 Elner and her father.^ Now shall I be revenged on Manvile,
 
 Act III.] OF FA I RE EM. 451 
 
 and by this means get Em to lie my wife ^ ; and therefore I will 
 straiglit to her fathers, and inform them both of all that has ^ liap- 
 pened ^. \Exlt. 
 
 [SCENE XV.] 
 
 Enter William, the AiiihaHsadur of Denmark, Demarcii, and 
 
 other attendants. 
 
 TFm. What news with the Denmark embassador ? 103S 
 
 Emh. Marry, thus : the King of Denmark, and my Sovereign, 
 
 Doth send to know of thee what is the cause, 1040 
 
 That, injuriously, against the law of arms. 
 
 Thou hast stolen away his only daughter, Blancii, 
 
 The only stay and comfort of his life ? 
 
 Therefore, by me lOJ-t 
 
 ^ he willeth thee to send his daughter Blanch ■*, 
 
 Or else forthwith he will levy such an host. 
 
 As soon shall fetch her in despite of thee. 
 
 Wm. Embassador, this answer I return thy King. 104-S 
 
 He willeth me to send his daughter Blanch, 
 
 Saying, I conveyed her from the Danish Court, 
 
 That never yet once did as think thereof. 
 
 As for his menacing and daunting threats, 1052 
 
 I will regard him nor his Danish power ; 
 
 For if he come to fetch her forth my realm 
 
 I will provide him such a banquet here. 
 
 That he shall have small cause to give me thanks. 1056 
 
 1 be not in orig. - is. Bode. n. d. 
 
 ^ All this scene is printed as verse in the original. — G. 
 
 * — ■• he wills thee send her back. Ch.
 
 452 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Eml. Is this your answer, then ? 
 
 Wm. It is ; and so begone. 
 
 Emh. I go ; but to your cost. \^it Ambassador. 
 
 Wm. Demarch, 1060 
 
 Our subjects, erst levied in civil broils, 
 Muster \ forthwith, for to defend the Eealm. 
 In hope whereof, that we shall find you true. 
 We freely pardon this thy late offence. 1064 
 
 J)em. Most humble thanks I render to your grace. [JExeunt. 
 
 [SCENE XVL] 
 
 Enter the Miller and Valingford. 
 
 Mil. Alas, gentleman, why should you trouble yourself so much, 
 considering the imperfections of my daughter, which is able to 
 withdraw the love of any man from her, as already it hath done in 
 her first choice. Master MA>fviLE hath forsaken her, and at 
 Chester shall be married to a mans daughter of no little wealth. 
 But if my daughter knew so much, it would go very near her heart, 
 I fear me. 1072 
 
 Val. Father miller, such is the^ entire affection to your daughter, 
 as no misfortune whatsoever can alter. My fellow Mountney, 
 thou seest, gave quickly over ; but I, by reason of my good mean- 
 ing, am not so soon to be changed, although I am borne off with 
 scorns and denial ^. . [Enter Em to them. 
 
 Mil. Trust me, sir, I know not what to say. My daughter is 
 not to be compelled by me ; but here she comes herself: speak to 
 
 ' Mustered, n. d. " ? my 
 
 2 The four lines ending here are omitted by Ch.
 
 Act III.] "- OF FAIRE EM. 453 
 
 her and spare not, for I never was troubled witli love matters so 
 much before, 10!>1 
 
 Em, Good Lord ! shall I never be rid of this importunate man ? 
 Now must I dissemble blindness a^ain. Once more for thy sake, 
 Manvile, thus am I enforced, because I shall complete my full 
 resolved mind to thee. Father, where are you ? 10S5 
 
 Mil. Here, sweet Em. Answer this gentleman, that would so 
 fain enjoy thy love. 
 
 Em. Where are you, sir ? will you never leave this idle and vain 
 pursuit of love? Is not I'hi^laiul stored enough to content you 
 but you must still trouble the poor contemptible nuiid of Man- 
 chester? 1091 
 
 Val. None can content me but the fair maid of Manchester. 
 
 Em. I perceive love is vainly described, that, being blind himself, 
 would have vou likewise troubled with a blind wife, havin;' the 
 benefit of your eyes. But neither foUow him so much in folly, but 
 love one in whom you may better delight. 1096 
 
 Val. Father i\Iilk'r, thy daughter shall have honour by granting 
 me her love. I am a gentleman of King William's court, and 
 no mean man in King William's favour. 
 
 Em. If you be a Lord, sir, as you say, you offer both yourself 
 ami me great wrong ; yours, as apparent, in limiting your love so 
 unorderly, for which you rashly endure reproachment ; mine, as 
 open and evident, when, being shut out from the vanities of this 
 world, you would have me as an open gazing stock to all the world ; 
 for lust, not love, leads you into this error. But from the one I 
 will keep me as well as I can ; and yield the other to none but to\ 
 my father, as I am bound by duty. 1107 
 
 ' to, is from the n. d. copy.
 
 454 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Val. "Why, fair Em, Manvile liath forsaken tliee, and must at 
 Chester be married : which if I speak otherwise than true, let thy 
 father speak what credibly he hath heard. 1110 
 
 Bm. But can it be Manvile will deal so unkindly to reward my 
 justice with such monstrous uns^entleness ? Have I dissembled for 
 thy sake, and dost thou now thus requite it ? Indeed these many 
 days I have not seen him, which hath made me marvel at his long 
 absence. Bnt, father, are you assured of the words he spake were 
 concerning Manvile ? 1116 
 
 'Mil. In sooth, daughter, now it is forth I must needs confinn it: 
 Master jManvile hath, forsaken thee, and at Chester must be 
 mamed to a mans daughter of no little wealth. His own father 
 procures it, and therefore I dare credit it ; and do thou believe it, 
 for trust me, daughter, it is so. 1121 
 
 Em. Then, good father, pardon the injury that I have done 
 to you, only causing your grief, by overfond affecting a man 
 so trothless. And you likewise, sir, I pray hold me excused, 
 as I hope this cause will allow sufficiently for me : my love 
 to Manvile, thinking he would requite it, hath made me double 
 with my father and you, and many more besides, which I will no 
 longer hide from you : that inticing speeches should not beguile 
 me, I have made myself deaf to any but to him ; and lest any 
 man's person should please me more than his, I have dissembled 
 the want of my sight : both which shadows of my irrevocable 
 affections I have not spared to confirm before him, my father, and 
 all other amorous solicitors — wherewith not made acquainted, I 
 perceive my true intent hath wrought mine own sorrow, and 
 seeking by love to be regarded am cut off Avith contempt and 
 despised. 1136
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 455 
 
 Mil. Tell me, sweet Em, hast tliou but feigned all tliis while ^ for 
 his love, that hath so discourteously forsaken thee ? 1 13S 
 
 Em. Credit rae, father, I have told you the truth ; wherewith I 
 desire you and Lord Valingford not to be displeased. For 
 aught else I shall say, let ray present gi'ief hold me exeused. But, 
 may I live to see that ungrateful man justly rewarded for his 
 treachery, poor Em would think herself not a little happy. Favour 
 my departing at this instant ; for my troubled thought desires to 
 meditate alone in sdenee. [Exit Em. 
 
 Val. Will not Em show one cheerful look on Valingford ? 
 
 Mil. Alas, sir, Idame her not; you see she hath good cause, 
 being so handled by this gentleman - : and so I'll leave you, and go 
 comfort my poor wench '■'' as well as I may '■'. \Exit the Miller. 
 
 Val. Earewell, good father^. [^x«^ Valingford. 
 
 [SCENE XVII 5.] 
 
 Eater Zweno, King of Benniark, with RosiLio and other 
 
 attendants. 
 
 Zw. EosiLlo, is this the place whereas 1151 
 
 The Duke William should meet me ? 
 
 Ros. It is, and like your grace. 
 
 Zw. Go, captain ! Away, regard the charge I gave : 1154 
 
 See all our men be marshalled for the fight ; 
 Dispose the wards, as lately was devised ; 
 
 1 only. Cb. - This line not iu Cb. 
 
 3—3 Omitted by Cb. 
 
 * All the prose in ibis scene is printed as verse in tbe original. — G. 
 
 5 Act V. Cb.
 
 456 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 And let the prisoners, nnder several guards, 
 
 Be kept apart, until you hear from us. 1158 
 
 Let this suffice, you know my resolution. 
 
 If William, Duke of Saxon,^ be the man, 
 
 That by his answer sent us he would send - — 
 
 Not words, but wounds; not parleis, but alarms, 1162 
 
 Must be decider of this controversy. 
 
 KosiLio, stay with me. The rest begone. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter William, and Demakch, willi other attendants. 
 
 TFm. All but Demauch go shroud vou out of sidit : 
 For I'll go parley with the prince myself. 1166 
 
 Beni. Should Zweno, by this parley, call you forth. 
 Upon intent injuriously to deal. 
 This offereth too much opportunity. 
 
 Wm. No, no, Demarch, 1170 
 
 That were a breach against the law of arms. 
 
 Therefore begone, and leave us here alone. \_Exeunt. 
 
 I see that Zweno is master of his word. 
 
 Zweno, William of Saxony ^ greeteth thee, 1174 
 
 Either well or ill according to thy intent. 
 If well thou wish to him and Saxony ^, 
 He bids thee friendly welcome as he can; 
 
 If ill thou wish to ^him and Saxony^, 1178 
 
 He must withstand thy malice as he may. 
 
 Zweno. William, for other name and title give I none 
 
 1 Normandy. Ch. ^ geem. 
 
 3 England. Ch. * Englands crown. Cb. 
 
 * — 5 tjjis juy realm. Ch.
 
 Act III] OF F AIRE EM. 457 
 
 To liiiii, who, wore lie worthy of those honours 
 
 That fortune and his predecessors left, il83 
 
 I ouf^ht, by right and Iminaii courtesy, 
 
 To style his grace the duke of Saxony ^ ; 
 
 But, for I find a base, degenerate mind, 
 
 I frame ray speech according to the man, 1186 
 
 And not the state that he unwortliy holds. 
 
 Wm. Herein, Zweno, dost thou abase thy state, 
 To break the peace which by our ancestors 
 Hath heretofore been honourably kept. 1190 
 
 Zw. Aiid should that peace for ever have been kept 
 Had not thy self been author of the breach : 
 Nor stands it with the honour of my state, 
 
 Or nature of a father to his cliihl, 11 9 !< 
 
 That I should so be robbed of my daughter, 
 And not, unto the utmost of my power, 
 llevenge so intolerable an injury. 
 
 Wm. Is this the colour of your quarrel, Zweno ? 1198 
 
 I well perceive the wisest men may err — 
 And think you I conveyed away your daughter, Blanch ? 
 
 Zio. Art thou so impudent to deny thou didst, 
 When that the proof thereof is manifest ? 1203 
 
 Wm. "What proof is there ? 
 
 Zw. Thine own confession is sufficient proof. 
 
 Wm. Did I confess I stole your daughter, Blanch ? 
 
 Zw. Thou didst confess thou hadst a lady hence. 1206 
 
 Wm. I have, and do. 
 
 1 In Mr Simpson's MS the h'ne stands as liere printed, but the original 
 reads — To grace his style with, &c. — G.
 
 458 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 Zw. Why, that was Blanch, my daughter. 
 
 Wm. Nay, that was Makiana ; 
 Wlio wrongfully thou detainest prisoner. 1210 
 
 Zic. Shameless persisting in thy ill ! 
 Thou dost maintain a manifest uutroth, 
 As she shall justify unto thy teeth. 
 
 EosiLio, fetch her and the Makcjues hither. 1214 
 
 {Exit RosiLio /or Makiana. 
 
 Will. It cannot be I should be so deceived. 
 
 Bern. I hear this night among the soldiers 
 That in their Avatcli they took a pensive lady, 
 
 Who, at the appointment of the Lord Dirot, 1218 
 
 Is yet in keeping. What she is I know not : 
 Only thus much I overheard by chance. 
 
 Win. And what of this ? 
 
 Bern. It may be Blanch, the King of Denmark's daughter. 
 
 Wm. It may be so; but on my life it is not : 1223 
 
 Yet, Demauch, go and fetch her straight. 
 
 Enter EosiLio with the Makques. 
 
 Ron. Pleaseth your highness, here is the Marques and Mariana. 
 
 Zio. See here, Duke William, your competitors, 1226 
 
 That were consenting to my daughter's scape : 
 Let them resolve you of the truth herein. 
 And here I vow and solemnly protest, 
 
 That in thy presence they shall lose their heads, 1230 
 
 L^nless I hear whereas my daughter is ! 
 
 Wui. 0, Marques Lubeck, how it grieveth me,
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 459 
 
 That for my sake thou shouldst endure these bonds ! 
 
 Be judge, my soul, that feels the martyrdom ! 1231 
 
 Marques. Duke William, you know it's for your cause 
 It pleaseth thus the King to misconceive of me, 
 And for his pleasure doth me injury. 
 
 Enter Dem Alien with the Lady Blanch. 
 
 Bern. !May it please your hig-liness, 1238 
 
 Here is the Lady you sent me for. 
 
 TF))i. Away, Demarcu ! what tellcst thou me of Ladies ^ ? 
 I so detest the dealing of their sex, 
 
 As that I count a lovers state to be 1242 
 
 The base and vildest slavery i' tli' world ! 
 
 Bern. What humours are these ? Here's a strange alteration ! 
 
 Zw. See, Duke William, is this Blanch or no? 
 You know her if you see her, I am sure. 1246 
 
 Wm. ZwENO, I w^as deceived, yea, utterly deceived. 
 Yet this is she — this same is Lady Blanch. 
 And. for mine error, here I am content 
 
 To do whatever Zweno shall set down. 1250 
 
 Ah, cruel Mariana, thus to use 
 The man which loved and honoiu-ed thee ^ with 's heart- ! 
 
 Mar. When first I came into your highness court, 
 And William oft' importing me of love, 1254 
 
 I did devise, to ease the grief your daughter did sustain. 
 She should meet Sir William masked, as I it were. 
 
 1 Cf. Twelfth Night, IV. ii. 29.—' Out hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou 
 this man ! Talkcst thou nothing but of ladies ? ' 
 - — - so much. Ch.
 
 46o A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 This put in proof did talte so good effect, 
 
 As yet it seems his gi'ace is not resolved, 1258 
 
 But it was I which lie conveyed away. 
 
 Wm. ]\Iay this be true ? It cannot ^ be but ^ true. 
 "Was 't Lady Blanch which I conveyed away ? 
 Unconstant Mariana, thus to deal 1262 
 
 With him which meant to thee nought but fiiith ! 
 
 Blan. Pardon, dear fatlicr, my follies that are past. 
 Wherein I have neglected my -duty, 
 
 Which I in reverence ought to show your grace; 1260 
 
 Tor led by love I thus have gone astray, 
 And now repent the errors I was in. 
 
 Zhc. Stand up, dear daughter. Though thy fault deserves 
 Por to be punished in the extremest sort, 1270 
 
 Yet love, that covers multitude of sins ■'', 
 Makes ^ love in ■* parents wink at childrens faults. 
 Sufficeth ■', Blanch, thy father loves thee so. 
 
 Thy follies past he knows, but will not know. 1274 
 
 And here, Duke William, take my daughter to thy wife, 
 For well I am assured she loves thee well. 
 
 Wm. A proper conjunction ! 
 As who should say, lately come out of the fire, 1278 
 
 I would go thrust myself into the flame. 
 Let Mistress nice go saint it where she list. 
 And coyly quaint it with dissembling face ; 
 I hold in scorn the fooleries that they use : 1282 
 
 ^ — 1 but be ^ this my. Ch. : me. n. d. 
 
 3 This is one of the lines censured by Greene. See Introcl., p. 379. 
 
 *— 1 lovinnr. Ch. » Suffice it
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 461 
 
 I being free, will ne'er subject myself 
 
 To any such as she is underneath the sun ^ 
 
 Zw. Kefusest thou to take my daughter to tliy wife ? 
 I tell thee, Duke, this rash denial may bring 1286 
 
 More mischief on thee than thou canst avoid. 
 
 Win. Conceit hath wrought such general dislike, 
 Through the false dealing of Mariana, 
 
 That utterly I do abhor their sex. 1290 
 
 They're all disloyal, unconstant, all unjust : 
 "Who tries as 1 have tried, and finds as I have found, 
 Will say there's no such creatures on the ground. 
 
 Blanch. Unconstant Knight, though some deserve no trust, 
 There's others faithful, loving, loyal, and just ! 1295 
 
 Enter to them Valingford, with Eii and the Miller, and 
 MouNTNEY, and Manvile, ayid Elner. 
 
 Wm. How now, L. Valingford, what makes these women 
 here ? 
 
 Val. Here be two women, may it please your grace, 1298 
 
 That are contracted to one man, and are 
 In strife whether shall have him to her - husband. 
 
 TFm. Stand forth, women, and say 
 To whether of you did he first give his faith. 1302 
 
 Em. To me, forsooth ^. 
 
 Elner. To me, my gracious Lord. 
 
 IFm. Speak, Manvile : to whether didst thou give thy faith ? 
 
