fH, 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALiFOr>W»A 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 7r~ 
 
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 UTyUX-K^
 
 THE PARTIALL LAW 
 
 A TRAQI-COMEDY
 
 Of this play two hundred copies 
 only have been printed
 
 THE PARTIALL LAW 
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY 
 
 BY AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR 
 
 (CIRCA 1615-30) 
 
 NOW FIRST PRINTED FROM THE 
 ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT 
 
 EDITED BY BERTRAM DOBELL 
 
 By chance upon the shore of time up-thrown, 
 Censure it gently and its faults condone. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR 
 
 77 CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 
 
 igo8

 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 I SUPPOSE that no one who is interested at all in the dramatic 
 literature of the Elizabethan and Jacobean periods will be 
 disposed to question the desirability of having the whole 
 (or nearly the whole) of it made accessible to readers of the 
 present day. Shakespeare himself, if regarded as an 
 isolated phenomenon, must ever remain (in some degree at 
 least) an enigma. Only when studied in comparison with 
 his contemporaries and competitors do we begin to under- 
 stand and appreciate the fact that though he was the 
 greatest of them he was yet one of them. He transcended 
 his fellow poets not by discovering new veins of poetic 
 wealth, but by surpassing them in the treatment of the 
 material which he and they alike had at their disposal. 
 Therefore, if there were no other reasons for studying the 
 works of the old dramatists, the fact that we find in them 
 the clues to many passages in Shakespeare's works which 
 would else be obscure or unintelligible to us would be alone 
 a sufficient one. That, however, is to put the case in their 
 favour on much too low a level. If Shakespeare had never 
 existed the works of the dramatists of his time would still 
 have formed one of the most valuable portions of our 
 
 b v
 
 literature. It is true that so good a judge as M. Jusserand 
 finds our old plays in the bulk to be tedious, ill-constructed, 
 and full of the most glaring defects. That verdict comes, I 
 think, from the fact that to the eyes of a foreigner their 
 shortcomings are only too evident, while their merits are 
 either invisible, or seen dimly and imperfectly. Few 
 Englishmen, I imagine, will find it easy to believe that the 
 works which were the favourite reading of Charles Lamb, 
 and which he and Mr. Swinburne have so nobly eulogised, 
 are destitute of merit or entertainment. The haste with 
 which they were written, and the conditions under which 
 they were produced, did indeed render it inevitable that 
 they should be at least as full of faults as of beauties ; yet it 
 is really wonderful how often the poet's genius triumphs 
 over difficulties and impediments, and shines forth all the 
 more gloriously because of the mists and clouds which 
 surround it. And however great its faults may have been, 
 it is certain that at no subsequent period have we had a 
 dramatic literature which could in any way bear comparison 
 with that of the great epoch which began (let us say) in 1580 
 and ended in 1640. To say that if we were called upon to 
 sacrifice the whole of our dramatic literature written since 
 the latter date in order to preserve that of those sixty years, 
 we should do it without hesitation or regret, is to say very 
 little, since no number even of excellent poets can equal in 
 value a single great one. But leaving Shakespeare out of 
 the account, should we not still be willing to make the 
 sacrifice I have indicated ? Certainly I should be very 
 willing to make the sacrifice myself ; and I am confident that 
 Charles Lamb would gladly have done so too. It is not 
 vi
 
 merely a literature that has been handed down to us in the 
 works of Shakespeare and his contemporaries ; but a mirror 
 of the life of the time, a living picture which preserves for 
 us every detail of its social habits and customs, a phonograph 
 from whence still issue the voices of those who then lived, 
 laughed, sorrowed, loved, despaired and died. We could 
 better afford to lose the works of all our annalists and 
 historians than of these writers who, living, most of them, a 
 hand to mouth life, and haunted with the ever-present fear 
 of the debtor's prison, yet contrived to fashion dramas 
 which have ever since been the envy and despair of poets 
 blessed with ample means and plenty of leisure to give form 
 to their conceptions. 
 
 If it is desirable that the whole of the printed works of the 
 old dramatists should be made accessible to modern readers, 
 it is surely even more desirable that those which exist only 
 in manuscript (providing, of course, that they are not alto- 
 gether worthless) should be put beyond the reach of acci- 
 dental destruction. Even if we admit — which we certainly 
 need not do — that no old play of much merit now remains 
 unprinted, it is yet to be desired that even those of third-rate 
 merit should be placed within the student's reach. The 
 worst of them, as Charles Lamb found out long ago, have 
 some points of interest about them ; and usually repay the 
 reader for the time spent in their perusal by the display of 
 some unexpected gleam of fancy, or sudden flash of insight 
 into the complexities of human nature. But I do not think I 
 need labour this point ; since I am here, I suppose, address- 
 ing those only who are likely to be in agreement with me. 
 I am well aware that there is only a very limited circle of 
 
 vi
 
 subscribers to be counted upon for such publications as the 
 present, and therefore in this case, and it may be in other 
 cases, I have decided to print no more than two hundred 
 copies. Whether even this small number is not more than 
 will be required may be doubted, and must be left to the 
 event to decide. It must depend too upon the manner in 
 which this play is received whether any further issues of the 
 same kind shall be undertaken. 
 
 Coming now to the present work, it seems necessary first 
 to give some account of the manuscript from which it has 
 been printed. It is an octavo volume of 110 pages,- and is in 
 a tolerably good state of preservation. On the first page, 
 written in a contemporary handwriting, there is the following 
 inscription : — " Mr. Ball att the Kow Buck and Bull, Fry day 
 Street." The play itself is written in a fine and regvilar 
 handwriting, which is nowhere illegible or difficult to deci- 
 pher. Of the history of the manuscript before it fell into my 
 hands I can say nothing, for I do not think its existence is 
 anywhere recorded up to the time when (some seven or eight 
 years since) it made its appearance at Messrs. Hodgsons' sale- 
 rooms. It was there that I had the good fortune to become 
 its possessor. It appears to have been bound or rebound, at 
 some time in the early part of last century, in a rather hand- 
 some vellum binding. 
 