 1 Otherwise — To any she is underneath the sun. 
 2 their ia orig. 3 my liege. Ch.
 
 462 A r LEAS ANT COMEDIE [Act III. 
 
 Man. To say the trotli, this maid had first my love. 1306 
 
 Ehier. Yea, Manvile, but there was no witness by. 
 
 Em. Tl)y conscience, Manvile, ^ is a thousand ' witnesses -. 
 
 Ehier. She hath stolen a conscience to serve her own turn — 
 But you are deceived, i' faith, he will none of you. 1310 
 
 Man. Indeed, dread Lord, so dear I held her love 
 As in the same I put my whole delight ; 
 But some impediments, which at that instant 
 
 Happened, made me forsake her quite; 1314 
 
 For which I had her father's frank consent. 
 
 Wm. What were th' impediments ? 
 
 Man. Why, she could neither hear nor see. 
 
 Wm. Now she doth both. Maiden, how were you cm-ed ? 1318 
 
 Em. Pardon, my Lord, FU tell your Grace the troth — 
 Be it not imputed to me as discredit. 
 I loved this Manvile so much, that still methought. 
 When he was absent, did present to me 1323 
 
 The form and feature of that countenance 
 Which I did shrine an idol in my heart. 
 And never could I see a man, methought, 
 
 That equalled Manvile in my partial eye. 1326 
 
 Nor was there any love between us lost, 
 But that I held the same in high regard, 
 Until repair of some unto our house. 
 
 Of whom my Manvile grew thus jealous 1330 
 
 As if he took exception, I vouchsafed 
 To hear them speak, or saw them Avhen they came : 
 
 ■ — ' a liundred. n. d. 
 2 This is the other line censured by Greene. See Introd., p. 378.
 
 Act III.] OF FAIRE EM. 463 
 
 On wliicli I straight took order with myself, 
 
 To void the scniple of his conscience 1334 
 
 By counterfeiting tliat I neither saw nor heard 
 
 Any ways to rid my liands of them. 
 
 All this I did to keep my Manvile's love, 
 
 Which he unkindly seeks for to reward. 133S 
 
 Man. And did my Em, to keep her faith with me, 
 Dissemble that she neither heard nor saw ? 
 Pardon me, sweet Em, for I am only thine ! 
 
 Em. Lay off thy hands, disloyal as thou art ! V-Wl 
 
 Nor shall thou have possession of my love, 
 That canst so finely shift thy matters off ! 
 Put case I had heen blind, and could not see — 
 As often times such visitations fulls 1316 
 
 That pleaseth God, which all things doth dispose — 
 Shouldst thou forsake me in regard of that ? 
 I tell thee, Manvile, hadst thou been blind, 
 
 Or deaf, or dumb, 13.jO 
 
 Or what impediments else might befal man ^, 
 Em would have loved, and kept, and honoured thee ; 
 Yea, begged, if wealth had failed, for thy relief. 
 
 Man. Forgive me, sweet Em ! 1354 
 
 Em. I do forgive thee, with my heart. 
 And will forget thee too, if case I can : 
 But never speak to me, nor seem to know me ! 
 
 Man. Then fare-well, frost ! well-fare a wench that will ! 135 8 
 Now, Elner, I'm thine own, my girl. 
 
 Elner. Mine, Manvile? thou never shalt be mine; 
 1 Ed. or else what impediments might befal to man.
 
 464 A PLEASANT COM EDI E [Act III. 
 
 I so detest tliy villany, 
 
 That whilst I live I will abhor thy company ! 1362 
 
 Man. Is 't corac to this ? Of late I had choice of twain, 
 On either side, to have me to her husband, 
 And now am utterly rejected of them both. 
 
 Fal. My Lord, this Gentleman, when time was, 1366 
 
 Stood something in our light. 
 And now I think it not amiss 
 To laugh at him that sometime scorned at us. 
 
 Mount. Content, my Lord, invent the form. 1370 
 
 Val. Then thus 1 — 
 
 TFm. I see that women are not general evils — 
 Blanch is fair : Methinks I see in her 
 
 A modest countenance, a heavenly blush. 1374 
 
 ZwENO, receive a reconciled foe, 
 Not as thy friend, but as thy son-in-law, 
 If so that thou be thus content. 
 
 Zw. I joy to see your grace so tractable — 1378 
 
 Here, take my daughter, Blanch ; 
 And after my decease the Denmark Crown. 
 
 Wm. Now, sir, how stands the case with you ? 
 
 Man. I partly am persuaded as your grace is - — 1382 
 
 1 'Then thus.' Cf. 2 H6. II. 2. 9. where the same words are a line by 
 themselves as here. ' Then thus ' — was probably followed by some ' scorn,' the 
 nature of which may be surmised from the scorn put upon Horace in Dekkcr's 
 Satiromastix, or on Crispinus in Jonson's Poetaster. [Tliis ' scorn ' may be the 
 badinige following a little later, and commencing with Valingford's ' Sir, may 
 a man be so bold.' — G.] 
 
 2 It is evident that this should come before "William accepts Blanch, while 
 he is still resolved to be a bachelor. [Or perhaps Manville has not heard 
 William's half-aside conversion, owing to his being engaged with the other 
 lords' ' scorn,' which probably is printed a little out of place. — G.]
 
 Act III.] OF FA IRE EM. 465 
 
 My Lord, he's best at ease that meddleth least. 
 
 Vol. Sir, may a man 
 Be so bold as to crave a word with you ? 
 
 Man. Yea, two or three. "What are they ? 13SG 
 
 Val. I say, tlda maid will have thee to her husband. 
 
 Mount. And I say thh : and thereof will I lay 
 An hundred, pound. 
 
 Fal. And I say this : whereon I'll lay as much. 1390 
 
 Man. And I say neither : what say you to that ? 
 
 Mount. If that be true, then are we both deceived. 
 
 Manvile. Why, it is true, and you are both deceived. 
 
 Marques. In mine eyes, 1394 
 
 This is the properest Avench. flight I advise thee, 
 Take her to • tliy wife ? 
 
 Zwe. It seems to me she hath refused him. 
 
 Marques. Why, there's the spite. 139 S 
 
 Zw. If one refuse him, yet may he have the other. 
 
 Marques. He'll ask but her good will, and all her friends. 
 
 Zw. Might I advise thee ? Let them both alone. 
 
 Man. Yea, that 's the course : and thereon will I stand; 1402 
 Such idle love henceforth I will detest. 
 
 Val. The foxe will cat no grapes, and why ? 
 
 Mount. I know, full well, because they hang too high. 
 
 Win. And may 't be a ^Millers daughter by her birth? 1406 
 
 I cannot think but she is better born. 
 
 Val. Sir Thomas Goddakd hight this reverend- man 
 
 Famed for his virtues, and his good success. 
 
 Whose fame hath been rcnowmed through the world. 11 10 
 
 1 Ed. unto. - Ed. reverent. 
 
 VOL. II. 30
 
 466 A PLEASANT COM EDI E OF FA IRE EM. [Act III. 
 
 Wm. Sir Thomas Goddard, welcome to thy Prince ; 
 And, fair Em, frolic [thou^] with thy good father; 
 As glad am I to find Sir Thomas Goddard, 
 As good Sir Edmond Treford, on the plains, 1414 
 
 He like a shepherd, and thou our country Miller. 
 
 Mill. And longer let not Goddard live a day 
 Than he in honour loves his sovereign. 
 
 TFin. But say, Sir Thomas, shall I give thy daughter? 1418 
 
 Mill. [Sir Thomas] Goddard, and all that he hath. 
 Doth rest at the pleasure of yoiu' Majesty. 
 
 TT'm. And what says Em to lovely Valingford ? 
 It seemed he loved you well that for your sake 1422 
 
 Durst leave his King. 
 
 Em. Em rests at the pleasure of your highness : 
 And would T were a wife for his desert. 
 
 Wm. Then here, Lord Valingford, receive faire Em. 1426 
 Here take her, make her thy espoused wife. 
 Then go we in, that preparation may be made. 
 To see these nuptials solemnly performed. 
 
 [Exeunt all. Sound drums and trumpets'^. 
 
 Finis. 
 
 1 tliou not in original. 
 
 ~ In the London I'rocUgal, also attributed to Shakspere, is a line which 
 also occurs in this play : [p. 4G0, 1. 1264.] 
 
 'Pardon, dear father, the follies that are past.' Act v., p. 2-i7, of Hazlit's ed. 
 Similarly supra, p. 2G, 1. 11 : 
 
 ' Pardon, my dread lord, the error of my sense.' 
 See above, p. 448, 1. 97o. Another line is also very similar: 
 
 ' Never come near my sight or look on me.' Act iii. sc. 3, p. 232. 
 See above, p. 463, 1. 1357 : 
 
 ' But never speak to me, nor seem to know me.*
 
 467 
 
 NOTE S. 
 
 1. The 1G31 edition of Faire Em, wliicl:, in the main, is here 
 reproduced, is not divided, into scenes or acts. The division into 
 scenes here given is by Mr Simpson. Prof. Delias, in his reprint 
 {Pseudo-ShaksperescJie Bramen, II. hand : Elberfeld, 1874), follows 
 the division into acts of Chetwood's edition (as indicated in the 
 present reprint). Prof. DeUus's scenes con-espond with Mr 
 Simpson's, except tliat he has a fresh scene — his scene ii. Act V. 
 — commencing at line 1165. In the 1631 edition most of the 
 prose is printed in verse-lines. In the present reprint Prof. Delius's 
 division into prose and verse has been adopted. — G. 
 
 2. Manchester Stage: (vide footnote, Introduction, p. 37-t.) — 
 A cursory glance into some of the authorities which might be sup- 
 posed capable of affording information under this head yields very 
 little, owing to the fact, that most of the writers have evidently 
 viewed the local stage events of the period in question as being un- 
 worthy of notice. The histories of Cheshire, however (and Lord 
 Strange's company played in Chester about the time they played iu 
 Manchester), yield a little more than those of Lancashire. Orme- 
 rod's Cheshire (3 v. folio, ISIO) and Hemingway's Citij of Chester 
 (2 V. Svo, 1831) give accounts of the ' Playes of Chester called 
 Whitsun Playes,' the 'Midsummer Show,' and the plays and 
 pageants of the local trades — tne immediate precursors of the stage- 
 performances of noblemen's companies of professional actors such 
 as the company of Lord Strange. These histories also grive, 
 amongst their extracts from the Vale Royal, a few notices of Lord 
 Strange, and his predecessors and successors as local men. One of
 
 468 NOTES. 
 
 these refers to the Lord Strange wliose company plaj-ed Faire Em, 
 and to whom Greene dedicated liis TulUes Love, in 1589 {ante, p. 
 362), as follows: — '1587 — Perdinando Lord Strange was made 
 an alderman, who received the same very honorably, and made a 
 rich banquet in the Pentice.' It is likely enough that at this, or 
 some similar aldermanic festival, by, or in honour of. Lord 
 Strange, his lordship's company of players figured with Faire Em 
 and their other plays. Previously, under the one date of 1577, 
 occurs the record of the followina' two events — connecting:, as will 
 be seen, in that one year Lord Strange and some local play-acting : 
 — ' 1577. — The Earl of Derby, with lord Strange, and many others, 
 came to the city (Chester) and were honorably received by the 
 mayor and citizens.' — 'The Shepherds' play w^as played at the 
 High Cross^ and other triumphs at Rood-eye. — G-
 
 IXDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Accomodate, associate, ii. 164/174 
 
 Actors. Sec Players. 
 
 Actors, Apology for, Heyvrood's, ii. 
 
 213 
 Adreamt, I was, I drearaeiJ, i. 172/ 
 
 359 
 Afore, because, or, aud for, i. 235/ 
 
 1943 
 Alarum for London, i. 139, 154 ; ii. 
 
 211. [See also S/tOcma leer's JJoli- 
 
 (latj.) 
 Alcazar, Battle of, i. 134, 144, 2G8 
 Alcida, Greene's, ii. 360 
 Ale, Xut-brown. Ale browned on 
 
 tlie top with nutmeg (and having 
 
 ginger in it), ii. 21/114 
 All, any, any at all, ii. 304/901 
 All, at all, and for all = o'er all, or, 
 
 with all, ii. 407/6, 421/334 
 All's ITell thai Ends Well ; Countess 
 
 to Bertram, cf. with Miller to Em, 
 
 in Fair Em, ii. 402, 413/141 
 Alphonsus King of Arragon, Greene's, 
 
 ii. 352 
 Alva, Duke of, i. 139, 215 
 Amatist, amethyst, ii. 48/143 
 Anaides, name for Dekker in Jon- 
 son's CijnthiiCs Itt'vcls, ii. 129 
 Anatomi/ of Absurdity, Nash's, ii. 359 
 Antonjo, Bon, of Portugal, lost play 
 
 on, i. 140 
 Apple-squire, a bawd, ii. 314/1158 
 Arbasto, Greene's, ii. 341, 372 
 Archigald (or Archigallo). See 
 
 British Kings. 
 Arden of Fiiversham, 1592, attributed 
 
 to Shakspere, ii. 211 
 Amies, Law of {see Law of armcs). 
 Aylmeu, Bp of Loudon, i. 271 
 
 Bald man. a, is an honest man be- 
 cause ' there's nut a haire betwixt 
 
 him and heaven,' ii. 167/21 
 Bale of dice, a pair of dice, i. 337/ 
 
 1512 
 Ballad. See Ballating, and Ballet. 
 Ballating, ballad making, ii. IGoySoO 
 Ballet, a, a dittie or little Bong, ii. 
 
 161/249 
 
 singer, sings a ballet, ii. 31 
 
 Banbery cheese, a, ' nothing but 
 
 paring,' ii. 173/178 
 Ban'cuoft, Bp, and Mar-Prelate 
 
 (which see). 
 Bankes's horse, ii. 145/292 
 Bar sizeaccs, false dice, which see. 
 Barmie, yeasty, ii. 128, 136/35, 199/ 
 
 108 
 Barrater, a wrangler, a quarreller, i. 
 
 167/229 
 Baven, brushwood, ii. 136/42 
 Bear, I do bear = I bear myself, ii. 
 
 399, 407/11 
 Become = gone to, ii. 142/210 
 Beef, Indian, ii, 147/326 
 Berwick, Thos Stucley's captaincy 
 
 in, i. 29 
 Bespawle, to = to deride, ii. 128, 
 
 146/302 
 Betake, I betake you = I leave you 
 
 to, or I dismiss you to, ii. 449/ 1001 
 Bewrayed, covered, ii. 369 
 Bczelcrs, guzzlers, tipplers, ii. 135/26 
 Birchin-hine, i. 294/440 
 Bird in a box, saying, i. 339/1571 
 Birth of Merlin, in part attributed to 
 
 Shakspere, ii. 388 
 'Elacke Bowie, the,' song. [See 
 
 ' Gentle Bulltr, bailey moy.')
 
 470 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Black patches, why Tvorn, ii. 203/220 
 Blind Beggar, Chapman's, i. 357 
 BoLEYx, Anne, and Hen. Vill., 
 
 Dr Sanders's charg-es against in 
 
 his book against the Eeformation 
 
 in England, i. 124 
 Bones a Dod ! an oath, (r) God's 
 
 bones ! or good God ! i. 158/6, 
 
 160/45 
 Bonny clabbo, sour butter milk (Irish), 
 
 i. 192/844 
 Boulogne, siege of (1544), i. 7 
 Bourbon locks, locks of hair, ii. 147/ 
 
 340 
 Bowzing, drinking, ii. 135/22, 142/ 
 
 214 
 Brabine, T. ii. 354 
 Bradfard's Meditai>o)i/<, ii. 334/1G81 
 Brag, a, proud, ii. 369 
 Brag it, to, to show-off, or swell about, 
 
 ii. 369 
 Brawle, a French, a dance, ii. 199/128 
 Breeches, J "civet and Cloth Brcechcn, 
 , Dispute Bettveen, the second title 
 
 of Greene's Quip for an Upstart 
 
 Courtier (which see"). 
 Brisle dice, false dice, i. 337/1522 
 British Kings, Monmouth's Chronicle 
 
 of, the history of Archigald, Eli- 
 
 dure, Teridure, and "\'igeiit treated 
 
 in Kohody and Somehodi/, i. 269 
 Browne, Capt., murderer of Mr San- 
 ders ( Warning for Tairc Women), ii. 
 
 209, et scq. [See also Sanders, Geo.) 
 Buccaneering by Queen Elizabeth, 
 
 — Stucley, Hawkins, and Cobham 
 
 buccaneers in her interest, i. 34 
 ■ Expedition to Florida 
 
 by Thomas Stucley, i. 32 
 Buli'one, Carlo, ii. 61/132 
 Buml)ast, stufhng in dress, i. 354/ 
 
 1945 
 BuoNcoMPAGNO, Giacomo, the Pope's 
 
 scheme for making him King of 
 
 Ireland, i. 119 
 Buske, tlie bones of a woman's stays, 
 
 ii. 182/22 
 Butchers, Maunday Thursday and the, 
 
 ii. 275/166 
 • Buttoned his cap, Ale has,' i. e. made 
 him drunk, ii. 31/71 
 
 Cabbaleers, Cavaliers, roystcring, 
 swaggering ruffians, ii. 291/589 
 
 Calais, Stueley's disclosure of the 
 French King's designs upon, in Ed. 
 Vlth's reign, i. 12, 13, 16 
 
 Cales, Cadiz, i. 230/1807 
 
 'Calf, killing the' (or the cow), 'a 
 kind of extcmporal performance of 
 vagrant actors,' ii. 357 
 
 Canning Street, .' Cannon Street, i. 
 292/378 
 
 Cannon (?) or Canning Street, 1, 292/ 
 378 
 
 Cape-merchant (?) i. 232/1862 
 
 Cards, cheating at, i. 337/1525, 354/ 
 1946 
 
 Carew, Sir Peter, cousin of Thos 
 Stucley, he recovers the Barony of 
 Odrone, i. 53 
 
 Carkanet, a jewel, ii. 49/148 
 
 Carlo Butfone, i. 60/132 
 
 Carpet-coward, same as carpet-soldier, 
 &c., i. 201/1050 
 
 Cashel, Fitzgibbon, the Catholic 
 Archbp of. See Fitzgibbon. 
 
 Catholic plots against Queen Eliza- 
 beth's life. See Stueley's life gener- 
 ally. 
 
 Caveat to Cursitors, Harman's, ii. 380 
 
 Cecil (Burleigh), his account of, 
 friendship for, and subsequent en- 
 mity to Thomas Stucley, i. 40, 109, 
 136. — Thomas Stueley's scandal- 
 ous reports against him (as re- 
 tailed by Pigsby, S's discarded 
 servant), i. 75. — his party that of 
 the civilians, as opposed to the 
 soldiers' party led by Essex, i. 143, 
 144, 155 
 
 Chapman is (possibly) Masus, al- 
 luded to in Jack Itrum, ii. 131, 
 183/40 
 
 his Blind Beggar, i. 357 
 
 Chester, plays at : ' Witsun Plays,' 
 ' Midsummer Show,' the ' Shep- 
 herd's Play,' plays and pageants 
 of the local trades, &c., ii. 467. 
 • — Lord Strange at, and possibly his 
 players at, ibid. 
 
 Chettle, and his vindication of 
 
 Shakspere, ii. 383 — 5 
 Cheverell, stretching, like kid-leather, 
 
 ii. 64/29 
 Children (Player) of Paul's, and 
 Queen's Pvcvels. [See Player Chil- 
 dren. J
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 471 
 
 * Chorus ' characters in plays. .SV« 
 
 Druma. 
 
 * Chorus' in fitudey ([ilay of) like 
 
 Chorus in llai. V., i. 3o'J 
 Ciceronis Tainor, or Titllie's Love, 
 
 Greene's, ii. 362, 372, 397 
 Citizens V. Soldiers, rival parties of 
 
 Cecil and Essex, i. 1 J3, 154, 155 
 Claijtie men, or appiauders of tiie 
 
 riaycrs called Ingles, ii. 33, 67/89, 
 
 93, etc. 
 Claw back, name for a sycophant, i. 
 
 293/416 
 Clergyman, ' Sir John ' a, ii. 423/373 
 Cluttered bloud, clouted, or clotted, 
 
 blood, ii. 159/216 
 Coarsiu : ' To haue a ^reat hurt or 
 
 damage which we call a corsey to 
 
 the herte,' Eliotes Dictionarie, 
 
 1559, in Nares, ii. 231, 332/1651 
 Cobham, Lord, Sycophant in Nobody 
 
 and iSomebody possibly meant for 
 
 him, i. 274 
 Cobuam's piracies, i. 34, 39 
 Coin, base, evil of, in 1598, i. 349/ 
 
 1814 
 Collier of Croydon : see Grim the 
 
 Collier, etc. 
 Comedy of Errors, iv. 2, 20, — cf. 
 
 with Faire Em, ii. 403, 416/206 
 Comedy, no point, none at all (Fr.), 
 
 ii. 54, 266, 149/389, 352 
 
 contest of with Tragedy in 
 
 Shakspere's time, ii. 241/1 
 
 Comet of Nov. 9, 1577, its applica- 
 tion as a warning of the pending 
 disastrous Battle of Alcazar, i. 123, 
 134, 147, 249 
 
 Competitors, confederates, ii. 458/ 
 1226 
 
 Complements, a combat of, between 
 Brabant signior and PuH'e in Jack 
 Drum, ii. 169/76 
 
 Coney-catcher, (Juthbert, his Defence 
 of Coney-catching, a defence of the 
 actors against Greene, ii. 380, 387 
 
 Consort, musician, accompauyist, ii. 
 66/74 
 
 Coresie. See Coarsie. 
 
 Cork, all its inhal)itants kin, i. 1 
 
 not captured by Thos Stucley, 
 
 i. 60 
 
 Corn 2/6(f. a quarter in time of plenty, 
 ii, 31 
 
 Cotton, to, to take to, i. 109/290 
 
 Cought, coughed, or spit, i. 227/1732 
 
 Counter, the prison, and otlier Lon- 
 don prisons, i. 301/613 
 
 Countcrcuffe to Martin Junior, Nash's, 
 ii. 355 
 
 Court, Porters at, their great gains, 
 i. 320/1105 
 
 Coyle, tunuilt, ii. 162/272 
 
 Crack-breech, a nickname, i. 165/ 
 190 
 
 Cripplegate, St Giles's, 'the Sexton 
 of (11. Crowley), ii. 377-8 
 
 Crispinus, Ritfus, name for Marston 
 in Jonson's Poetaster, ii. 128 
 
 Critic, or Censurer, judgment on, in 
 the person of Brabant signior (Jack 
 JJrum) meant for Jonson, li. 129, 
 207/325 
 
 Cromucll, Thos Lord, the play, pos- 
 sibly in part by Shakspere, i. 139 
 
 Crowley, K., ii. 378 
 
 Cunnic'atching, cheating, i. 338/1545 
 
 Curtis, Alderman (and Lord Mavor) 
 Sir Thos, i. 25, 144, 158, 239,2044 
 
 Cut, New, a card game, i. 338/1534 
 
 Ci/nthia's Itereh, Jonson's, ii. 129 
 
 Cyvilt, Seville, i. 244/2154 
 
 Dagge, pistol, ii. 198/82 
 
 Dairger, dudgen, a box-handled dag- 
 ger, i. 188/744 
 
 Dagger pies, ii. 66/70 
 
 Daniel is (possibly) Musks alluded to 
 in Jack Drum, ii. 131, 183/40 
 
 Davila, Sancho, i. 139, 215' 
 
 Dicius, name of Dravton in Jack 
 Drum, ii. 131, 183,42 
 
 Dejected, deposed, rejected, i. 297/ 
 509 
 
 Dekker and Ben Jonson, ii. 5 
 
 not the original of Thersites 
 
 in Troilus and C, ii. 7 
 
 and Marston, their quarrel 
 
 with Jonson. (See Marston.) 
 
 is Anaides in Jonson's Cyn- 
 
 thia's Bevels, ii. 129 
 
 his attacks upon Jonson, ii. 
 
 379 
 
 and '\\'ilson's Shotmaker't 
 
 Holiday, i. 154 
 
 his Furtunatus, i. 357 
 
 Delius, Prof., his ed. of Faire Em, ii. 
 467
 
 472 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Deloney's Gentle Craft, i. 154 
 Demi-bavs, false dice,!. 337/1517 
 Devonshire, Duke of, Hen. YIII's 
 
 attempt to dispark his Okehampton 
 
 Park, i. 9 
 Dice, false, i. 336/1502 et seq, 353/ 
 
 1914, et seq. 
 Dismal day, ' in the almanack ' 
 
 (March), i'i. 290/556 
 Distinguishing, extinguishing, i. 217/ 
 
 1474 
 Doron, in Menaphon, is Shakspere, ii. 
 
 340, 356 
 Drama, decline of, in Greece, in Eomr, 
 
 in England, K. Greene's account of, 
 
 ii. 367—369 
 Greene's letter to his brother 
 
 playwrights (in his posthumous 
 
 Groatsivorth of Wit) -addressed to 
 
 Marlowe, Lodge (or Nash), Peele, 
 
 and Shakspere, ii. 381-2 
 
 the Martinist controversy upon 
 
 the stage, 1589-90 ; ii. 390 
 
 Shakspere's reforms of the, (1) 
 
 By substituting dramatic action 
 for the didactic exposition of the 
 'Euphuists,' and (2) Ey discarding 
 ' dumb-show ' and ' chorus ' evolve- 
 ments of plot, ii. 393 — 5. See also 
 Stage, Players, &c. 
 
 Dramatists, Elizabethan, generally 
 wrote in the Essex interest, i. 274 
 
 Taine on their style, i. 358 
 
 Drayton is Deeius alluded to in JacTc 
 Brum, ii. 131, 183/42 
 
 Dreams of ' green meadows ' a sign 
 of death, &c., ii. 277/204 
 
 Dress, fashionable, men's, ii. 48/124, 
 etc. 
 
 women's, ii. 49/137, etc., 53, 
 
 248 
 
 Drinking ' their skinnes full,' ii. 30/ 
 182 
 
 Dutch, ii. 165/364 
 
 ' Lion drunk' ? = ' pot valiant,' 
 
 ii. 166/3 
 
 Drury, Mrs Anne, one of the mur- 
 derers of Mr Sanders ( JVarning for 
 Faire Wodioi), ii. 209, et seq. [See 
 also Sanders, Geo.) 
 
 Dudley, Arthur, who professed to be a 
 son of Q. Elizabeth and the Earl of 
 Leicester, i. 6. 
 
 Dumb shows and Pantomime, in 
 
 TTarning for Fairc Women, ii. 269, 
 284, et seq. See also Drama. 
 Dundalk, Capt. Stucley's defence of 
 
 (in the plav), i. 49, 190. 
 ' Dutch drinking,' ii. 165/364 
 ' Ancient,' epithet for an im- 
 postor, ii. 172/174 
 Dye, a dairy-woman, ii. 141/162 
 Dyer's, Sir Edward, Praise of No- 
 thing (1585), i. 270 
 
 Easter sermons at the Spittle, ii. 275/ 
 159 
 
 Edward III, cf. with play of Stucleij, 
 i. 359 
 
 Elidure. See British Kings. 
 
 Elizabeth, Queen, and Leicester, Ar- 
 thur Dudley claimed to be their 
 son, i. 6 
 
 her final rejection of the 
 
 Earl's suit, i. 31 — 38 
 
 ■ — piracy and privateering in 
 
 her reign, some of it being in her 
 interest, i. 22, 32, 34, 38, 39, 69, 
 81, and life of Stucley generally 
 (which see). 
 
 Catholic and Spanish plots 
 
 against her. See Stucley's life. 
 
 her ejection of Thomas 
 
 Stucley from his office and lauds 
 in Ireland, i. 41, 82 ; Stucley's 
 scandalous reports against her, i, 
 75 ; she complains to Philip of 
 Spain, of his harbouring Stucley 
 and other rebels, i. 85, 91, 93 
 
 time of, abuses of, reflect- 
 
 ed upon in Nobody and Somebody, 
 i. 269, et seq. ; decay of hospitality, 
 racking of rents, extortions of 
 usurers, and offences against pro- 
 tectionist code, i. 348, et seq. 
 
 dramatists of her time 
 
 generally in the interest of Earl of 
 Essex, i. 274 
 
 London prisons in her time, 
 
 i. 301/613 
 is Astrfea in Histrio-Mas- 
 
 tix, ii. 3, 86/259 
 
 hospitality in her time, ii. 
 
 35/172 
 
 her ' bounty,' or good 
 cheer, ' to all comers,' ii. 292/604 
 lizab( 
 
 35y 
 
 Elizabethan Poets, Nash on, ii.
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 473 
 
 Enp:land in Elizabeth's time. Sec 
 Elizabeth, Q., time of. 
 
 hospitality in ; expenses of a 
 
 Lord's establishment in time of 
 plenty(temp. Eliz.), ii. 35/172 
 
 Enj,'lefield, l^orJ Francis, his part in 
 the Spanish I'apal plot against Q. 
 Elizabeth, i. Ill 
 
 English, the, are ' hardy but rash, 
 Avitty but overwcaning,' — views of 
 a Spaniard, i. 238/2023 
 
 Essex, Earl of, his party that of the 
 soldiers, as opposed to the civilian 
 party which was led by Cecil, i. 
 143, 1.54, loo 
 
 in Ireland, i. 209/ 
 
 1257 
 
 his enemy. Lord Cob- 
 ham, probably satirised in character 
 of Sycophant in Nobody and Some- 
 bud y, i. 274 
 
 dramatists of Eliza- 
 
 bethan era generally iu his interest, 
 
 i. 274 
 Esternulio, Six Thomas Stucley 
 
 (which see). 
 Esther (Did llama)], and Hester and 
 
 Ahastiirus, i. 35G-7, ii. 12 
 
 * Eueuucli'd Vicaridgc, or,' fitter for a 
 
 younger brother than marriage, ii. 
 129, 172/157 
 Euphues, his Censure to Philautus, 
 Greene's, ii. 344, 351 
 
 * Euphuist ' school of dramatists, their 
 
 method driven out by Shakspere's 
 
 method, ii. 393 — 5. See also Drama. 
 Every Man in His Humour, Jonson's, 
 
 its prologue, ii. 216 
 Execution of the murderers of Mr 
 
 Sanders, at Smithfield, May, 1573, 
 
 ii. 226 
 an, on the Stage, in TFarn- 
 
 iny for Faire Women, ii. 326/1470, 
 
 336 
 
 Faire Em, A Tleasaut Comedie of, 
 the Miller's iJaughter of Manches- 
 ter ; with the Love of William the 
 Conqueror : 1631, the text, ii. 337. 
 — various editions of, ii. 339, 467. 
 — Introduction to, ii. 339. — Sum- 
 mary of the play, ii. 338 and 392, 
 • — attributed to Shaksperc, ii. 13, 
 339, 390—405. —attributed to 
 
 Greene, ii. 339. — resemblance to it 
 of Greene's Arhasto, ii. 342, 372, 
 Tullies Love, ii. 362, 372, and 
 Mourning Garment, ii. 372. — its 
 story, ii. 372. — its plot, and sym- 
 bolical meaning, ii. 373-4. — cha- 
 racters in ; Mandtville is meant 
 for Greene ; Mountenay for Mar- 
 lowe ; ^'alingford for Shakspere ; 
 "William the Conqueror for Will 
 Kempe, kc, ii. 373-4. — is a 
 satire on Greene, and is attacked 
 as such in Greene's Farewell to 
 Folly, ii. 372, 375-7-8, 404. —is 
 in part from ballad of Miller's 
 Jjaityhtcr of Manchester, ii. 377. 
 — Greene attacks it and its 
 author (Shakspere), ii. 372, 377- 
 8. — the play internally examined 
 and compared with Shakspere's 
 work, ii. 13, 390—405. — ditterent 
 hands in the play, ii 448/9G9 
 Falstalfs babbling * of green fields ' 
 
 an omen of his death, ii. 277/204 
 Famoused, made famous, ii. 387 
 Fardel, pack, or burden, ii. 359, 386 
 Farewell to Folly, Greene's, ii. 310, 
 
 344, 345, 346, 362, 375 
 Fazion, or fasions, a disease of horses 
 
 like glanders, ii. 377 
 Fetch, a, a pretence, ii. 327/1495 
 Fig for Momus, Lodge's, ii. 88 
 Finsbury, the Eailif of, his dealings 
 with frays in the ' Theatre-fields,' i. 
 182/610 
 Fitzgibbon, Catholic Archbishop of 
 Cashel, account of, i. 61, 70 
 
 he quarrels with Thos 
 
 Stucley, i. 74 
 
 he gives account of and a 
 
 Avarning against Thos Stucley to 
 Philip of Spain, and then betrays 
 cause of the Irish Catholics who 
 wished for a Spanish Prince, i. 
 88—90 
 
 plots with Alva for in- 
 
 vasion of Ireland, i. 90 
 
 Flail, the, in the arms of the Traf- 
 ford family, ii. 390 
 
 Fletcher, Bp, father of the dramatist, 
 i. 271 
 
 Florida, Stucley's' buccaneering ex- 
 pedition to, taken in interest of Q. 
 Elizabeth, i. 32, 81
 
 474 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Flush, abounding in monev, i. 179/ 
 538 
 
 Fond, crodulous, i. 239/2040 
 
 Foot-b;udv-a, on foot, ii. 386 
 
 Force, I force not, I care not ; no 
 force, no matter, i. 209/1255; ii. 
 441/810 
 
 Fore-prizzins:, surprisin?, i. 23G/1961 
 
 Forslowed, delayed, ii. 224 
 
 Fortunatns, i. 357 
 
 Dekker's, ibid. 
 
 ' Founder ! God bless the,' ii. 36/ 
 183 
 
 Four So7is of Aymon, Shawe's and a 
 possible older one, ii. 214, 216 
 
 Foutre ! = ' a tig for I ' i. 243/2130 • 
 ii. 168/44 
 
 Fox, a — A sword with a fox engraved 
 on the blade, i. 169/275, 181/ 
 174 
 
 Freeze, Upsey, Dutch, or hard, drink- 
 ing, ii. 165/364. {See Upsey 
 freeze.) 
 