 It is somewhat difficult to come to a positive opinion as to 
 the date of the manuscript. Probably it is not the author's 
 own copy, but a transcript made from it by some skilled 
 penman or writing-master. I have come to this conclusion, 
 not only because of the excellence of the penmanship, but 
 also from he fact that in a few instances the text has been 
 viii
 
 corrected or added to in another handwriting, which is by- 
 no means so well formed as that of the rest, and which may 
 very well be the author's. Looking at the manuscript as it 
 exists, I think it must have been written not earlier than 
 1615 and not later than 1630. I do not think its date can 
 be fixed within narrower limits than these; though it is 
 possible that I may have overlooked some passage or 
 passages in the text which may help to determine the point 
 more exactly. 
 
 As regards the play itself, it is first to be observed that its 
 chief point of interest to us arises from the fact that the 
 author had courage enough to form his play upon a plot 
 which Shakespeare, in "Much Ado about Nothing," had 
 already worked upon, and, it might be thought, used for all 
 it was worth. I say "for all it was worth" advisedly ; for 
 to tell the truth, I don't think that Shakespeare found it a 
 good subject to deal with, or that he was as successful with 
 it as he usually was. What even he found somewhat un- 
 manageable was not likely to prove more malleable in the 
 hands of a lesser dramatist. The truth, as it appears to me, 
 is that the story (resembling in this the stories of "All's 
 Well that Ends Well" and " Cymbeline " ) is of so distaste- 
 ful a character, and requires to be treated with so much 
 skill in order to avoid offending the reader or spectator, that 
 it is impossible to make a wholly successful drama out of its 
 incidents. It is much easier to deal with in the form of a 
 poem or romance, since its innate indelicacy can be made 
 less apparent in a narrative than in a dramatic form. The 
 poet or novelist has a hundred devices by which he can 
 soften down the crude outlines of his design, but the 
 
 ix
 
 dramatist must always " come to Hecuba," or he will 
 quickly lose his grip upon his audience. Shakespeare, it is 
 evident, saw very clearly the difficulty of his task, or he 
 would not have made Benedick and Beatrice the leading 
 characters of his play, instead of Claudio and Hero. He 
 passes as lightly as possible over the incidents in which the 
 latter are concerned ; and, seeing that it is not possible to 
 represent Claudio in a favourable light ; and that Hero, since 
 she is to forgive and to marry in the end the man who has 
 so deeply wronged her, can be no more than a weak and 
 colourless figure, keeps them as much as possible in the 
 background. Not so the author of " The Partiall Law, " 
 The latter, bolder or less dubious of the possibilities of the 
 story than his great predecessor, makes no attempt to con- 
 ceal its coarseness by the introduction of a second plot ; 
 but tells it without attempting to gloss over any of its more 
 objectionable features. It is an interesting study to compare 
 the manner in which the incidents of the story are handled 
 by the two authors. If we decide, as of course we must, 
 that Shakespeare's play is vastly superior to that of the 
 anonymous author, we must yet allow, I think, that in one 
 point the latter has rather the better of the comparison. This 
 is in the character of Bellamour, who, though he is not 
 without the faults which the nature of the plot made 
 inevitable, is not at any rate so mean and contemptible a 
 creature as Claudio. 
 
 The plot of " The Partiall Law " is evidently derived from 
 the story of Ariodante and Ginevra in Ariosto's " Orlando 
 Furioso," canto v. Shakespeare also may have foimded 
 his plot on the story as it is told by Ariosto ; but it seems 
 
 X
 
 more likely that he derived it from Bandello's version, 
 through the medium of Belief orest's " Histoires Tragiques." 
 I infer this from the fact that there are many incidents in 
 Ariosto's version of the story of which Shakespeare makes 
 no use. Of course he may merely have rejected these as 
 being unsuited for his purpose : but there are other indica- 
 tions which point to the conclusion that the prose story 
 rather than the poem was the source from which he derived 
 the material for his play. The author of " The Partiall Law," 
 on the contrary, follows Ariosto almost too faithfully, though 
 he does introduce a few incidents which are not in the poem, 
 such as that of Florabella disguising herself in male apparel 
 in order to act as her own champion.* 
 
 It should perhaps be mentioned here that Shakespeare was 
 not the first by whom the story was dramatised. There is a 
 record of the performance on the night of Shrove Tuesday, 
 1582-3, of a play called "The History of Ariodante and 
 Geneuora." Nor was the author of " The Partiall Law " the 
 last to use the story as told by Ariosto as the foundation of a 
 play. Robert Jephson, a dramatist of the eighteenth century, 
 produced in 1779 a tragedy called " The Law of Lombardy," 
 the theme of which was also derived from Ariosto. I have 
 too, in my possession, a manuscript play of little merit, 
 written about 1790, which also deals with the same subject. 
 So hard indeed is it to find original or suitable olots for the 
 stage that it is no wonder that the same themes are used over 
 
 * Spenser, in his <' Fairy Queen," Book II, canto 4, tells a similar 
 story, though more briefly than Ariosto, and with a tragic termina- 
 tion. But neither Shakespeare nor the author of " The Partiall 
 Law " seem to have borrowed anything from him. 
 
 xi
 
 and over again, even when, as in the present case, they are 
 of a somewhat unpromising character. 
 