 Frenchman, John fo de King, a cari- 
 cature of a, and teacher of French, 
 in Jack Brum, ii. 147/328, etc. 
 
 Friar Bacon, Greene's, ii. 339 
 
 Friar Francis, ii. 214 — 16 
 
 Friendship, Shakspere's view of its 
 superiority to love, as shown in his 
 Sonnets, &c., ii. 397-8, 436/690 
 
 Froude, Mr, his ' characteristic idea,' 
 'that whatever is new (and discover- 
 ed by himself) must also be true,' 
 i. 64 
 
 Frump, a, a critical censure, ii. 377 
 
 Fullums, low and high, loaded dice, 
 
 . i. 337/1512, 354/1952 
 
 Galliard, a, a dance danced by a Page, 
 ii. 200/130 
 
 Garden-allies, the suburb streets of 
 London, full of brothels about 
 Elizabeth's time, i. 352/1891 
 
 Genius, difference of, in the Poet and 
 the Philosopher — the one has the 
 genius to dispense with details, the 
 other to use them : Shakspcre illus- 
 trates poetic genius, for his very 
 ignorance of technicalities helped 
 him to his larger insight and know- 
 ledge, ii. 398 
 
 ' Gentle Butler, bailey moy,' John, 
 Eliiss's 'high Dutch' sou;^ ixi Jack 
 
 Drum : a repetition song, intro- 
 ducing the names of tavern liquor 
 vessels from the ' black bowle ' to 
 the ' tunne,' ii. 204/237 
 
 Gentle Craft, Deloney's, i. 154 
 
 Gentleman, Post-haste's (Shak- 
 spere's (P) ) definition of a — ' A gen- 
 tleman IS a gentleman that hath a 
 clean shirt on, with some learning,' 
 ii. 37/214 
 
 Gentry, decline of their hospitality, i. 
 34371648 
 
 Geraldine, James, his part in 0' Des- 
 mond's scheme of invasion of Ire- 
 land, i. 124 
 
 German Collection" of English Plays 
 (1620), i. 356, ii. 12 
 
 Germany, Shakspere's company in, i. 
 356, ii. 15 
 
 ' Gip, Mistresse ! or ' Gup, Mistress ! ' 
 — ' Gee up !' or 'Hullo ' mistress ! 
 ii. 58/65, 55/291, 241/13 
 
 Glib, easily, or smoothly, got, ii. 53/ 
 267 
 
 Glibbery, slippery, smooth, ii. 128, 
 139/127 
 
 Glooming, gloomy, ii. 155/93 
 
 Godwarde, in Newgate, cell in vrhich 
 condemned criminals wei'c left for 
 confession and death, ii. 227 
 
 Gorge, stomach, i. 354/1945 
 
 Gosson's School of Abuse (an at- 
 tack upon the Stage), an answer to 
 it. Strange News out of Afric, i. 
 144 
 
 Gourds, loaded dice, i. 354/1952 
 
 Gradasso, Greene's, ii. 353 
 
 Grant, consent, i. 293/413 
 
 Greene, E,., his life and -works, and 
 his attacks upon Shakspere and the 
 players, ii. 11, 12, 339 — 90. — 
 Faire Em attributed to him, ii. 339. 
 — his Friar Bacon, ii. 339. — Faire 
 Em a satire upon him by Shak- 
 spere, and attacked by Greene in 
 consequence, ii. 340, 344, 362, 
 375, et seq. — his Mamillia, ii. 
 340. — his Youth seeing all his 
 ivays, etc., ii. 340. — his Gicidonius, 
 ii. 341. —his Arbasto, ii. 341, 372 ; 
 its resemblance to Faire Em., ii. 
 342. —his Morando, ii. 342. —his 
 rianctomachia, -with its denuncia- 
 tion of the ' Saturuists,' and por-
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 475 
 
 trait of Valdraco (possibly Shak- 
 Bpere), ii. 342, 3o3. — his travels, 
 ii. 343, 36o. — his Penelope's Weh, 
 ii, 344, 351. — his Huphites, his 
 Censure to I'Ailautiis, ii. 344, 3ol. 
 — his I'eriiiiedes, ii. 344, 3;j1, 3o3. 
 — his Orpharion, ii. 34.5, 3H0. — his 
 repentance, and works in conse- 
 quence, \'\7.. Never too Late, ii. 346, 
 348, 3G4, 365, 370; Farewell to 
 Folly, ii. 344, 345, 346, 362, 365, 
 375, 379 ; Mourni)i(j Garment, ii. 
 344, 345, 346, 348, 364, 3G5, 372, 
 379 ; and Grontsworth of Wit, ii. 
 
 348, 381. — his works ahjnring 
 Love, ii. 345. — his and Lodjje's 
 drama on Jonah, ii. 346, 383. — 
 his Francesco in Never too Late, 
 riiiladur in Jfournin;/ Garment, 
 and lloberto in Groatsicorthof Jl'it 
 arc autobio<^raphical sketches, ii. 
 
 349. — he is employed (in conjunc- 
 tion with Nash and Lily) by Archbp 
 Whitgift to write down Martin 
 Mar-Prelate (which see), ii. 349, 
 355, 364. — his Alpltonstis King of 
 Arragon, an unsuccessful imitation 
 of Tamburlaine, ii. 352. — his tale 
 of Gradasso in J'erimeiles nearly 
 the same as his ' Venus Tragedy,' 
 or Valdrako in Flanetomachia, ii. 
 353. — his Fandosto, ii. 353. — his 
 Menaphon, and Nash's preface to it, 
 ii. 354. — Nash joins him in his 
 attacks upon Shakspere and the 
 Players, ii, 354. — his Alcida, ii, 
 360, — Ciceronis Tamor; or, Tul- 
 lie's Lore, and its likeness to Faire 
 Em, ii. 362, 372, 397. —his Span- 
 ish Masqucrado, ii, 363, — Sidley 
 and Hake's verse in his honour, ii. 
 364, 370. — his sketch of his own 
 life ; how be deserted his wife, 
 &c., ii. 365; fell in with the 
 players, and so got to write for 
 them,itc., ii. 366,384. — his account 
 of the decadence of playing, and 
 attack upon players, ii. 367 — 70, 
 384. — points of likeness of four of 
 his works to Faire Em, ii. 373. 
 — his view of women as evils, ii. 
 373. — Mandeville in Faire Em 
 meant for him, ii. 374. — his men- 
 dacity, ii, 378. — his Coney-catch- 
 
 ing pamphlets ; one a piracy of 
 Harman's Caveat, ii. 380. — his 
 Quip for an Upstart Courtier, a 
 piracy upon Dialogue betucen Vel- 
 vet lireeches and Cloth Breeches, ii. 
 35/179, 381. —his Fhilomela, ii. 
 381. — his death, and Grontsworth 
 of Wit, \\'\\\\ the letter to bis bro- 
 ther pla} Wrights contained in the 
 latter, ii.381 — 5. — his and Lodge's 
 conjoint work, ii. 346, 383. 
 —knack to Know a Knave, per- 
 hai)s by him and Lodge, ii. 383. 
 — Greene's Funerals, an anonymous 
 panegyric upon Greene, ii. 385. 
 — his quarrel with the actors, and 
 Cuthbert Coney-catcher's defence 
 of them against him, ii, 386-7. 
 — Cuthbert Coney-catcher accuses 
 him of cheating the players by 
 selling his Orlando Farioso to two 
 companies, &c., ii. 387. — his life- 
 long attacks upon Shakspere, ii. 
 339 — 405. — his character sum- 
 marized and condemned, ii. 388, 
 — his and Pcelc's and Marlowe's 
 grandiloquent style superseded by 
 Sliakspere's common-sense style, ii. 
 396. — Sliakspere's ridicule of this 
 grandiloquence in Pistol's speeches, 
 iljid. 
 
 Greene's Funerals an anonymous 
 panegyric of Greene, ii. 385 
 
 Grim the Collier of Croydon, in part 
 attributed to Shakspere, ii. 388. 
 — cf. with Faire Em, ii. 443/870 
 
 Gripplc, griping, i. 223/1623 
 
 Groatsicorthof Wit, Greene's, ii. 348, 
 349, 381 
 
 Grope, to, to catch by tickling, ii. 
 147/323 
 
 ' Gup, Mistress ! ' — See ' Gip, Mis- 
 tresse ! ' 
 
 Gwidonius, Greene's, ii. 341 
 
 Hair, to press one's = to put on one's 
 
 hat, ii. 170 
 Hair, bourbon locks of, ii. 147/340 
 ilake, K., his verse commendatory 
 
 of 11. Greene, ii. 364, 370 
 Halter-sack, slip-string, i. 167, 231 
 Hamlet, ii. 216 
 
 i. 357 
 
 ' Hyperion's curls,' ii. 356
 
 476 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 ■ to kill so capital 
 
 Samlet, iii. 2, 111 
 
 a calf,' ii. 357 
 
 Nash's allusion to it, ii 
 
 ■ Polonius's counsel, cf. 
 
 Faire Em, ii. 402, 413/141 
 the ed. of 1589, ii. 21? 
 
 358 
 with 
 
 Harraan's Caveat to Ci(rsito}s,Grccne's 
 
 piracy of it, ii. 380 
 ' Hart ! ' interjection = ' Heart o' 
 
 me ! ' or ' Dear heart ! ' ii. 145/377, 
 
 et seq. 
 Harward's Solace for the Soldier and 
 
 Sailor, ii. 88 
 Hawkins, Cobham, and'Stucley, huc- 
 
 caneers in the interest of Q. Eliz., 
 
 i. 34. 
 his plot with Philip of Spain 
 
 for invasion of England, i. 9G. 
 Sedon, name for Marston in Jonson's 
 
 Cynthia^ s Revels, ii. 129. 
 Hen. II. of France, his friendship 
 
 for Thos Stuclcy, and letter to 
 
 Edward YI. in his praise, i. 11 
 • his alleged designs on 
 
 Calais and England, as disclosed by 
 
 Thos Studey, i. 11, 16 
 Hen. IV., Pt 2. Pistol's speeches 
 
 are satires upon the grandiloquence 
 
 of Marlowe, Peele, Greene, &c., ii. 
 
 396 
 Een. v., ii. 216 
 — II. iii. 17, Falstaff's death in. 
 
 (See Falstaff.) 
 
 See Pistol's speeches, 
 
 Chorus in, compared with 
 
 same in play of Stueley, i. 359 
 Hen. VI, Part 1, I. iii. 141, cf. with 
 
 Nobody and Somebody, i. 359 
 il. 2, 9, cf. with Faire Em, 
 
 ii. 464/1371 
 • III. ii. 391, cf. with Faire 
 
 Em, 419/274 
 Henry VIII., tradition that Sir T. 
 
 Stueley was his illegitimate son, 
 
 i. 5 
 
 his mistresses, i. 5 
 
 ■ at siege of Boulogne, i. 7 
 
 and Anne Boleyn, Dr 
 
 Sanders's charges against, in his 
 
 book against the Reformation in 
 
 England, i. 124 
 Hensiowe's Diary, i. 357, ii. G, 7 
 Hensnian, henchman, a page, ii, 147/ 
 
 337 
 
 ' Herb John in broth, unexpected 
 kindness is like,' because 'it may as 
 well be laid aside as used,' ii. 254/ 
 331 
 
 Hester and Ahasuerus, and Esther 
 and Hainan, i. 356-7, ii. 12 
 
 Heywood, Thos, i. 272 
 
 his Apology for Actors 
 
 (1612), ii. 213 
 
 Histrio-Mastix, or the Flayer JVhipt, 
 the text, ii. 17. — summary of its 
 story, ii. 2. — notes to, ii. 89, 
 — importance of, in history of the 
 stage, ii. 3. — Marston's work in, 
 ii. 3, 50/191. — allusion to, by 
 Jonson, ii. 5. — its main intention 
 to show the unworthiness of actors, 
 ii. 9, — original play by Pecle, ii. 
 10. — idea forming plan of the play 
 (viz. that Peace and Plenty bring 
 War and Poverty, and that War 
 and Poverty bring Peace and 
 Plenty) traced to Minfant's Fatal 
 Festiny (quoted by C. IMarot), 
 Lodge's Fig for Momm, Jhean 
 dc Mehune, and Harward's Solace 
 for the Soldier and Sailor, ii. 88, 
 348 
 
 Hoddy-doddy — ' all breech and no 
 body,' i. 292/376 
 
 Hodge, a name for Eogcr, ii. 257/ 
 411 
 
 Holder, to, to be unable to bear or 
 support, ii. 171/149 
 
 Hole, debtor's prison, i. 346/1730 
 
 Holinshcd's Chronicles, Vowel, alias 
 Hooker, of, i. 53 
 
 Holloway and Highgate, scene of 
 Jack Frum laid there, ii. 134/3 
 
 Horse and foot, mine — i.e. mine 
 completely, i. 170/311 
 
 Hospitality, and feeding the poor in 
 olden time, i. 289/308 
 
 of Q. Elizabeth, ii, 292/ 
 
 604 
 
 'Hospitals and Spittles,' one not the 
 other, i. 289/304 
 
 HufTmg parts, ranting parts, ii. 63/ 
 186 
 
 Humour, his = his disposition, ii. 
 148/353 
 
 Tmbrothcry, embroidery, ii. 49/1G3 
 Immanity, monstrosity, ii, 305/873
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 A77 
 
 Influent, flowing — from yourinfluence, 
 
 ii. l'J8/93 
 Ingles, players, claque men, or ap- 
 
 l)liiu(]ers, ii. 33, «7/89'93, etc. 
 Intend, to— to plan, i. 226/1714 
 Interponents, intermediaries, go-be- 
 tweens, i. 279/49 
 Ireland, Thos Stucley in, his efforts 
 to purchase offices of Marshall, &c., 
 of, frustrated by Cecil, i. 41 — oo. 
 — charges against Thos Stucley in, 
 and his departure from, i. 58. 
 — Catholics offer crown of, to Don 
 Alfonso, brother of I'liiiip of Spain, 
 i. GO, 68, 72. —the Pope's view of 
 this plot, i. 71. — Stuclcy's de- 
 scription of, to Philip of Spain, 
 ■when urging that monarch to in- 
 vade it, i. 68. — the lauds Thos 
 Stucley claimed in, i. 77. — Thos 
 Stucley, when in Spain, called 
 Duke of Ireland, i. 77-8. — Fitz- 
 gibbon, Catholic Archbp of Cashel, 
 plots with Alva for invasion of, 
 i. 90. — the Duke of Guise's plot 
 for invasion of, i. 90. — Sir Thos 
 Stucley and the Pope's plot of in- 
 vasion of, i. 93-5. — O'Desmond's 
 projected invasion of, the assist- 
 ance accorded it by Sir Thos Stuc- 
 ley, Dr Sanders, the Pope, Philip 
 of Spain, and others, and its ulti- 
 mate failure through the defection 
 of Stucley, i. 119, 120, 124—126, 
 132, 138. See also O'Dcsmond. 
 — project for making Giacomo 
 Buoncompagno, Pope Gregory 
 Xlllth's illegitimate son, King of, 
 a part of O'Desmond's project of 
 rebellion, i. 119, 124. — Dr San- 
 ders' reasons for supporting O'Des- 
 mond's scheme of invading it, i. 
 120, 124. —Irish titles given to 
 Sir Thos Stuclev by tlie Pope, i. 
 128. —Sir Thos Slucley's report- 
 ed saying that nothing was to be 
 got there but hunger and lice, i. 
 130. — -wastes soldiers, ii. 141/161. 
 — soldiering to, ii. 16613. — Earl 
 of Essex in, i. 209/1257. —state 
 of, topic of the time (1599), ii. 
 244/94 
 
 Jach Drum's Entertainment ; or the 
 
 Comedie of Pasquil and Kath- 
 erinc: 1601 and 1616, ii. 127. 
 — 1C16, the text. ii. 133, —In- 
 troduction to, ii. 127. — Summary 
 of its plot, ii. 126. — Notes to, ii. 
 208. — Marston wrote if, ii. 123. 
 —its first title (/. D.'s E.) a 
 proverbial expression for ill-treat- 
 ment, ii. 133;2, 140,156, 208. 
 — supports ministers of the day, ii. 
 136 49 — Planet in, perhaps meant 
 for Shakspere, ii. 131. — Brabant 
 Signior in, meant for Ben Jonson, ii. 
 129, 207/325. —alludes to poets 
 of the time,ii. 131, 183/40. —Ma- 
 mon in, like Shylock, ii. 140/156, 
 180/381, 208. 
 
 Jacke, probably a ' Black Jack,' a 
 large black leathern drinking ves- 
 sel. The use of this vessel gave 
 rise to the Frenchman's report, that 
 ' the English drink out of their 
 boots,' ii. 292/607 
 
 James I., his lavish distribution of 
 Kniffhthoods, viz., to 2323 persons, 
 i. 273, 290/325 
 
 Jerkt, beaten, ii. 297/724 
 
 ' Jests, single,' small, poor jests, ii. 
 52/225 
 
 Jet, to, to strut, ii. 47/112, 57/36, 
 58/67 
 
 Jewels — Amethyst ; Carkanet ; Euby 
 rocks, &c., ii. 48/137, 49 
 
 Joan a Noke. See John a IS'oke. 
 
 John a Nokes, and John a Style, ficti- 
 tious names used in the Law; emjity 
 names, i. 169/290; ii. 57/51, 587 
 79 
 
 * John, herb.' See Herb John.' 
 
 Jolly— 'a jolly matter,' a pleasant 
 state of things, ii. 377 
 
 Jonah, Greene and Lodge's play on, 
 ii. 346 
 
 Jone a JS'oke. See John a Noke. 
 
 Jonson, Ijen, is Crysoganus in His- 
 trio-Mast ix, ii. 4, 30 
 
 his Poetaster, SatirO'Mastix, 
 
 &c., and the characters therein 
 meant for Marston and Dekker, ii. 
 
 4, 5, ir 
 
 his Richard Croolihnck (1600) 
 the first play sold at so high a price 
 as £20, ii. 7. 
 the introducer of the method
 
 478 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 of placin^j the nutlinr in a chorus, 
 or moralizing, character of a play, 
 ii. 7 
 
 Johnson, Ben, and ' Bottle Ale,' ii, 
 51/203 
 
 his quarrel with Marston and 
 
 Dekker, ii. 379. {See also l\Iars- 
 ton.) 
 
 • his Return fromParnassus, ii. 
 
 129 
 
 his Cijnthifi's Rcrch, ii. 129 
 
 he is Brabant signior in Jack 
 
 Drum, ii. 129 
 
 liis Even/ JIFan in His Hu- 
 mour, the prologue, ii. 216 
 
 Julio and Jlypolita, form of 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, ii. 12. 
 
 Kemb'd, kempt, combed, ii. 178/325, 
 
 180/378 
 Kempe, ^Yill, William the Conqueror 
 
 in Faire Em meant for him, ii. 
 
 373 
 Kempe's Moricc, ii. 127, 136/45, 
 
 137/53 
 Kick-showes, toys, ii. 151/325 
 Ji-ing Jjcar, cf. with Mcnajihon, ii. 356 
 Knack to Know a Knave, i. 272 ; ii. 
 
 383 
 Knack to Knoio an Honest Man, i. 
 
 272 
 Knighthood, lavish distribution of 
 
 the honour by James I., for sake 
 
 of the fees paid, i. 273, 290/325 
 
 Lackfey, to, to flatter, ii. 43/13 
 Lancashire, Traiford family of, ii. 
 
 390, 411/95 
 Lantado, Customs officer of Spain, 
 
 i. 232/1858 
 Law, indictment for murder in "West- 
 minster Courts, 1573 ; ii. 315/1193, 
 
 319/1276 
 Laws of ai-mes, the, ' as much law as 
 
 arms arc able to lay on,' i.e. a 
 
 beating, i. 291/369 
 Leesings, lyings, lies, i. 353/1913 
 Leicester, Earl of, an early friend of 
 
 Thos Stucley, i. 10 
 his suit for Q. Elizabeth's 
 
 hand favoured by Thos Stucley, i. 
 
 30 
 Arthur Dudley claimed to be 
 
 his and Q. Elizabeth's son, i. 6 
 
 Leicester, his suit for Q. Elizabeth's 
 
 hand rejected, i. 31 — 38 
 Lcpanto, 13attle of, i. 94 
 Libel: A slander with the writer's 
 
 name to it no libel, i. 353/1923 
 Lily and the ' Euphuist ' school of 
 
 dramatists, their method driven out 
 
 by Slinkspere's method. See Drama. 
 his, and Nash, and Greene's 
 
 writings against Mar-Prelate ( which 
 
 see). 
 Lion drunk =: ' pot valiant,' ii. 
 
 166/3 
 Lirpoole, Liverpool, ii. 444/889 
 Lislc's Nothing for a New Year's 
 
 Gift (1603), i. 270 
 Lodn:e and Greene's play on Jonah, ii. 
 
 346, 383 
 his Fig for Momus, ii. 88 
 
 his Looking-glass for England 
 
 and London, ii. 346, 383 
 
 his abjuration of the stage, ii. 
 
 346 
 
 his Introduction to Greene's 
 
 Spanish 3fasquerado, ii. 364 
 (or Nash) is addressed by Greene 
 
 in Groat.nvorfh of Wit, ii. 381-2 
 Knack to Know a Knave, perhaps 
 
 by him and Greene, ii. 383 
 London, prisons in Elizabeth's time, 
 
 i. 307/781 
 
 Cannon Street, i. 292/378 
 
 Smithfield, executions in, 
 
 (1573) ii. 226 
 
 Newgate, ii. 227 
 
 the Temple, i. 164: 
 
 123 
 
 171/ 
 
 — ■ — Alderman and Lord Mayor 
 Sir T. Curtis, which see. 
 
 the Thames, i. 321/1120 
 
 plagues in, 1593 and 1603 ; 
 
 i. 307/4 
 
 — - — attempt to establish an Aca- 
 demy in, for the better culture 
 of noblemen, made 'by Raleio-h, 
 Heriot, and others, ii. 10, 19/53, 
 24/179 
 
 Woolwich to, in 1573, dan- 
 
 gers of travelling, ii. 275/163 
 
 Shooter's JEill, ii. 209, 217 
 
 Morefields. See Mooreditch. 
 
 Birchin Lane, i. 294/440 
 
 London Prodigal, ii. 12, 466 
 cf. with Faire Em,
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 479 
 
 ii. 466. See also Shakspere's doubt- 
 ful plays, ii. 12, &c. 
 
 LookiiKj Gldim for I'.iujland and Lon- 
 don, Lodge's, ii. 340, 383 
 
 Love, lover, ii. 431 562 
 
 Greene's works abjuring, ii 34.5 
 
 Shakspere's view of its inl'eii- 
 
 ority to friendship, as shown in his 
 Sonnets, &c., ii. 397-8, 436/690 
 
 Love's Labour's Lost, ct'. with Faire 
 Em, ii. 393, 419/278, 433/011 
 
 Lucky man, Beware a, saying, i. 338/ 
 1542 
 
 Macbeth, \\. 216 
 
 cf. with Warni)ifj for Faire 
 
 Women, ii. 272/98, 330 
 
 Malice used as a verb, i. 240/2063 
 
 Mamillia, Greene's, ii. 340 
 
 Mamon, character in Jack Brum, 
 somewhat like Shyloclc, ii. 140/156, 
 180/381, 208 
 
 Manchester Stance, and Lord Strange's 
 players there, ii. 374, 467 
 
 Marafastot, an oath (Irish), i. 192/ 
 844 
 
 March, ' Dismal day ' in, ii. 290/556 
 
 Markets, Clerk of the, ii. 31 
 
 Marlowe, his Tamburlaine, ii. 349, 
 352, 375 
 
 Mountenaij in Fai7-e Em is 
 
 meant for him, ii. 374 
 
 addressed by Greene in his 
 
 warning to playwrights {Groats- 
 worth of int), ii. 381-2 
 
 his grandiloquent style su- 
 perseded by Shakspere's common- 
 sense style, ii. 396 
 Marmady — Maravedi— a small Span- 
 ish coin, i. 242 2115 
 Mar-Prelate, Martin (supposed to 
 liavebeen Pcnrv), and his tracts, ii. 
 349, 355, 353, 364, See also :Mar- 
 tinist. 
 Marston, his Troilus in Histrio-Mas- 
 tix a parody on Shakspere's, ii. 3, 
 4, 39 
 
 is C'rysoganus in Jfisfn'o- 
 
 Mastix, sometimes, and sDnutimes 
 tlie character is meant for Jonsun. 
 ii. 4, 30/64 
 
 his work and quarrels with 
 
 Jonson, ii. 5, 127 
 
 is part author of Hisln'o- 
 
 Mastix with Peele, ii. 10, 50/191 
 Marston, one of the imitators of Sliak- 
 spere, ii. 3, ct scq., 14 
 
 is author of Jack Drum, ii. 
 
 123 
 
 is satirized by Jonson in 
 Foetaster (as C'rispinus), in C'l/n- 
 thia's Miveh (as Hedon), and in lie- 
 turn from I'arnassns, ii. 127 — 9 
 draws himself in character of 
 
 Brabant, junr. {Jack Drum), ii. 
 127-8 
 
 is the poet Mellidm alluded 
 
 to in Jack Drum, ii. 131, 183/37 
 Martinist Controversy upon the stage, 
 1589-90, and its effects upon 
 Sliaksperc and contemporary play- 
 wrights, ii. 390 
 Martinize, to, verb expressing mode 
 of writing of Martin Mar-l'relate, 
 ii. 349. See also Mar-Prelate. 
 Mary, (iueen, shows favour to Thos 
 Siucley, i. 18 
 
 the Duke of Savoy at her Court, 
 
 i. 22 
 Mauy Stuart, the Pope and Sir 
 Thos Stucley's plot for making her 
 Queen of England, i. 93 — 5 
 Masque, a, given before a nobleman 
 
 (in Jlistrio-Mastix), ii. 54 278 
 Maunday Thursday and the butchers, 
 
 ii. 270/lOG 
 Maw, card game, i. 337/1525 
 Mat/, the Merry Month of, song, ii. 
 
 171/140 
 !Mazors, large and fine drinking bowls. 
 Mazarines are 'little dishes to be 
 set in the middle of a large dish.' — 
 Baileij, ii. 268 21 
 Medicine, woman professor of, I\rrs 
 Drury, the murderer of Geo. 
 Sanders (which see), ii. 264/625 
 McU, a suspended clergyman, his love 
 for, and ettbrts to procure pardon 
 for, ]\Irs Sanders, charged with the 
 murder of her husband (see San- 
 ders, Geo.), and his punishment on 
 tlie pillory, ii. 227, 326 1474 
 Millidus, name of ISIarston in Jack 
 
 Drum, ii. 131, 183 37 
 Miuaphon, Greene's, ii. 340, 354 
 
 cf. with Tamiiiff of Shrcu-, 
 
 Ilamlit, and Lear, ii. 356 
 Merchant of J'enicc, likeness of
 
 4So 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Mamnn, the usurer in Jacl: Brum, 
 to Shylock, ii. 140/156, 180/381, 
 208 
 
 Merlin, Birth of, possibly in part by 
 Shakspere, ii, 388 
 
 Mem/ i)cvil of Edmonton, ii. 339, 
 404 
 
 perhaps partly by Shakspere, 
 
 ii. 404 
 
 Merr?/ Wives of Windsor. See Pistol's 
 speeches. 
 
 cf. with Faire Em, ii. 440/ 
 
 917 
 
 Miching, lurking, or prowling, i. 191/ 
 834 
 
 Middleton's A mad World my Mais- 
 ters, i. ^Qljlll 
 
 Midswiimcr NigJifs Bream, its inci- 
 dental play ot' Fi/ramus and Thisbe, 
 ii. 89 
 
 'Midsummer Show,' Chestci', which 
 see. 
 
 Miller's Banr/hter of Maiiehcster, the 
 second title of Faire Em, ii. 337 
 
 ballad, Faire Em in part 
 
 founded on it, ii. 377 
 
 Minikin, fiddle, ii. 135/14, 170/113 
 
 Montmorency, Constable of France, 
 1. 14 
 
 Moore-ditch (Morcfields) — allusion, i. 
 306/754 
 
 Moors, Sebastian of Portugal's expe- 
 dition against. See Portugal. 
 
 Morando, Greene's, u. 342 
 
 More, Sir Thos, play, possibly in 
 part by Shakspere, i. 139 
 
 Morglay, Sir Bevis's sword, i. 309/826 
 
 Morice Dance, Kempes, at Whitsun- 
 tide, ii. 127, 136/45, 137/53 
 
 Dancers, ii. 35, 127, 136 
 
 MoKLEY, Lord, his quarrel with Sir 
 Thos Stucley, i. 104 
 
 Mounii)iff Garment, Greene's, ii. 344, 
 345, 346, 348, 349, 364, 372 
 
 Mucedorus, ii. 339, 404 
 
 the additions to ed. 1610 
 
 are Shakspere's, ii. 404 
 
 Mullidor, the player attacked by 
 Greene in Never too Late, Fart 2, 
 is Shakspere, ii. 370 
 
 Munday and Chettle's account of Se- 
 bastian of Portugal's^ African ex- 
 pedition, i. 268 
 
 Murder, indictments for, in Courts of 
 
 AYestminster, in 1573 ; ii. 315/ 
 1192, 319/1276 
 
 Murdered man's wounds break out at 
 approach of murderer, ii. 309/1036 
 
 ^lurders confessed through seeing 
 plays, ii. 213-14 
 
 Murders dramatized (including York- 
 shire Trar/edi/ and Ardoi of Fa- 
 versham) attributed to Shakspere, 
 ii. 211 
 
 MusHs, name of Chapman, or Daniel, 
 in Jack Brum, ii. 131, 183/37 
 
 Nash, his and Pcele and Greene's at- 
 tacks upon Shakspere and the other 
 player-poets, ii. 11, 12, 355, et seq., 
 384. — his rise and career, ii. 354, et 
 seq. — his work with Greene against 
 the players, and against Mar-Pre- 
 late, ii. 349, 355, et seq., 384. — on 
 the poets of his time, ii. 359. — his 
 Cojintercuffe, ii. 355. — he is ' Pas- 
 quil,' ii. 355. — his Anatomy of 
 Absurdity, ii. 360. — his Fierce 
 Fenniless, \\. 364. — he (or Lodge) 
 is 'Young Juvenal,' addressed by 
 Greene iu the warning to play- 
 wrights in Groatsworth of JFit, 
 ii. 381-2 
 Never too Late, Greene's, ii. 346, 348, 
 
 349, 365 
 New-cut, card game, i. 338/1534 
 Newgate, Godwarde cell in, ii. 227 
 Nicholas Nemo, A Letter of (1561), 
 
 i. 270 
 Nitty brogetie, (?) splendid embroi- 
 dery (L. nitidus), ii. 54, 274 
 Nobody, The Return of Old Well- 
 
 Spokcn (1568), i. 270 
 Nobody, the picture of, i. 272 
 
 ' Hoddy-doddy,' i. 292/376 
 
 Nobody and Somebody, i. 275. — Sum- 
 mary of its story, 269. — its plot in 
 part from British History (reigns of 
 Archigald, Elidure, &c.), and in 
 part a satirical narration of the do- 
 ings of Nobody and Somebody in the 
 community, i. 270. — Sycophant 
 in, possibly meant for Lord Cob- 
 bam, i. 274. — its date probably 
 1592; but perhaps revised and re- 
 written in reign of James I., i. 272. 
 ■ — allusion to in Tempest, i. 272.
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 481 
 
 — translation of it in German col- 
 lection of En;,'lish plavs, 1G20, i. 
 273. — cf. with Ihii. VY, pt. I, i. 
 a.'iO. — missin<ij stitfjc directions for, 
 i. oo9. — Tieck on, i. 3.36 
 Nokes, John a. See John a Nokcs. 
 ' No point : ' sec ' Point, no.' 
 NolhitK/ for a New Year's Gift, 
 
 Lisle' s,'i. 270 
 Nothing, J'rai.se of. Dyer's, i. 270 
 Numme, numbed, ii. 18/33, ()7/ir2 
 Nut-broinie yl/t— the I'layers song, 
 ii. 21/112 
 
 Obedience preferable to majesty, t>. 
 sovereign rule, i. 29o '455, 29G/48(> 
 
 O'Desniond, James Fitzgerald Fitz- 
 morris, and his abortive Catholic 
 invasion of Ireland, i. 119, 120, 
 124—126, 132, 134. —Cecil's ac- 
 count of him, i. 137 
 
 Okehampton Park, lien. VIII's at- 
 tempt to dispark it, i. 9 
 
 0/dcast/e, Sir John, the Life of, ii. 6 
 
 Omens. Yellow spots on the fingers, 
 ii. 264/609. Stumbling at setting 
 forth, ii. 275/168, &c., &c.,-j290/ 
 556. {See also Dreams.) 
 
 O'Neill, Shane, his visit to Q. Eliza- 
 beth's Court, i. 30 
 
 his friendship for Thos Stuc- 
 
 ley, i. 38 
 
 Stuclcy's mission from Q. 
 
 Eliz. to, i. 41 
 
 bis attack upon Dundalk, and 
 
 Stucley's successful defence of the 
 town (i)i the play), i. 49, 190 
 
 Orlando Furioso, Greene's, ii. 387 
 
 Orpharion, Greene's, ii. 345, 380 
 
 Ought, owned, i. 233/1875 
 
 ' Owle I'th Iv)/bush,' — Sir Oliver 
 Owlet's and his company's ' sign,' 
 ii. 31/87 
 
 Owlet, Sir Oliver. {See Owlet's 
 Men.) 
 
 * Owlet's Men, Sir Oliver,' company of 
 
 Players in Histrio-Mastix, ii. 22/ 
 148, 83/230 
 
 * Packstaffc, plain as a,' ii. 362 
 Page, or heiisman, or henchman, 
 
 office of, ii. 147/337, 200/130 
 ' Paid on the petticoate,' (?) stricken 
 dead, ii. 81/2 
 Vol. II. 
 