 Looking at the difficulties which the nature of the story 
 placed in his way, I think it must be allowed that the author 
 of " The Partiall Law " has dealt not unsuccessfully with his 
 materials. The action of the play is developed easily and 
 coherently from scene to scene : the reader's interest being 
 kept alive throughout by the manner in which the various 
 incidents are made to contribute to the general effect, and to 
 carry forward the story. The plot has more unity than is 
 common in the plays of the time, since there is no underplot 
 in it to divide or distract the reader's attention. The work, 
 no doubt, would have benefited had its author better under- 
 stood the arts of omission and condensation ; but I am rather 
 inclined to think that he was not a practised writer for the 
 stage, but one who was making his first essay in dramatic 
 authorship. On the whole I am inclined to think that if 
 the story as Ariosto tells it, was to be dramatised, it could 
 hardly be better done than our author has done it. Cer- 
 tainly he would have written a better play had he been a 
 better poet : I am only saying that so far as the arrangement 
 of the incidents of the story for stage effect is concerned, our 
 author has accomplished his task about as well as it was 
 possible to do it. Supposing the work had fallen into 
 Shakespeare's hands, and he had determined to revise it for 
 performance, he would not, I think, have made many altera- 
 tions in the action of the piece, though he would undoubtedly 
 have largely re-written, condensed, and poetised the dialogue. 
 The play indeed belongs to the class of romantic dramas to 
 which Shakespeare, in the last years of his stage career, de- 
 xii
 
 voted his powers. Of course it can bear no comparison witli 
 " A Winter's Tale " or " Cymbeline " : but it is not perhaps 
 inferior to the non-Shakespearean portions of "Pericles" ; 
 from which play, as we shall see later on, our author has 
 borrow/ ed or imitated one of his scenes. 
 
 It would be hard to find a better instance of the superior 
 skill of Shakespeare as a dramatist than that which a com- 
 parison of " Much Ado about Nothing" with "The Partiall 
 Law " affords. In both plays the pivot of the plot is the 
 story of the traduced lady ; but while the anonymous author 
 tells it at full length, and spares us no detail of it, the greater 
 dramatist, realising the fact that even he could not make an 
 acceptable play out of its incidents alone, takes care by the 
 introduction of Benedick and Beatrice, and the humours of 
 the watchmen to provide plenty of entertainment for the 
 audience, quite apart from his main theme, Claudio and 
 Hero are indeed little more than foils for Benedick and 
 Beatrice ; and the incidents in which they are concerned are 
 dwelt upon as briefly as possible. That Shakespeare's 
 judgment was not at fault in taking this course will not, I 
 suppose, be disputed : but if any one is inclined to doubt it, I 
 think that a perusal of this and the other plays which have 
 been written upon the same subject will put the matter 
 beyond question. " Much Ado about Nothing " is not one of 
 Shakespeare's masterpieces ; but it is at any rate a live work, 
 and one which can never altogether lose its vitality : a 
 thing which cannot be said of any other play, English or 
 foreign, which is founded upon the same story, 
 
 I do not think that " The Partiall Law " can be attributed 
 to any known dramatist of the seventeenth centxxry. It looks 
 
 xiii
 
 to me, as I have said, like the work of one who was making 
 his first essay in dramatic authorship. If so, it was a very- 
 creditable first attempt, though it would hardly pass muster 
 as the work of a practised hand. What is wanting in it is 
 that spirit of poetry without which no amount of talent or 
 cleverness will avail in the end to keep a work alive. There 
 are few lines in the play which rise above the level of well- 
 versified prose. I doubt if there are more than two or three 
 short passages in it, which, taken apart from their place in 
 the action, could be cited as instances of elevation of thought 
 or of felicitous choice of language. If the author does not 
 fall into bathos or absurdity, he seldom or never rises to sub- 
 limity. He is content to keep on a safe level of mediocrity, 
 never climbing to the heights, but also never falhng into pit- 
 falls. His pathos, where he is pathetic, arises rather from 
 the nature of the incidents of his plot than from the manner 
 in which as a poet he sees into and brings out the pathos of 
 the situations. His comic scenes — or what are intended for 
 such — are of the most elementary kind of humour. Even 
 when he verges upon indecency his jests are of the most 
 ancient and fish-like type. 
 
 The play is, I think, the work of one hand only, and not of 
 two or three authors, as was the case with so many dramas 
 of its period. Mr. A. H. Bullen has suggested that it may 
 possibly be the work of Glapthorne ; but I do not think 
 that it has the special characteristics of that author's works. 
 The writer to whom one would be most inclined to attribute 
 it, were it only of a higher order of merit, is Massinger. It 
 has most of the characteristics of that author's work, only 
 on a lower scale of achievement. The plot is developed very 
 xiv
 
 much in his manner ; the characters are the stock figures of 
 his dramas ; and the author, like Massinger, " jokes wi' 
 deeficulty," The most striking resemblance, however, which 
 it presents to Massinger' s work is in its female characters. 
 Most of that dramatist's women are creatures of a low and 
 unpleasing type, whose virtues are of the most commonplace 
 order, and whose vices are no less ordinary and ignoble. 
 This is very much the case with the women of " The Partiall 
 Law." The heroine herself interests us only because of her 
 misfortunes : she is not otherwise attractive. Of the other 
 female characters, it can only be said that they are either 
 odious or insignificant. Even Fiducia, whom the author 
 evidently intended to make us think favourably of, indulges 
 in one scene in such Hcence of language as to forfeit entirely 
 our respect. 
 
 Was the author of this play acquainted with Shakespeare's 
 works, and was he influenced by them ? He must almost 
 necessarily, I think, have been acquainted with them ; and 
 here and there some echoes of the great dramatist's phrases 
 (as, for instance, " prophetique soule," " the Gods are just," 
 " To cozzen fooles and babes withall ") seem to show that 
 he was not uninfluenced by them. The character of Bellamour 
 is not unlike that of Leonatus Posthumus in " Cymbehne," 
 while that of Philochres very much resembles that of lachimo. 
 It may also be remarked that the last scene of the play in 
 which all the threads of the plot are, with much art and 
 contrivance, drawn together so as to provide an effective 
 conclusion, bears some resemblance in that respect to the 
 manner in which the denoueme^tt is brought about in 
 " Cymbeline." But all these are comparatively small points, 
 
 XV
 
 ■which I bring forward rather for the reader's consideration 
 than with a view to found any positive conclusion upon them. 
 There is, however, one scene in this play, for the idea of 
 which the author was indebted, if not to Shakespeare him- 
 self, at least to a play in which he was concerned. In the 
 fifth scene of the first act of " The Partiall Law " the various 
 knights who are to take part in the tournament pass across 
 the stage, each displaying his shield or device, on each of 
 which the King, his daughter, and her ladies make their 
 comments. This scene, though it would be unfair to call it 
 a mere plagiarism, which it is not, yet resembles so strongly 
 the second scene of the second act of "Pericles" that it is 
 hardly possible to avoid thinking that it is a direct and inten- 
 tional imitation of it. It is, however, only such a borrowing 
 as one author may legitimately make from another, since the 
 writer of the later play has taken only the general idea of 
 the scene from " Pericles," and has worked out the details in 
 his own way. Both authors display some degree of ingen- 
 uity in working out their conceptions ; and this, I think, is 
 all that either of them can claim in respect of it. 
 
 There is, in the opening scene of " The Partiall Law," a 
 passage which seems to me to point clearly to the author's 
 social position, and to show that he was not a professional 
 playwright. It is as follows : — 
 
 Fer. He's but a private gentleman. 
 
 Arg. That last 
 
 Conferres on him as much, nay more then ought, 
 Set that aside, can doe; Gentrye and all 
 That doeth derive from good, the antienter 
 The more to be esteem'd. We pictures deeme 
 xvi »
 
 Draw'n by some famous hand of former times 
 Much more then moderne ones : if then such prayse 
 Be to the shaddowes given, for certaine much 
 Of more reflects upon the substances. 
 
 There is surely in this, and in other passages which might 
 be quoted, an insistence upon the claims of the gentry, as 
 distinguished from the titled classes, which shows clearly 
 enough that the author was urging the claims of a class to 
 which he himself belonged. A writer who did not belong to 
 it would hardly have gone out of his way to assert its claims 
 as they are here asserted. So far as the sentiment goes the 
 passage might well have been written by Shakespeare, who 
 himself belonged, at any rate on his mother's side, to the 
 gentry, and who dwells often enough — perhaps too often — 
 upon the respect due to rank and station, and to the duty of 
 maintaining the established order of things. 
 
 There is another point which brings " The Partiall Law " 
 into some degree of relation with Shakespeare. As the Hon. 
 Mr, Madden has so clearly pointed out in his "Diary of 
 Master "William Silence," one of the chief characteristics of 
 Shakespeare's works is the minute and exact knowledge 
 which is displayed in them of country life and affairs, and 
 especially of the sports of the field and of horsemanship. 
 Mr. Madden indeed pushes his theory rather too far some- 
 times, as when he makes the references to field sports and 
 to horsemanship, which he finds in some of the doubtful 
 plays, certain tests by means of which their authenticity or 
 otherwise can be decided. Though it is true that few poets 
 or dramatists of the time display so much knowledge of the 
 kind as Shakespeare does, few of them can have been 
 
 xvii
 
 altogether ignorant of such matters, since they, like nearly- 
 all men at that time, lived in much closer communion with 
 the life of the woods and fields than is now ordinarily the case. 
 It might be argued, on Mr. Madden's premises, that, since 
 " The Partiall Law " contains various references to the sport 
 of hawking, and displays a minute knowledge of horseman- 
 ship, it must be a work of the great dramatist. Of course I 
 am not going to make such a claim for it ; since no number 
 of such references, however exact or minute, can avail to 
 prove that a play containing them is the work of Shake- 
 speare, if it does not exhibit in other respects the hand of the 
 master. This is a condition which Mr. Madden does not 
 always bear in mind. Thus he argues that "A Yorkshire 
 Tragedy" must be by Shakespeare, because it exhibits a 
 knowledge of horsemanship which he only could have 
 displayed. Now here he is certainly wrong, since I have, 
 I believe, proved that play to have been written by George 
 Wilkins ; and my ascription of it to him has so far remained 
 unchallenged. I believe in fact that it cannot be challenged, 
 except by denying that there are any valid tests by which 
 the work of one dramatist can be distinguished from that of 
 another.* 
 
 Whether I have now said all that need be said by way of 
 Introduction to " The Partiall Law " I do not know ; but if I 
 have not, I must leave it to be said by other pens. I daresay 
 
 * For the passages in " The Partiall Law " which I have alluded to, 
 see Act II, so. 2, in which the sport of hawking is discussed; and 
 Act III. sc. 4, in which there is a long passage, quite irrelevant to the 
 action of the play, which is obviously introduced in order to display 
 the author's expert knowledge as a judge of horseflesh, 
 xviii
 
 most of those into whose hands it is likely to fall would have 
 been as capable as myself of writing it : and therefore if I 
 have left anything unsaid, they will be able to supply my 
 deficiencies. 
 
 I hope I have not attempted to make too much of the play ; 
 certainly I have not represented it as a masterpiece of dram- 
 atic art. I think, however, it will be allowed that it has 
 enough points of interest about it to justify its publication. 
 And so, having brought it into a world, in which, if it had a 
 conscious existence, it would be much surprised to find itself, 
 I leave it to work out whatever fate may be allotted to it, 
 and betake myself to other enterprises. 
 
 Some few small tasks a mortal may achieve, 
 But what he most desires undone must leave. 
 
 I must not conclude, however, without giving my best 
 thanks to my friends, Messrs. Percy Simpson and G. Thorn 
 Drury, who have read the proof-sheets of the play, and to 
 whom I am indebted for many valuable suggestions. To 
 them also I owe most of the notes and references which 
 are to be found at the end of the work. 
 
 XIX
 
 i 
 
 1
 
 THE PARTIALL LAW 
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY
 
 THE ACTOURS NAMES 
 
 The King of Corsica. 
 