 Palmistry, woman professor of, Mrs. 
 Drury (which see), ii. 264/624 
 
 ' Pancras (or Pancridge) Kuiglits,' 
 show knights, ii. 34 157 
 
 Pandosto, the Triumph of Time, 
 Greene's, ii. 353 
 
 Pantomime and Dumb Show action, 
 in IFarninri fur I'uire Womvn, ii. 
 268, 284, ct s,q. See also Drama. 
 
 Parks, Hen. VI IPs scheme for dis- 
 parking them, i. 9. 
 
 Pasht, smashed, ii. 139/123 
 
 Fasquil and Catherine, the sub-title 
 of Jack Ihum, ii. 125-6 
 
 Pusquil of England, a pseudonym of 
 Na.-ih, ii. 355 
 
 Paul's, St, collection for the steeple, 
 after burning down in 15G1, allu- 
 sion to it in Nobody and Somebody, 
 i. 270, 306,'Vo4 
 
 !'layer children of. See 
 
 Player Children. 
 
 ' Peace and Plenty bring AVar and 
 Poverty, and "\Var and Poverty 
 bring Peace and Plenty,' this aphor- 
 ism the ground-work of Histrio- 
 Mustix (after other works), ii. 86 
 
 Peaceth, holds his peace, ii. 62, 164 
 
 Peate, a small person, ii. 248/188 
 
 Pedlar's Prophecy, The, i. 270 
 
 Peele, G., his Battle of Alcazar, i. 4, 
 141, 151, 268. —is the author of 
 first form of Ilistrio-Mastix, ii. 10. 
 — his Honour of the Gartir (1593), 
 ii. 10. — his and Greene and 
 Nash's attacks upon Shakspcre and 
 the other player-poets, ii. 11, 12. 
 — is George Pyeboard, ii. 14. 
 — is satirized in Puritan, ii. 12. 
 — addressed by Greene in his warn- 
 ing to playwrights (Groatsivorth 
 of Wit), ii. 381—3. —his and 
 Greene's and Marlowe's grandilo- 
 quent style superseded by Shak- 
 spere's common sense style, ii. 396 
 
 Penelope's H'eb, Greene's, ii. 344/351 
 
 Penry, supposed author of Mar-Pre- 
 late pamphlets (which see). 
 
 Pericles, Shukspere's part in, i. 139 
 
 Peuiuvke. See British Kings. 
 
 J'crimedes, Greene's, ii. 344, 351, 353 
 
 Philip is treadiny, song, ii. 171/140 
 
 Philip of Spain {see also Spain), his 
 procrastination, i. 100. — his be- 
 31
 
 4S: 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 trayal of Sebastian of Portus^al, in 
 the expedition against the Moors, 
 i. 122,134,210. '(Phiyof Stuclcy.) 
 — his reception of Thos Stucley, 
 i. 234/1903. (Play of Stucley.) 
 — Stucley's rebuke to his ' niggard- 
 ice,' i. 242/2120 
 Pitilomela, Greene's, ii. 381 
 Philosopher, the, contrasted with the 
 
 Poet. See Genius. 
 Phismicary, apothecary, ii. 422/341, 
 
 346 
 ricrce Penniless, Nash's, ii. 14, 364 
 Pight, pitched, set on foot, i, 149/12 
 ' Pip, fine pip,' Irishman's (street ?) 
 
 cry, ii. 147/339 
 Piracy and Privateering in Elizabeth's 
 reign : for subject generally see 
 entire life of Stucley ; for ditto 
 particularly see i. 22, 32, 34, 38, 
 39, 69, 81 
 Pistol's speeches are satires upon the 
 grandiloquence of Marlowe, Peele, 
 Greene, &c., ii. 396 
 Plagues in London, 1593 and 1603, i. 
 
 307/4 
 Flanet, the JaquesAWe philosopher in 
 Jack Brum, is possibly meant for 
 Shakspere, ii. 131 
 Planetomachia, Greene's, ii. 342, 343, 
 
 353 
 Platte, and platforme, a plot, scheme, 
 
 plan, or platform, ii. 227-8 
 Pl.iver Children of Paul's, ii. 130, 
 199/102. —Jack Brum a play by 
 them, ii. 127, 133. — cliildren of 
 the Queen's ilevels, li. 130 
 Player-poets v. Scholar-poets, Peele, 
 Greene, and Nash's war against 
 former in interest of latter, ii. 11, 
 12, 63/195, 393—5 
 Players, Chamberlain's men and Ad- 
 miral's (Earl of Nottingham's) men 
 in opposition, i. 358. {See also 
 Plays, Stage, &o.) — Hciislowe's 
 Biary. i. 357 ; ii. 6, 7. — main in- 
 tention of Uktrio-Mastix to show 
 un worthiness of Actors, ii. 9. — Men 
 versus Boys : the men actors and 
 boy actors continually buffeting 
 each other, ii. 9. — Song, the, ii. 21/ 
 114. — in Uistrio-Mastix, a com- 
 pany of mechanics out of work 
 with the ' Poet ' Post-hast for their 
 
 •writer, ii. 21/122, etc, — Politics 
 the arena of, ii. 22/128—146. 
 — ' Sir Oliver Owlet's men,' /. e. 
 company so called, ii. 22/148. 
 — their Ingles, or claquers, ii. 33, 
 67/89, 93, etc. —Friday a good 
 night with, ii. 34/141. — playing 
 to a Lord preferred to playing to a 
 town Mayor, ii. 34/145. — disso- 
 lutions of companies frequent, ii. 
 38, 82/208. — are common rogues 
 and vagabonds by Act of 1597, cap. 
 iv., an allusion to the Act, ii. 52/244. 
 — 3s. 4(/. the fee to a company of 
 players acting before a Lord about 
 1592, ii. 41/320. Fee for same 
 increased between 2nd & 3rd acts 
 of Histrio-Mastix (a year or two 
 only,' but in the reign of Plenty) to 
 £10, ii. 53/260. —Rehearsal 
 amongst, in Histrio-Mastix, ii. 62/ 
 164. — sharers v. hired men ; com- 
 parative cost of their dinners, ii. 
 82/196. —their dissolute life, ii. 
 82/208. —their ' Tyerman,' or 
 dresser, ii. 133. — the Lord Cham- 
 berlain's company, didactic and 
 educational character of their plays, 
 illustrated in Warning for Faire 
 Women, ii. 211. — and Earl of 
 Sussex's players, ii. 211 — 213. 
 — Shakspere at the head of the 
 Lord Chamberlain's men, ii. 216. 
 —English, in Holland, ii. 214. 
 — Greene's attacks upon Shakspere 
 and the, ii, 339—405. — Nash'a 
 attacks upon Shakspere and the, 
 ii. 354, et seq., 384, — vagrant, 
 Jonsori (in Poetaster) on, ii. 360. 
 — Greene's account of his fiilling in 
 with, and writing for them, ii. 365, 
 384 ; the same writer's account of 
 origin and decline of acting in 
 Greece, Home, and England; of 
 how players came to be 'mercena- 
 ries,' &c., ii. 367—369, 384. 
 — their quarrel with Greene, ii. 386. 
 — defence of them by Cuthbert 
 Coney-catcher against Greene's 
 aspersions, ii. 387. — Lord Strange's 
 company at Manchester and Ches- 
 ter, ii. 374, 467. —'killing the 
 calf amongst: see Calf, killing 
 the.
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 483 
 
 riayhouse Yard, a pickpocket in, 
 hoisttd upon the stage tliere and 
 'shamed ah.mt it,' i. 352/ 1804 
 
 Plays. (.S>(; also I'layers, 8taf,'e, &c.) 
 German collection of Kn^lisli plays 
 (1620); probably these were played 
 ill Germany by a travelling detach- 
 ment of Shakspere's company, i. 
 273 ; ii. 12 — 15. — ten pounds a 
 high price for supplying a com- 
 pany of plavers with one, ii. 5, 
 50/180, 52/231. — those with 
 ' chorus,' or moralizing, characters 
 first done by Ben Jonson, ii. 7. 
 — and theatre audiences (Eliza- 
 bethan), ii. 199 102. — 'guilty 
 creatures sitting at,' stories of sueii, 
 who have confessed murders, in- 
 cluding those in Jlamkl of 1589, 
 and in Haywood's Apology for 
 Actors (1612), ii. 213-14. —at 
 Chester, viz., '"Wliitsun Plays,' 
 ' Midsummer Show,' ' Shepherd's 
 Play,' trade plays, <S:c., ii. 407. 
 — • Chorus' characters, fe Drama. 
 — ' Dumb-show ' action in. iSte 
 Drama. 
 
 Pleasures, pleasantries, ii. 134/29 
 
 Ployden's Cotfin, an Inn of Court, or 
 part of one (may-be that part of 
 the Temple now called Plowden's 
 Buildings), ii. 171, 123 
 
 Pocket up, to, and set, and poke, as 
 laundresses and starchers do, i. 318/ 
 1050 
 
 I'oet, the, contrasted with the Philoso- 
 pher. See Genius. 
 
 Poetanter, Jonson's, ii. 4, 30, 127-9 
 
 Poets criticised in Jac/i Drum, viz. 
 MeUidus (Marslon) ; Mnsus (Chap- 
 man, or Daniel) ; and Dirinx (Dray- 
 ton), ii. 131, 183/37. — Player-poets 
 r. Scholar-poets. See Play r-pocts. 
 
 ' Poets, Your, and your pots I ' Post- 
 haste's (Shakspere's) ' song extem- 
 pore ' in praise of poets and pot- 
 ting, ii. 40. 
 
 * Point, no,' and ' no point comedy,' 
 none at all (Fr.), ii. 54/2G6, 149/ 
 389, 352 
 
 I'oke, to — to poke and set and pocket 
 up, as laundresses do, i. 318 1050 
 
 Politics talked in ale-houses, ii. 135/ 
 22 
 
 Poi.LAiti), Judge, i. 1 
 
 ■ Sir II., and his scheme for 
 
 disparkiiig the country, tried by 
 Hen. VIII, i. 9 
 
 Poor, feeding the, in olden time, i. 
 289/308 
 
 Pope (Pins V.), his plot with Sir 
 Thos Stucley for invasion of Ire- 
 land and England, and the placing 
 of Mary Stuart on Q. Elizabeth's 
 throne, i. 93—5. — his wars against 
 the Turks ; and Battle of Lepauto, 
 i. 94, 97, 100 
 
 (Gregory XIII.), 'indulgences' 
 
 granted by him to Sir Thos Stucley 
 and others helping towards the ' de- 
 livery of .Mary Queen of Scotland, 
 the reduction of England, Scotland, 
 and Ireland to Catholicism, and the 
 extirpation of heretics,' i. 106. 
 — his assistance to 0' Desmond's 
 project of invasion of and rebellion 
 ill Ireland, i. 119. — his project 
 for making his illegitimate son, 
 Buoncompagno, King of Ireland, i, 
 119. — his support of Sebastian 
 of Portugal in expedition against 
 the Moors, i. 121. See also 
 Rome. 
 
 Poruigal, Sebastian, King of, and 
 his expedition against the Moors, 
 i. 114. — Pope Gregory XIII 
 favours him, and assists it, i. 121. 
 — Philip of Spain promises aid for 
 the expedition, but actually opposes 
 it, i. 122, 134—215 (play oi Stuc- 
 ley). — Stuclev joins the expedi- 
 tion, i. 127, 236 (play of Stwley), 
 which is 'warned' by a comet, i. 
 123, 134, 147 (ballad), 219 (play), 
 but proceeding, ends in the dis- 
 astrous Battle of Alciizar, and death 
 of Sebastian, Stucley, &:c., i. 134. 
 — Antonio Sebastian's successor, 
 and the lost play on his life, i. 140, 
 263 (play of Stucldj). — story that 
 Sebastian was not killed, appear- 
 ance of a claimant to bis personal- 
 ity. — Strange Ntws of the return 
 of Don Sebastian, a book on this 
 story, i. 154. 
 
 Post and paire, card-game, i. 338/ 
 1533 
 
 Font-haste, in Ristrio-Maftix, is
 
 484 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Shakspere, ii. 11. 12, 32/93. 
 — characteristics of, ii. 33,130, 87. 
 — the ' g;entlem;in and scholar ' 
 who writes for the players, ii. 37/ 
 201). — his afFectatioiis of the gen- 
 tleman, ii. 37/212, and of the poet, 
 
 22/141, 23/ 157. 
 
 -his self-suffi- 
 
 ciency and boasting-, ii. 33/121, 
 12G, 40/292. —his definition of a 
 gentleman, one 'that hath a clean 
 shirt on with some learning,' ii. 37/ 
 215. — his 'song extempore,' in 
 praise of ' Your poets and j'our 
 pots,' ii. 40/292. — ' dangerous to 
 read his name at a play door,' ii. 
 62,a66. —his ballad-making, ii. 
 67/91, 83/235 
 
 Pot, to go to the = to go to destruc- 
 tion, ii. 143/218 
 
 Premero, card-game, i. 338/1530 
 
 Prison pestilences in 16th century, i. 
 228/1759 
 
 Prisons, London, in Elizabeth's time, 
 i. 307/781 
 
 Privateering by Thos Stiicley against 
 Protestants, Spain supplying ships, 
 &c., i. 69. (6Ve aUo Piracy.) 
 
 Frodiyal Child. See Prodiijal Son. 
 
 Frodigal Son, sub-play in Histrio- 
 Mastix, ii. 3, U,ef seq., 32/93, 89, 
 90. — original possibly by Shak- 
 spere, ii. 12, 15. — like Greene's 
 Mourning Garment, ii. 16, 348. 
 
 Promoter, an Informer (in Law), ii. 
 135/S. 
 
 Propitioner, a, a good-giyer, ii. 330/ 
 1597 
 
 Puffe, a character in Jack Brum who 
 is ' a perpetuitie of complement,' 
 ii. 147/335, et seq. 
 
 Putfes, Polyphemian, some fashion of 
 dress, ii. 128, 139,124 
 
 Pug, a, a dog, i. 315/1215 
 
 Puritan, The, in its hero Peele is sa- 
 tirized. 8ee Shakspere' s doubtful 
 plays, ii. 12, &c. 
 
 Purposes, making, making plans, ii. 
 171/133 
 
 Pyeboard, Geo. (Peele), ii. 14 
 
 Fgramus and Tliisbe, the incidental 
 play in Mid. Night's Bream, ii. 89. 
 
 Eai.kich, Sin "\V., his attempt (in 
 conjunction with Ileriot and North- 
 
 umberland) to set up an Academy 
 in London, ii. 10, 19/53, 24/17^ 
 Rascand, to shake, i. 169 278 
 Eatclitfe, Egremond, his quarrel with 
 
 Sir 'I'hos Stucley, i. 108. 
 Eebato-pinner, a pinner up of head- 
 dresses, a lady's maid, ii. 192/273 
 Record (verb), declare, i. 313/934 
 Reformation in England, Dr San- 
 ders's book against, and Sir R. 
 
 Shelly's reply to it, i. 124 
 Resolved, informed, ii. 438/729 
 Respective, adj. respected, ii. 271/78 
 Return from Barnussiis, Jonson's, ii. 
 
 129 
 ' Retail, house of,' (?) shop, brothel, 
 
 or public-house, ii. 387 
 Richard I1I,\\. 216 
 
 Crookbttck, Jonson's, ii. 7 
 
 Robert de AVindsor, alias used by 
 
 William the Conqueror in Faire 
 
 Em., ii. 410/77 
 Roger, Trusty (Roger Clement) one 
 
 of the murderers of Mr Sanders 
 
 [fVarning for Faire Women), ii. 
 
 209, et seq. [See aim Sanders, Geo.) 
 Rome, Sir Thos Stucley in, where he 
 
 (along with Sir R. Shelly) acts as 
 
 ' inquisitor ' into the lives of the 
 
 English living there, i. 105 — 7, 
 
 125. See also Pope. 
 ' Rome, Theatre in ' = Theatre in 
 
 London, ii. 350 
 Rome-vyle, London ; Rome-mort, the 
 
 Queen (Pedlars French), ii. 353 
 Romeo and Juliet, cf. with Warning 
 
 for Faire Women, ii. 302/863, 336 
 cf. with Nobodg 
 
 and Somebody, i. 328/1314 
 
 cf. with play of 
 
 Stucley, i. 358 
 Roscius, the actor, Cicero's rebuke to, 
 
 ii. 368 
 Rose ( white) in murderess's (Mrs 
 
 Sanders's) bosom at trial turns red 
 
 on her being convicted, ii. 322/ 
 
 1369 
 Ruby rocks, a kind of jewellery, ii. 
 
 49/149 
 Ruling powers, majesty of the, ii. 
 