 Philochresy Prince of Majorca. 
 
 BellamouTf a supposed Gentleman of Italy, but Prince of 
 
 Cyprus. 
 Montalto y 
 
 Arnaldo V three Court Lords. 
 Garamont] 
 
 ^ I two Gentlemen of the Court. 
 
 Feredo J 
 
 Sylvander^ a Gentleman of Cyprus. 
 
 Francisco ") 
 
 p i f Servants to Philocres. 
 
 Florabella, daughter to the King of Corsica. 
 
 Lucina, a Lady of the Court, companion to Florabella. 
 
 I Florabella's wayting women. 
 Ntgretta J '' ^ 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 III . 
 
 A Messenger. 
 A Groome. 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Contrey- women . 
 
 The Scene, CORSICA
 
 THE PARTIALL LAW 
 
 Actus Primus. Scena Prima. 
 Feredo, Argales. 
 
 Fer. 'Tis strange Argales, that our King, who ne*re 
 Till now was scene let loose affection's reynes. 
 Nor patronize his power ; but through the line 
 Of his long life hath with so strict a hand 
 To all so equal sway'd his scepter, as 
 None ever yet was heard moane and lament 
 Under the burden of Authority 
 Or awe transcendent ; should now 
 Contrary to his wont, so liberall be 
 Or rather so profuse in all his favours 
 To this late-come Italian. 
 
 Arg. Who can tell 
 
 But this by you so much maligned stranger 
 May merit all that is confer'd on him 
 Of grace or favour ; so the King remayne 
 Entire in his impartiality, 
 Letting the current of his favours flow 
 Only as Bellamour's worth challengeth :
 
 Besides 'tis laudable, and is by all 
 
 Both prays'd and practised to be courteous 
 
 To strangers, specially to such who may 
 
 In all their actions easily be discern'd 
 
 For somewhat of much more than ordinary. 
 
 Fer. He's but a private Gentleman. 
 
 Arg. That last 
 
 Conferres on him as much, nay more than ought, 
 Set that aside, can doe ; Gentrye, and all 
 That doeth derive from good, the antienter 
 The more to be esteem'd. We pictures deeme 
 Drawn by some famous hand of former times 
 Much more then modern ones ; if then such prayse 
 Be to the shaddowes given, for certain much 
 Of more reflects upon the substances. 
 But set all these respects aside, his worth 
 Deserving what of good may ere betide him, 
 And this set off by what you make a butt at, 
 His being Gently borne ; w^hy should we curbe 
 And prescribe lawes to others, which ourselves 
 Who are the meanest of their vassals, nor doe 
 Nor can make good. You are a private man, 
 I meane no Monarch ; yet are Maister of 
 A fortune, which seates you in a condition 
 Of being fawn'd on, su'd unto by many. 
 Who forasmuch as doeth belong unto 
 The tye of servants, owe as much to you 
 As you to our great Maister ; then peruse 
 Your former private, if not present times ; 
 And tell me if your liking never bore 
 4
 
 You more to th' actions of some one then other? 
 If this be true, as certainly it is, 
 Why should we that to our superiours grudge 
 Which to ourselves we arrogate ? 
 
 Fer. A Prince 
 
 Should be more then a man. 
 
 Arg. He should indeede 
 
 Were he what you would fashion him to be, 
 Nay, were all Princes of affections voyde. 
 So voyde of man (for th' one word speak.es the other) 
 I doubt me whether, were it in your choyce 
 You'd change a Cottage with a chayre of state ; 
 Tis true they're termed Gods, yet they must dye 
 Like men, and if so dye, so live. 
 But why should you so feare this growing tyde 
 Should (may be) swell so high that it may drowne 
 The neighbouring valleys ? full five months are past 
 Since his first coming hither and as yet 
 He hath not tasted ought of princely bounty, 
 As honours, riches ; more then that 'tis true. 
 His company as 'tis to all men else 
 Is pleasing to the King. 
 
 Fer. My feares foretell 
 
 'Tis much more pleasing to his daughter, her 
 I have observed ne're to be so well 
 In tune, or set upon so gay a pinne 
 As when screw'd up by him. If this be so 
 It well becomes us all to looke about ; 
 Who knowes how farre a handsome proper man 
 And fairely spoken, may prevayle with one
 
 Who though a Princesse is yet but a woman ; 
 
 And I am herein interested more 
 
 Perhaps then you're aware of. The great Duke 
 
 Of Majorca, our neere neighbouring Isle, 
 
 Who hath some months been present in the Court, 
 
 (May be to you unknow'n) doeth labour hard 
 
 This Ladye's good-will, and w^ith his desires 
 
 Hath made the King acquainted, who since he 
 
 Can finde nought to object that may withstand 
 
 His just desire hath thereto given consent. 
 
 Always provided that his daughter be 
 
 As w^ell contented therewithail as he. 
 
 This is a secret not divulg'd ; for that 
 
 The great Majorcan Prince, jealous of 
 
 His reputation, as befits all men. 
 
 And chiefely Princes be, covets not 
 
 To be brought on the stage till he may by 
 
 Some secret meanes sift whether yea or no 
 
 The Lady can affect him, so that if 
 
 The business prove once public he may be 
 
 Partly assur'd of prosperous successe. 
 
 As I am herein open unto you 
 
 And free, pray be your secret unto me. 
 
 Arg. S' for this favour I doe rest indebted, 
 And till I heare it streete-newes rest assur'd 
 From hence it shall no farther progresse have. 
 And truly you have joy'd me much, for I 
 Cannot o' th' sudden thinke on any match 
 In all respects more fitting than is this ; 
 (aside) But hereof more at large to Bellamour. 
 6
 
 Fer. To give more ample field, wherein the Prince 
 May of his Chivalry make demonstration 
 The King at his request hath condescended 
 To have a tilting which to-morrow next 
 Before himselfe's to be performed ; where 
 The Prince as Challenger does all defie 
 Who dare maintain his tenet false, which is 
 That to persist in a neglected love 
 Is greater signe of base and abject minde 
 Than love or constancy. 
 
 Arg. 'Tis an odde tenet for one who begins 
 To make the blossoms of affection known. 
 
 Fer. Assure yourself he'll prove in all his wayes 
 As odde as now in this. He thinkes 'tis not 
 Fitting a Prince to tread in beaten pathes, 
 But to flnde out or else make new ones ; see 
 The King appeares, with him his daughter, and 
 "With her the brave Majorcan Prince, close hand in hand. 
 But niarke again how she hangs backward ; how 
 She suffereth her body to be dragg'd 
 Along by him, whilst by her eye men may 
 Perceive her soule lock't in the Italian's breast.
 
 Actus Primus. Scena Secunda. 
 
 Enter the King, Florabell, his daughter^ Philocres, Prince of 
 Majorca, Bellamour, the Italian ; Garamont, Montalto, 
 Arnaldo, three young Lords ; Luclna, companion to the 
 Princesse, with Attendants. 
 
 King. When thus attended, and [with] you, my fayrest. 
 My dearest daughter, seated by my side. 
 Me thinkes no monarch's mightier than myselfe. 
 
 Phil. You were not S' to yeeld to any one 
 In any thing belongs unto a Prince 
 So long time famous through the Christian World, 
 Were you your selfe alone here. We like to 
 So many petty starres borrow our light 
 From those beames which surround your Majesty, 
 But cannot contribute or adde thereto 
 The least of lustre. 
 
 King. You meane brave Prince 
 
 To shew your skill to-day in Compliments 
 And Courtly talke, as you to-morrow meane 
 To doe in feates of Armes, in this I'm sure 
 Y'are excellent. I doubt not but you will 
 In th* other prove as expert. 
 
 Gar. So think not I, 
 
 These talkers seldom are good spearmen. 
 
 King. What's that you say Lord Garamont ? 
 
 Gar. My speare 
 
 I say shall talke for me S' 
 
 King. Of that to-morrow. 
 
 You meane I see to break a lance with him. 
 8
 
 Gar. If so it please your Majesty give way. 
 
 King. And you Arnaldo ; you too Lord Montalto ? 
 
 Am. rie doe my best to prove he not deserves 
 His Mistresse' favour who esteemes it not 
 More happiness to sue, though all in vayne 
 Where he hath once plac't his affection 
 Then freely to enjoy another's love. 
 
 Mon. You runne too much upon the counter-byas ; 
 I do not jumpe with you ; but I'le maintain 
 He merits not a favour who forbeares 
 For some few gaynesayes. 
 
 King. You brave Bellamour, 
 
 What's your opinion concerning this ? 
 
 Bell. I surely think him much more happy, S^ 
 Then I shall ever be who doeth at last 
 Though ne're so long in comming thereunto. 
 Enjoy his soule's delight, his mistresse' love. 
 
 King. You Bellamour set not so high a rate 
 Upon your own deservings, as doe other men, 
 And yet doe thereby much inhaunce their prize : 
 For vertue's never so much prized by others 
 As when not boasted of by the possessor : 
 But either you have plac't your love too high. 
 And therein made a breach on your discretion, 
 Or else, if you your owne worth duely weigh. 
 Who e're she be you neede not to despayre. 
 Let me but know your Saint and I'le pleade for you. 
 
 Bell. Yoxir noble favours S' are now to me 
 No newes, so deepely I have drunke thereof 
 That till some wish't for meanes doe shew it selfe
 
 Whereby I may make demonstration 
 Of my endeavours, ever humbly vowed 
 And dedicated to your Grace's service, 
 I shall forbeare the further running on 
 The score, for feare of never coming off. 
 
 Fer. Her eye is never off him. I*le not faile 
 To informe the Prince thereof. 
 
 King. My Lords 'tis late, and some of you perhaps 
 May not be yet provided of such trimmes 
 As for to grace to morrow's sport y' intend : 
 Therefore 'twere best now to retire, each man 
 Unto his tackling. You Lord Challenger 
 Had neede come well prouided ; for believe 't, 
 (For your to them unpleasing tenet,) all 
 The Ladye's sides against you, and men say 
 That women's wishes helpe to winne the day. [Exeunt.) 
 
 Actus Primus. Scena Tertia. 
 Philocres, Lucina. 
 
 Phil. My deare Lucina have you yet prevayl'd ? 
 Hath ought that you can say had power enough 
 To worke me into Florabella's graces ? 
 I know your powerful speech is of such force, 
 Your Art yourselfe therein to governe such 
 As if you truely doe intend a blisse, 
 You'll make the stubborn oake the haw-thorne kisse. 
 Say then, is't blisse or bane that you doe bring ? 
 
 Lnc. Fayre S'. although the taske you set me on 
 10
 
 All things consider' d duely as they ought 
 
 Be of the hardest sort e're undertaken, 
 
 (aside) (For God he knowes, I'de rather sue to you 
 
 Then sue for you to another,) yet such force 
 
 Have your commands on me that like to Lawes 
 
 Of Medes and Persians I have them obey'd. 
 
 I have not lost the least occasion 
 
 Proffer'd of highly setting forth your Highnesse prayse. 
 
 Nay, I have [evenj ta'ne occasions 
 
 Ungiven to let her see how fit a match 
 
 You'd be in all respects for her ; of bloud 
 
 A Prince as she a Princesse : of estate 
 
 Not misbecomming her, and which was not 
 
 Least worth respect, your state so neere to her's, 
 
 Of personage a husband for a Queene, 
 
 As by this light you seeme to me to be. 
 
 I have set forth your wisdome, your discourse, 
 
 Your feates of Armes ; what not ? and this 
 
 With all the skill and Rhetoricke I have. 
 