 135/23 
 Shakspere's view of, 
 
 i. 295/455, 296/486, ii. 208 
 Russetings, poor peasants, ii. 69/147
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 485 
 
 Sark sixpence a quart, Fiilstaff was 
 clmrgi'd ^d., ii. 442/8:J7 
 
 Sandehs, Dr, an<l his i);irticipation 
 in Papal plots af.'aiiist Klizaheth, 
 i. 9S — 100. — Ills reasons for 
 ()' Desmniul's invasion project, i. 
 1'20, 124. —Ills b.iok !i;,Miiist the 
 Uctorniation in Enj^land and Ilcn. 
 \'III, and Anne lioloyne, and Sir 
 Ilicliard SlicUy's reply to it, i. 
 124. — Cecil's account of liini, i. 
 137 
 
 Sanders, Geo., Merchant, murdered by 
 (^apt. Browne ( Wanihuj fur Faire 
 iroinoi), ii. 209, et aeq. 
 
 account of his murder, and 
 
 trial and execution of his murder- 
 ers, from Stowo, ii. 217 
 
 from ' a Hriefc Dis- 
 
 course of,' &c., 1.073. ii. 220 
 
 other accounts, ii. 219, 239 
 
 Sanders, Mrs Anne, implicated in 
 
 murder of Geo. Sanders ( Warning 
 for Faire Women), ii. 209, et scq. 
 
 {See af.to Sanders, Geo.) 
 Savoy, Duke of, at the Court of 
 
 Queen Mary, i. 22 
 Satiro-Mustix, Jensen's, ii. 2, 4, 0, 
 
 127 
 * Saturnists,' Greene's anatomy of the, 
 
 ii. 342. 3.53 
 Saunt, card-game, i. 338/1533 
 Scand-pouch, (?) scant-pouch, nick- 
 name for a parsimonious person, i. 
 
 IG.) 198 
 Scorn, a, a censuring, or ridiculing, ii. 
 
 4G4 
 Scots, Mary Queen of, Papal ' indulg- 
 ences ' granted to her partisans, 
 
 i. 106 
 Seamen, in Q. Eliz.'s time, Thos 
 
 Stucley's men, i. 67 
 Sebastian, King of Portugal, and his 
 
 disastrous expedition against the 
 
 Meors. See Portugal, Sebastian, 
 
 King ef. 
 Servants, growth of luxury amongst, 
 
 ii. 46/84 
 Set, to, ' to set and poke and pocket 
 
 up,' as laundresses and starchers do, 
 
 i. 318/10.50 
 Sewer, olhcer who placed meat on the 
 
 table of a king or lord, ii. 30/ 180, 
 
 1^3 
 
 Shakspkre, the biographical plays 
 (if Stttcley, Sir Thomas More, and 
 T/ionuiH Lord Croimcilt, played by 
 Ijord Chamberlain's men, possibly 
 by him, i. 139, 142. — rtfereuce to 
 in Histrio-Mastix (' shakes his 
 furious speare '), ii. 3, 39/273. 
 — .Marstou one of his imitators, ii. 
 3, et sc(j., 14. — his Troilun paro- 
 died by Marston in Histrio-Mimtix, 
 ii. 3, 4, vt xeq., 39. — his Ther- 
 sitos in Troilns and Cressidu, meant 
 for author of Hinlrio-Muatix, ii. 7. 
 — he is Post-haste in Hintrio-Mas- 
 tix, ii. U, 12, 32/93. {t>ee aho 
 Post haste.) — as JuhanneH Facto- 
 tum, ShaJcscene, Sec, Greene, Peele, 
 and Xasli's attacks upon him, and 
 S.'s return blows, ii. 11, 12, 14, 
 3.54, 381 — 5. — began his career 
 as a ballad-maker, ii. 12. — his 
 doubtful plays, l^rodigal Son, Faire 
 Em, London Prodigal, I'uritan, 
 and Yorkshire Tragcdij, all reflect 
 upon his enemies, Greene, Peele, 
 and Nash, and may have been le- 
 velled at them by S., ii. 12. — de- 
 tachment of his company probably 
 played in Germany, ii. 1.5. — Fro- 
 digal Son, original ef, possibly by 
 S., ii. 1.5. — (Post-haste) his name 
 unpopular, ii. 62/166. — 'the up- 
 start erowe,' ii. 75/8, 359 — liis 
 worsiiip of ruling powers, ii. 208 
 (which see). — Flanet, the Jaqiiex- 
 like philosopher in Jack Drum, per- 
 hapsmeant for him, ii. 131. — York- 
 sliire Tragedg and Arden of Fa- 
 vershum attributed to him, ii. 211. 
 —his Rich. Ill, Ein. V, Mac- 
 beth, and Hamlet, apparent fling at 
 them on his own stage, in Induction 
 to Warning for Faire Women, ii. 
 216, 241. — his large-heartedness, 
 and fearlessness of criticism, ii. 216. 
 — Jonson's attack on, in prologue 
 to Ever;/ Man in His Humour, ii. 
 216. — R. Greene's attacks upon 
 him and the players, ii. 339. 
 Faire Em, Merry Devil of Edmon- 
 tan, and Mneedorus, attributed to 
 him, ii. 339, 405. — Faire Em was 
 written by biui as a satire upon 
 Greene, and as such was attacked
 
 486 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 bv the latter in bis Fareicell to 
 Folly, ii. 340, 344, 362, 365, et 
 seq. — Taire Em compared with his 
 Avork generally, ii. 390 — 405. — he 
 is Doron, in Greene's Menaphoti, ii. 
 340, 3-56, 370. —early authorship 
 of, ii. 342. — Valdraco in Greene's 
 riaitetomachin possibly meant as a 
 satire upon him, ii. 342, 353. 
 — Prodii/al Son, attributed to him, 
 is perhaps formed upon Greene's 
 Mourning Garment, ii. 348. 
 — Xash's attacks upon, ii. 11, 354, 
 et seq., and 384. — as an actor, ii. 
 357 — 60, 387-8. — ' upstart crowe ' 
 epithet explained, also Dyce's ex- 
 planation, ii. 359. — he is Mul- 
 lidor. the player attacked by Greene 
 in Xever too Late, Part II. — he 
 is Valinflford m Faire Em,\\. 374. 
 — his want of learning, Greene's 
 retiections upon, &c., ii. 377. 
 
 — classed with the ' theological 
 poets,' and accused of working for 
 ' the Sexton (Hector) of St Giles 
 without Cripplcgate ' (R. Crowley), 
 ii. 377-8. — attacked by Greene and 
 accused of blasphemy as author of 
 Faire Em, ii. 377-8. — (as 'Shake- 
 scene') is addressed by Greene in 
 Groatsworth of Wit, ii. 381 — 5. 
 
 — Chettle's vindication of hini 
 against Greene's aspersions, ii. 
 383—5. —his identity with the 
 actor in Greene's Groatsworth of 
 Hit surmised, ii. 385 — 7. — Birth 
 of 3Ierlin and Grim the Collier of 
 Croydon, possibly in part by him, ii. 
 388. — and Lord Strange's company 
 of players, ii. 390. — his mother 
 perhaps one of the Choshii-e Ar- 
 dens, and so a connection of Lord 
 Strange's family (the Stanleys), ii. 
 390. — and the JMartinist Contro- 
 versy upon the stage, ii. 390. — his 
 reform of play-writing by (1) sub- 
 stituting his own dramatic method 
 for the scholastic or didactic method 
 of Lily and the ' Euphuists ; ' and 
 (2) discarding ' dumb-show ' and 
 'chorus' evolvements of play-ph)ts, 
 ii. 393-5. — his common sense style 
 contrasted with the grandiloquence 
 of hispredecessors, Marlowe, Greene, 
 
 and Pecle, which grandiloquence 
 he ridicules in Pistol's speeches, ii. 
 396. — the philosophy of his Son- 
 nets, viz., that love between men is 
 greater than love between man and 
 woman ; and that friendship gives 
 and forgives things which love 
 would retain and revenge, ii. 397-8, 
 436/690. — his lack of scholarship 
 more than balanced by the know- 
 ledge his genius helped him to, ii. 
 398. (See also Genius.) — on art 
 versus nature, ii. 403, 416/206, 
 417/233, 418/269. (See also under 
 heads of his several plays, &c.) 
 
 Shamrocks are meat, i. 192/844 
 
 Shawe's, R., Four Sons of Aymon, 
 ii. 214, 216 
 
 Shelly, Sir Richard, his reply to 
 Dr Sanders's book upon the Re- 
 formation in England, and the 
 favour it procured him at Rome, 
 i. 124. — he is employed with Sir 
 Thos Stuclcy as inquisitor of Eng- 
 lish residents in Rome, i. 125 
 
 ' Sliepherds' Play,' the, at Chester 
 (which see). 
 
 Shewing-horne, (?) show-trumpet, ii. 
 135/26 
 
 Shoemaker's Holiday, the (Dekker 
 and Wilson's), and Deloney's Gen- 
 tle Craft, plays in honour of shoe- 
 makers, and glorifying citizen sol- 
 diers as preferable to professional 
 soldiers ; Stueley and Alarm for 
 London being plays taking opposite 
 views, i. 154 
 
 Shdgs, trots, goes, ii. 154/77 
 
 Shooters Hill (1573), murder of 
 Mr Sanders there, ii. 209. {See 
 G. Sanders.) 
 
 Shoreditch, ii. 165/359 
 
 Theatre at, ii. 350, 352 
 
 Sid ley, Ralph, his verse commenda- 
 tory of R. Greene, ii. 364, 370 
 
 Single jests, small, poor jests, ii. 52/ 
 225 
 
 Sizeaces, false dice, i. 337/1520 
 
 Skreene, woman's veil, ii. 40/277 
 
 Slioke, sleek, i. 355/1977 
 
 Slept, clothed, ii. 139/125 
 
 Smith field, execution for murder at, 
 (1573), ii. 226 
 
 Soldiers v. Civilians : the Essex party
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 487 
 
 were for the first, and their oppo- 
 nents, the Cecil party, were for the 
 last, i. 143, 151-0 
 
 Somebody, the picture of, i. 272, 
 337/1511 
 
 old joke that a man with 
 
 little lejjs is ' a ;^entlcnian,' because 
 he is — Somebody, i. 273 
 
 Somerset, Protector, i. 9 
 
 his plot of rebellion, 1551, 
 
 i. 11 
 
 Somner, Rompnour, summoning officer 
 of an Ecclesiastical Court, ii. 135/8 
 
 Spain invited to invade Ireland by 
 Archbp of Cashel, Stuclev, and 
 other Catholics, i. 60, 68—72. 
 — rejects the plan, i. 91. — Thos 
 Stueley's entertainment at Court 
 of K. Fliilip, and his fretting 
 kniglited there, i. 74 — 78. — 8ir T. 
 Stuclcy teaches the Spaniards to 
 fashion their ships like the English, 
 I 97 
 
 Philip of, his plot with Sir J. 
 
 Ilawkins for invasion of England, 
 i. 96. —Philip's great fleet for the 
 Invasion of England, 1574, i. 102. 
 — reasons for his lukewarmness in 
 the cause of the Irish Catholics, 
 i. 122. (&<■ rt/so Philip.) 
 
 Spanish Manqnerado, Greene's, ii. 363 
 
 S])arro\vs a penny a dozen, ii. 31/77 
 
 Speaks small, /. e. shrilly, ii. 147/338 
 
 Spend-good, a, a spendtluift, i. 162/ 
 109 
 
 Spinsters, married women so termed, 
 ii. 319/1278 
 
 ' Spittles and Hospitals,' one not the 
 other, i. 289 304 
 
 Sjjittle Sermons iu Easter week, ii. 
 275; 159 
 
 Square, to, to fight, ii. 172/151 
 
 Squirril's skin, a shoeing-horn, i. 170/ 
 321 
 
 Stage. (See also Players, Plays, &c.) 
 — ' Strange Ntics out of Aj'fic,' a 
 defence of the Stage in answer to 
 Gosson's ' School of Abuse,' i. 144. 
 — importance of Histrio-Mastix in 
 history of, ii. 3. — Devil and Vice 
 on the, ii. 40. — in Shakspere's 
 time, contests of Tragedy, Comedy, 
 and Ilistory (or Spectacle) ; ' lug- 
 gage and loppery,' and ' fiddling 
 
 tricks' of two last denounced, ii. 
 241/1. — is hung with black for 
 Tragedy, ii. 244/74. — Pantomime 
 and Dumb Show action in Warning 
 fur I'aire jru/iuit, ii. 249, 284, it 
 seq. — an execution on, in Varning 
 for Faire Women, ii. 320/1470, 
 330. — 'Theatre in Home' often 
 used by Elizabethan writers to ex- 
 press Theatre in London, ii. 350. 
 — of Manchester and Chester, Lord 
 Strauge's players there, ii. 374, 
 467. {See also Tragedy, Comedy, 
 &c.) — Coney-catcher's Defence of 
 Coney-catching, a defence of the 
 Stage, ii. 380, 387. —frays in 
 Theatre fields, Finsbury, i. 182/ 
 610 
 
 Stale, a, a trap, or decoy, i. 332/ 
 1391 
 
 Stammell peticoate, a red woollen 
 peticoate, ii. 151/8 
 
 Stanley family, possibly connected 
 with Shakspere, through his mo- 
 ther, ii. 390 
 
 State, the, praised in Jack Drum, ii. 
 136/48 
 
 Stationers' Registers, dates 1571 — 75 
 are lost, ii. 219 
 
 ' Statute rogues,' common players, &c., 
 so termed by Act of 1597, ii. 52/ 
 244 
 
 Stemme, race, or generation, ii. 85/ 
 281 
 
 Steretchley, Sir Thos Stucley (which 
 see) 
 
 Sternville, Sir Thos Stucley (which 
 see) 
 
 Sternvillio, Sir Thos Stucley (which 
 see) 
 
 Stewtleg, a play on life of Stuclev, 
 i. 153 
 
 Still, always, ii. 310 1061 
 
 Strange, I^ord, his plavers plav Faire 
 Fm, ii. 337, 362, 390, &nA Knack 
 to Knoiv a Knave, &c., ii. 383 
 — they play Andronicus, &c., i. 
 357. — they play at Manchester 
 and Chester, ii. 374, 467- — this 
 company and Shakspere, ii. 390. 
 — Strauge's family (the Stanleys) 
 perhaps allied to Shakspere through 
 the poet's mother, ii. 390 
 
 Strange Aetcs out of Afric, a defence
 
 4S8 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 of the Stage, in answer to Gosson, 
 i. 144 
 
 Slueky, History of Stout (play), i. 
 156 
 
 Stucley, Sir Thomas, Biography of, 
 i. 1. —his family, i. 1, 2, 160. 
 — various spell in?s of the name, 
 viz., Steretchley, Strevokley, Strat- 
 chcley, &c., i. 1, 2. — his ancestor, 
 Judge Pollard, i. 1. — Ballads on, 
 i.4, 123, 144, 147, lo6. —as hero of 
 Peele's play, the Battle of Alcazar, 
 i. 4. — tradition that he was born 
 in London, i. 4. — tradition that 
 he was an illegitimate son of Hen. 
 VIII, i. -5. — not in Wyat's rebel- 
 lion, i. 7, 19, 199/113. —is present, 
 as retainer of Duke of Suffolk, 
 with Hen. VIII at Siege of Bou- 
 logne (1544), i. 7. — his uncle, Sir 
 liichard Pollard, i. 7. — he enters 
 service of Lord Ilertfu-d, after- 
 wards Protector Somerset, i. 9. — at 
 Court (1550), i. 10. — probably 
 a friend of Earl of Leicester (when 
 Mr Dudley) at Court of France, 
 i. 10. — compromised by Duke of 
 Somerset's abortive plot of rebel- 
 lion, 1551, and flies to France, 
 i. 11. — in King of France's (lien. 
 II) service in the war against Emp. 
 Charles V (1552) ; and enjoys lien. 
 II's friendship, i. 11. — returns to 
 England, and goes to Edward VI's 
 Court, i. 1 1 . — discloses to Edward 
 French King's designs upon Calais 
 and England, i.^ 12, 13. — friend- 
 ship with Constable Montmorency, 
 i. 14. — his disclosures of French 
 King's designs [discredited, and he 
 imprisoned in Tower for deceit ; 
 hisj'^information ' probably genuine, 
 i. 16. — his military 'genius and 
 patriotism, i. 17/7S8 (play). — re- 
 leased and in favour with Mary at 
 her accession, i. 18. — goes to Em- 
 peror's Court, 1553, i. 18. — writes 
 to Q. Mary, offering his and bis 
 band's service, i. 18. — serves Duke 
 of Savoy against France, i. 19. 
 — returns to England'and attends 
 Duke of Savoy at Mary's Court, 
 1555, i. !22. — stories about his 
 buccaneeriugl enterprises, i, 22. 
 