 But— 
 
 Phil. But what ? pray draw not out so long 
 My doome of life or death ; seem'd she well pleased 
 With your discourse? did she not thinke your talke 
 Too tedious ? gave she you fayre hearing ? 
 
 Luc. Faith 'twere in vayne to flatter you with hopes 
 When there's small hopes to flatter you withall. 
 As oft as I named you she'd turne her head 
 Another way ; still I pursuing her, 
 She'd cry'd Nay, pish : faith if you will not leave 
 This theame Lucina, Tie leave you ; and as 
 
 11
 
 I though pursued to blazon forth your worth, 
 She'd say, halfe this said of another man 
 Would better pleasing be, and much more true. 
 In fine, I feare her heart is else-where set : 
 Therefore deare S' forbeaie furthur pursuite 
 Of this nice wayward one and strike a Doe 
 Will stand you fayre. 
 
 Phil, Who can that other be ? 
 
 Enter Feredo. 
 
 See where Feredo comes in happy time, 
 He'll doe his best, I'm sure, to learne who 'tis 
 That she affects ; that known the cure's halfe done, 
 rie teach him whosoever he be, what 'tis 
 To be my Rivall ; or if she will needes 
 Place her affection elsewhere, and scorn me 
 I may perchance read him and her a lesson 
 They shall not soon forget, Feredo. 
 
 Per. S\ 
 
 'Twas partly therefore why I now came hither ; 
 Take it upon no small presumptions 
 She dotes upon the Italian, Bellamour : 
 And that you may rest more secure, see where 
 They come link't arme in arme ; S! if you please 
 I think 't were good we did a while withdraw^ 
 Where not by them discover'd we may heare 
 What passes 'twixt them, so your selfe may be 
 A witnesse both to that you heare and see. 
 
 Phil. *Tis well advis'd : Let's in, if this be true 
 rie turn a new leafe, and bid love Adieu. 
 12
 
 Actus Primus. Scena Quarta. 
 Enter Florabella, Bellamour. 
 
 Flo. My fairest love, my dearest Bellamour, 
 What meanes this sweet, though sullen sadnesse, which 
 Sits on those cheekes ? what sad ? and I so nigh ? 
 
 Bell. Your pardon, dearest Madame, I'de forgot 
 The happinesse caused by your Highnesse's presence, 
 Or rather, to say true, your Highnesse presence 
 Caus'd me forget myselfe ; but say my fayre, 
 My soul's farre better part, what's to be done ? 
 You say, Philocres doeth by private meanes 
 Your love importune ; he's a neighbour Prince, 
 And one on whom 'tis like your father would 
 Gladly bestow you ? we must now make use 
 Of time, and take him by the forelocke, else 
 'Twill be too late, and I for ever shall 
 Have cause to curse my fates which brought me hither. 
 Our soules are knit, and mine shall sooner grapple 
 With death, though pourtray'd in most ghastful shape, 
 Then ever suffer dissolution. 
 
 Flo. I do believe thee, and do hugge myselfe 
 For making such a choyce ; Tie rather begge 
 With thee then feast it with the greatest Prince alive. 
 She Idolls mucke and durt that ballances 
 Or state or wealth with true content, such as 
 Doe they possesse who joy in other's love. 
 As for Philochres, I'll embrace 
 
 Fire 'twixt mine armes thus, 'till therewith I have 
 Made myselfe sacrifice and sacrificer, 
 
 13
 
 Rather than be polluted with so foule 
 A touch as his. 
 
 Phil. 'Tis well, 'tis very well, 
 
 Some now would let his anger straight breathe out 
 And publish his dislikes, but so'll not I, 
 My vengeance though defer'd shall yet be such 
 As w^hen it falls (and fall for sure it shall) 
 Shall richly pay my patience interest. 
 Love thus farewell, and wellcome dire revenge. 
 
 [Exit Philochres] 
 
 Flo. Why stand you mute so long, my Bellamour ? 
 If ought molest you, let me share thereof, 
 For I will share in all your good and bad. 
 
 Bell. Heard you not ever Madame, how that joy 
 Or griefe excessive in an instant have 
 Strucke many dead ? if so I wonder I 
 Survive, who share so deepe in both ; my joy 
 Will need no words to set it forth ; 'twill be 
 By all men easily guest at : it exceedes 
 Expression. 
 
 Flo. But whence proceedes your griefe ? 
 
 Bell. From selfe-unworthiness to think that I 
 A private Gentleman, a stranger too 
 Should be the cause of such ensuing woes 
 To such an all-deserving Lady : one 
 Who fit bride for an Emperour will though 
 Bestow your selfe on me : 
 To this I adde your father's losse, to whom 
 I for so noble usage stand indebted ; 
 Your losse in loosing him, for sure he'll ne're 
 14
 
 Give his consent his goodliest Cedar should 
 
 Stoope to a bramble bush. 
 
 Flo. These are but trifles : 
 
 But I too late perceive my errour, those 
 
 Your feares foretell a want of love, and me 
 
 Therein most wretched. 
 
 Bell. Now Madame by my soul 
 
 You do misconstrue me, which to make good 
 
 Say what, and where, and when, and build on me. 
 
 Flo. Then thus. Tie order take to have a Gaily rig'd, 
 And brought into our channel, wherein I 
 Some evenings on the water will disport 
 My selfe : this three or foure times done 
 Will free us of suspicion : meane while 
 rie order take for all things necessary. 
 Packe up my Jewells, and then packe my selfe 
 Away with thee my Bellamour ; we will 
 For Italy ; Tie wayte upon thee home 
 To see that happy Countrey (for svue such 
 It is) that brought thee forth ; there we 
 By means of Jewells, Cash, and other things 
 Which rie provide for, will spend all our days 
 In love and plenty. 
 