 — marriage with daughter of Alder- 
 man Sir T. Curtis, i.' 25, 144 (bal- 
 lads), 158 (play), 239/2044. —libels 
 on,i. 25. — musters men for Q. Eliz. 
 in Berkshire, i. 26. — a Catholic, 
 i. 28, 82. — appointed to Captaincy 
 in Berwick, i. 29. — great reputa- 
 tion as model officer and soldiers' 
 friend, i. 30, 185/671. —entertains 
 Shane O'Neill during that chief's 
 visit to Court of Elizabeth, 1561-2, 
 i. 30. — his efforts for Leicester 
 as suitor for Queen Elizabeth's 
 hand, i. 30. — his buccaneering 
 expedition to Florida, a project in 
 the interest of Q,. Elizabeth ; the 
 attendant piracies, i. 32, 81, 148, 
 151. —Fuller's {Worthies) _ and 
 Westcote's accounts of him, i. 32, 
 134. — charged with piracies, and 
 acquitted, i. 38. —Shane O'Neill's 
 friendship for him, i. 38. — Cecil's 
 friendship for, and subsequent 
 enmity to him, i. 40. — Cecil's 
 account of him, i. 109, 136. — in 
 Ireland: mission to Shane O'Neill, 
 i. 41, 185 (play). — his offer to 
 purchase oflice and lands of Sir 
 Nicholas Bagnall, Marshall of 
 Ireland, for £3000 refused the 
 Queen's assent, i. 41, 82. —drama- 
 tists' account of his defence of Dun- 
 dalk against O'Neill, i. 49, and 
 play of ' Stucley, i. 190. —again in 
 Ireland : Buys office and lands of 
 Seneschall of Wexford, but is re- 
 fused the assent of the Court to 
 the transfer, i. 49—55. —Nicholas 
 "VVliite, a creature of Cecil's, ap- 
 pointed in his stead, i. 55. — enmi- 
 ty of White against him, i. 58. 
 — charges of abusing the Queen, 
 helping the rebels, and ' lifting ' 
 the widow Kavanagh's cattle 
 brought against him ; upon which 
 he is imprisoned, i. 58. — the^ti'T 
 of his having taken Cork false, i. 60._ 
 — joins Fitzgibbon, Archbishop of 
 Cashel, and other Catholics in offer 
 of crown of Ireland to Don Alfonso, 
 brother to King of Spain, i. 60, 
 70—2. — Mr Froude's unfavour-, 
 able account of him, i. 64, 68. 
 — offers a plot against England to
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 489 
 
 France, wliicli fs not acroptcd, i. CG. 
 — sets sail for Spain witli a crew of 
 English seamen, i. 07, 209 (the 
 play). — lays plan for invasion of 
 Jreluud before I'liilip of Spain, 
 i. 68. —his description of In land 
 to Philip, i. 68. —his project for 
 invading Ireland not accepted by 
 Philip, who, however, gives him 
 three sbips for privateering against 
 Protestants. English. Dutch, and 
 French, i. 69, 91. — Walsiiigham's 
 opinion of him, i. 72, 84, 86. — his 
 magnificent entertainment at King 
 of Spain's Court, i. 74, 78, where 
 he is knighted (of the religious 
 order of Calatrava) by the King, 
 i. 78, 87, 104. — he quarrels with 
 Fitzgibbon, Archbp of Casliel, i. 74, 
 103. — Kigsby, his man, leaves 
 him, and returning to England 
 informs upon him, i. 75. — his 
 scandalous accounts of Q. KHz., 
 Cecil, and others, as given at Eng- 
 lish Court by Piigsby, i. 75, 
 — his own account (according to 
 Kigsby) of the lands he claimed 
 in Ireland, i. 77. — called Duke 
 of Ireland in Spain, i. 77 — 8. 
 — Don Francesco Merles assigned 
 his companion at Court of Philip, 
 i. 78. — < diver King's information 
 against him sent to Cecil, i. 78. 
 — projects going to Home, i. 80. 
 — Fitzgibbon exposes him to Philip 
 of Spain, i. 80—85. —Philip's 
 harbouring of him and other ' re- 
 bels ' complained of by Q. Eliz., i. 
 80, 91, 93, 105. — his project for 
 invading Ireland finally declined 
 by the Spanish King ; his conse- 
 quent departure to the Papal Court, 
 i. 91, 237/1980 (the play). —King 
 Pliilip's account and commenda- 
 tions of him, i. 91. — Murdin's ac- 
 count of him, i. 92. — his plot with 
 the Pope for tlie invasion of Ire- 
 land and England, and for making 
 Mary Stuart queen, i. 93 — 5. — 
 J^uderchi's account of him. i. 93. 
 —serves the Po])e in the league 
 against the Turks, at Battle of 
 l.ipanto, i. 94. — returns to Court 
 ol Spain, i. 94 — 6. —he teaches the 
 
 Spaniards to fashion their ships 
 like tlie English, i. 97. —Philip of 
 Spain's preparatiijns for invading 
 England, i. 102. — Lord .Morlev 
 quarrels with liini, i. 104. — again 
 in Koine, where lie is granted pri- 
 vileges and indulgences, i. 105 — 7. 
 and where he and Sir Kichd Shelly 
 act as ' inquisitors ' into the lives of 
 the English there, i. 125. — his cor- 
 respondence with Mistress Julyan, 
 i. 106. — Mund:iy's allusions to 
 him, i. 107-8. — his quarrel with 
 Egremond Eatcliile, i. 108. — his 
 old servant llenold Digby exposes 
 him to Cecil, i. 108. — Sebastian 
 of Portugal's expedition against the 
 Moors, i. 114, ei at^., 215 (the 
 play). — goes with Don John into 
 Flanders, i. 115. — his part in 
 U' Desmond's projected pro-Catholic 
 invasion of Ireland, and the Pope's 
 assistance therein, i. 119, et seq. — 
 his ship-load of troops from llome 
 to assist this plot is taken instead 
 to Lisbon, and he is there induced 
 to join Sebastian's expedition 
 against the Moors, i. 127. — Irish 
 titles he received from the Pope, i. 
 128, 248, (play), —is called Stern- 
 ville, Sternvillio, and Esternulio by 
 Spanish and Portuguese historians, 
 i. 129 (note). — Pillens's account 
 of his professions of loyalty to Eli- 
 zabeth, and of his having said that 
 there was nothing to be got in Ire- 
 land but hunger and lice, i. 130. — 
 Turquet's opinion of him, i. 130 
 (note). — his expedition with Sebas- 
 tian against the Moors, historians' 
 accounts of, i. 134, 236 (the play). 
 — his death, at Battle of Alcazar , i. 
 134, 144. — his family pensioners of 
 Spanish Court for two generations 
 aftir his diath, i. 136. — was a 
 popular hero with the partizans of 
 the soldiers', or Essex, party, as op- 
 posed to the partizans of the civil- 
 ians, or Cecil, party, i. 143, 154, 
 
 155. — his life and character as 
 shown in Stetctky, another play on 
 his life, i. 153. — where informa- 
 tion about him may be found, i. 
 
 156. — Eistory of & tout Stucktj, i.
 
 49° 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 156. — his rebuke of King Philip 
 for his 'niggardice,' i. 242/2120 (the 
 
 play) 
 
 Stukeky, the Play of -.—Life and 
 Death of Captain Thomas Stukelcy, 
 &c., the text, i. 157. — summary 
 of it, i. xiii. — accounts of it, i. 
 105, 114, 123, 1 34, 139. — ' Chorus' 
 in, like ' chorus ' in Hen. F, i. 359. 
 — of. with Edward III, Eomeo and 
 Juliet, and Titus Andronicus, i. 
 358-9. — cf. with Two Gent. Verona 
 and Faire Em, ii. 436/690. —pos- 
 sibility of its being partly bv Shak- 
 spere, i. 139 ; ii. 398, 436/690. 
 — belongs to same political school 
 as Alarm for London, i. 139, 154. 
 — fragments of lost play on Don 
 Antonio interwoven in it ; also 
 other fragments, i. 140. — four 
 bands in it, one a v.riter of 
 great diffuseness and some power, 
 i. 142. — compared with Peele's 
 Battle of Alcazar, 1. 141, 268. — 
 is a glorification of professional 
 soldiers as against citizen soldiers, 
 and so opposed to the Cecil party, 
 i. 154. — Historia De hello Afri- 
 cano, the supposed original of the 
 play's account of battle of Alcazar, 
 i. 268 
 
 Stumbling. (See Omens.) 
 
 Style, John-a. See John-a-Nokes. 
 
 Surreinde, over-reined, over-driven, 
 ii. 183/44 
 
 Suspicious, suspected, ii. 426/441 
 
 Sweb, to, to swoon, or faint, ii. 391/ 
 567 
 
 Swiftness, curtness of manner, ii. 141/ 
 
 169 
 
 Switzars, guards in attendance upon 
 royalty, ii. 139/125 
 
 Sycophant, Lord, in Nobody and 
 'Somebody, possibly meant for the 
 
 ' Earl of Essex's enemy. Lord Cob- 
 ham, i. 274 
 
 Tabling-house, (?) gambling-house, 
 
 i. 165/189 
 Taine on the style of the Elizabethan 
 
 dramatists, i. 358 
 Take day, to, to take time, i. 174/412 
 Tall-men and low-men, false dice, i. 
 
 354/1952 
 
 Tamhurlnine, Marlowe's, an early al- 
 lusion to, ii. 73/142; ii. 349, 352, 
 
 375 
 Taming of the Shrew, d. with Greene's 
 
 Menaphon, ii. 356 
 Tapestry, old, ii. 348 
 Tavern liquor vessels, named in the 
 
 song, ' Sing, Gentle Butler,' ii. 204/ 
 
 237 
 Tempest, allusion to Nobody and Some- 
 
 bodi/ in, i. 272 
 Temple, the, i. 164/149, ii. 171/123 
 Thames, river, i. 321/1120 
 Theatre. See Stage, Players, &c. ; 
 
 also Play-house Yard. 
 
 at'Shoreditch, ii. 350, 352 
 
 Theatre-fields at Finsbury, frays in, 
 
 i. 182/610 
 Th)-ee Ladies of London, The, i. 270 
 Three Lords and Three Ladies of 
 
 London, The, i. 270 
 Thynne, F.,not the author of Dialogue 
 
 between Velvet Breeches and Cloth 
 
 Breeches, ii. 381 
 Timon of Athens, allusion to. ii. 146/ 
 
 314 
 Titus Andronicus, i. 357, ii. 12 
 
 cf. with play of Stucley, i. 359 
 
 played in Germany, ii. 15 
 
 Titus and Vespasian, i. 357 
 
 Toades, oil of, a poison poured over 
 
 Katherine by Mamon {Jack Drum), 
 
 ii. 178/343 
 Tobacco smoking, allusions to, ii. 143/ 
 
 236, 145/276, 168/57, 243/52 
 Touch, to keep-touch, to keep faith, 
 
 i. 239/2030 
 Traduce ace, cheating cards, i. 354/ 
 
 1952 
 Trafford family of Lancashire, and 
 
 the flail in their arms, ii. 390,411/95 
 Tragedy, Comedy, and History (or 
 
 Spectacle), their contests for pre- 
 valence on the stage in Shakspere's 
 
 time, ii. 241/1 
 acts as Chorus in Warning for 
 
 Faire TVoinen,a.nd introduces Dumb 
 
 Shows and Pantomime action, ii. 
 
 241, 268, 284 
 personified on the stage with 
 
 a bowl of blood in her hand, ii. 
 
 268/1 
 Translated pockets, i. e. turned-out 
 
 pockets, i. 353/1933
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 491 
 
 Traslic, counterfeits, i. 3-54/ 19o0 
 
 Troilus and Cressida, Thersites in, 
 meant for author of Histrio-Mas- 
 tix, ii. 7 
 
 the sub-play in Histrio-Mns- 
 
 tix, a hit at IShakspere's Troilun, 
 ii. 3, 4, 3'J, 89 
 
 Truynovant, London, i. 320/1104 
 
 Turks, the Pope's wars against them, 
 and Battle of Lepanto, i. 94, 97, 
 100 
 
 Twelfth Night, IV. ii. 29, cf. with 
 
 Faire Em, ii. 459/1240 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona^ version 
 called Julio and Hijpolita played 
 in Germany, ii. 15 
 
 Valentine's resignation of Sil- 
 via and similar resignation by Lu- 
 beck in Faire Fm compared, both 
 illusti'ative of Shakspere's opinion, 
 as shown in his Sonnets, that love 
 between two men is greater than 
 love between man and woman, ii. 
 398, 436/690. Similar idea shown 
 in titncletf, ibid. 
 Tverman, the, or players' dresser, ii. 
 '133 
 
 Ulster in 1566, under Shane O'Neill ; 
 and Thos Stucley's mission relative 
 to it, i. 42—44 
 
 Umherst, umber coloured, ii. 276/198 
 
 Uuwreaked, unavenged, i. 208/1219 
 
 Upchear, H., ii. 354 
 
 Upsee Dutch, or Upsee Freeze (Price 
 =:Dutch), 'A cant phrase of tip- 
 plers for being intoxicated. * * • 
 Op-zyn-fries means in the Dutch 
 fashion.' — Xares, ii. 165/364 
 
 Ure, use, ii. 270/66 
 
 Usury punished, in character of Ma- 
 mon {Jack Drum), who lent at 
 •thirtie in the hundred,' ii. 181/ 
 408 
 
 Valdraco, in Greene's Planetomachia, 
 
 a possible satire upon Shakspere, ii. 
 
 312, 353 
 Valingford, in Faire Em, is meant 
 
 for Shakspere, ii. 374 
 Velvet Breeches and Cloth Breeches, 
 
 not by F. Thynne, ii. 381 
 Venus' s Tragedy, Greene's, ii. 353 
 ' Vicarage, An cuenuch'd,' fitter for 
 
 a younger brother than marriage, 
 ii. 129, 172/157 
 
 ViGENius (or Vigent). Hee British 
 Kings. 
 
 VowKL, JoH\, alias Hooker, the com 
 piler of the later portion of the 
 Irish annals of Holinshed's Chroni- 
 cles, his visit to Ireland in interest 
 of Sir Peter Carew, i. 53 
 
 War and Poverty, and Peace and 
 I'lenty — the moral of Histrio- 
 M'lstij-, ii. 86 
 ' "Ward, be my ' ^be my fool, or sub- 
 servient follower, ii. 149/380 
 fV'arning for Faire Women; ontain- 
 ing the Murthcr of Mr Sanders, con- 
 sented unto by his owne wife, acted 
 by M. Brou-ne, Mistris Dreary and 
 Trusty Eager, &c., 1599, the text, 
 ii. 209. — summary of the play, ii. 
 210. —Introduction, ii. 211. — 
 illustrates didactic and educational 
 intention of the Lord Chamberlain's 
 (Shakspere's) players, ii. 212. — 
 cf. with Macbeth, ii. 272/99, 336. 
 — apology for it as a play, ii. 335/ 
 1708, and note 4, p. 336. — cf. 
 with Romeo and J., ii. 302,863, 
 and note 1, p. 326. — follows ori- 
 ginal accounts of murder of Mr 
 Sanders very closely, ii. 332/1644, 
 and note 3, p. 326. — and its chief 
 character (Browne) criticised, ii. 
 note 4, p. 326 
 •What lack you?' traders' crv, ii. 
 
 56/8 
 "Wbenas, when, ii. 261/519 
 Whereas, whereat, ii. 244 95 
 "White, Nicholas, tlie supplanter 
 and enemy of Thos Stucley in Ire- 
 land, i. 55, 58 
 Whitgift (Archbp) and Bancroft's 
 employment of Greene, Nash, and 
 Lilv to write down Martin Mar- 
 Prdate, ii. 349, 355, 358, 304 
 '"W'hitsun Plays,' Chester, which see. 
 "Whitsuntide, Morice at, ii. 136/52 
 Whooded, puffed out, ii. 54/294 
 William the Conqueror, Love of, part 
 title of Faire Em, which see. 
 
 and the King of Denmark. 
 
 See Faire Em. 
 the Berkeley legend, ii. 405
 
 492 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. 
 
 Windmill, the, in Taire Em, the 
 Miller's Daurihter of Manchester, 
 its symbolical meaning-, ii. 37-i 
 
 \\"it combat, a, between Brabant Sig- 
 nior and M. Pulie in Jack Brum, 
 ii. 169/69 
 
 Woe worth him ! Woe be to him ! — 
 Bad luck to him! ii. 291/583 
 
 Woman professing medicine, Mrs 
 Drury (which see), ii. 264/62.3 
 
 Women, R. Greene's view that they 
 are evils, ii. 373 
 
 ' Wood, way to the ' — used for way out 
 of the wood, i. 170/302 
 
 Woolwich to London in 1573, dangers 
 of travelling, ii. 275/163 
 
 ' Worth, take it in ' =: take it in cur- 
 rent money, or sterling, ii. 302/850 
 
 Wrack — to hold wrack, to hold par- 
 ley (? reck, care), i. 255/2426 
 Wrecks, law of, i. 232/1839 
 Wyat's rebellion, i. 7, 19 
 
 Yarking, hallooing, i. 254/2409 
 
 Yawle, howl, ii. 60/189 
 
 Yellow spots. {^See Omens.) 
 
 Yeoman, a serving-man so termed, 
 ii. 319,1278 
 
 Yesty, yeasty, ii. 135/22 
 
 Yorkshire Tragedy, 1608, attributed 
 to Shakspere, ii. 211. (See also 
 Shakspere : Doubtful Plays.) 
 
 Young Juvenal, in Greene's Groats- 
 worth of Wit, is either Lodge or 
 Nash, most likely Nash, ii. 382 
 
 CLAY AND TAVLOR, PRINTERS, BUSGAV.
 
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