 Bell. ^ Madame be mercifull, 
 
 Let not your blessing flow thus all at once 
 Lest I do therein surfett. 
 My deedes, not words, shall speak my thankfulnesse. 
 
 Flo. Well then, no more of this : you meane to tilt 
 To-morrow do you not ? 
 
 Bell. Madame I doe, 
 
 15
 
 And doubt not but to make Philocres know 
 There lodgeth more of worth within my breast, 
 A private Gentleman, than his a Prince. 
 And that of this I may be more secure 
 Pardon me Madame, if I beg a boone : 
 For all your favours amply heap't on me 
 Worke like effect as well cook't sauces doe 
 Which fill not, but provoke fresh appetite. 
 You must or me deny or graunt one favour more. 
 
 Flo. I rest assured you will nothing aske 
 May misbecome my modesty to graunt. 
 Nor your worth to demand, therefore proceede. 
 
 Bell. That I may then in this my bickering 
 With happy augure go more boldly on 
 Bestow on me some favoiu-, dearest Madame, 
 That if at any time my forces fayle. 
 Looking on it, and in it, whence it came, 
 Like to Antheos, who by touching ground 
 New forces got, I may with viewing it, 
 My strength redouble, and make whatsoe're 
 Shall me withstand, seeme smoake before the winde. 
 
 Flor. 'Tis bravely said, and 'cause your worth to me 
 So well is knowen I dare not feare successe. 
 Here is a chayne of Oriental pearle. 
 My mother in her death-bed left it me. 
 With charge that I should never from it part. 
 Save unto him to whom I gave my heart ; 
 Then since you have the one accept the other, 
 Take this and keepe it 
 As safe as I your love and memory. 
 16 

 
 Bell. He must have Lyon's strength and foxe's pate 
 Robbes me of this inestimable jewell, 
 Rich in it selfe, richer in worke-manship, 
 But richest farre above comparison 
 In respect of the giver, for were this 
 A peeble stone, or ring made of a rush, 
 And by your fairest hands presented, I'de 
 Not give it for what of worth the sea contaynes. 
 But Madame it grows late, and I as yet 
 Am not well-fitted for to morrow's sport : 
 Pardon me therefore if with humble kisse 
 Of your fayre hand, I this time bid Adieu, 
 Where e're my body is, my heart's with you. 
 
 Flo. Then we have made an interchange of hearts. 
 When you are gone I'm sure that mine departs. 
 
 Actus Primus. Scena Ouinta. 
 Three Serving-men at one doore, Three Women at another. 
 
 1. Worn. Oh, heere be some will misinf orme us : Pray, good 
 brother, which is the way to the Tilt-yard. 
 
 2. Worn. I, pray forsooth misinf orme us in the way, and if 
 by your meanes we may compose how to see the tilting, we 
 will not be ingratitude. 
 
 3. Worn. No, indeede will we not. I'le promise you for my 
 part a dish of Curds and creame if you come to our Towne ; 
 and I can tell you there be youngsters in our Towne which 
 would lick their lips to have such a promise. 
 
 B 17
 
 3. Man. You are a promising woman, I promise you ; and 
 I promise you in requitall of your promise to performe the 
 promise which now I promise unto you which is that I will 
 place you where you shall see, and be seen, most deliciously. 
 
 I. Worn. O delicate man! and will you do as much for 
 me? I am a poore simple creature, and can neither write 
 nor reade since I cutt my thumbe the other day in paring a 
 piece of cheese ; but thereby forsooth, we be all playne-deal- 
 ing women, and meane no harme, I warrant you. 
 
 I. Man. Marry, and I love a playne-dealing woman with 
 all my heart, but you are not so forward in your promises of 
 requitall as is your neighbour ; what w^ill you doe to show 
 your thankfulnesse if I should procure for you so much happi- 
 ness as to see what shall serve you twenty winter nights in 
 relating it to your Grandchildren. 
 
 1. Worn. Indeede and verily, Sir, I have never a Grand- 
 childe, but I have a daughter just 15 yeares old and as much 
 since Simon and Jude's day last past ; a pretty moather, and 
 though I say it, who should not say it, as sweet a silly soule 
 as any is within a mile of her head. If you please, when you 
 passe by our Towne, to call in, you shall be exceeding well- 
 come. 
 
 2. Man. And shall your daughter bid me wellcome too? 
 
 I. Worn. Feare not that, I hope I have given her better 
 nutrlture then to show herselfe wayward and coye to such a 
 man as you are. I am sure she never learn'd any such 
 manners of her mother. 
 
 1. Man. I seeke no further engagement. Upon that con- 
 dition I take you to my charge. 
 
 2. Worn. So Sir Serving man I perceive you and I must 
 18
 
 couple together ; your two fellowes have promisM to satisfise 
 my neighbours, and I trust you will prove no flincher, you 
 will doe as much for me, as they shall doe for them. 
 
 2. Man. Even as much as you may expect from a weather- 
 beaten serving-man, who never feedes but upon luke-warme 
 meate, half hot and halfe cold, and the better halfe eaten away. 
 
 3. Wotn. Then since we are all agreed I am resolv'd to 
 trust myselfe with my Champion ; do you so with yours, and 
 let us be quickly gone, lest all the best roomes in the scaffolds 
 be taken up before we come. 
 
 3. Man. Stay but a little and you shall see the Tilters 
 passe by in order to the Tilt-yard, and their Squires and 
 Pages before them. I told you so, Hearke the Trumpets 
 sound already. Let us all stand close here and see them 
 passe. 
 
 Trumpets sounds the Challenger passeth by, his Page bearing 
 his Shield and his Squire his Lance. The King and 
 Ladyes are above in the window. The Page passing by 
 presents ye King with his Maister's Scidchion. 
 
 King. A lovely bunch of grapes hang high upon his stemme. 
 And he a bunch lesse lovely much doth eate. 
 His motto, Chi non puo quel che vuole quel che puo voglia. 
 
 To will the thing he can is good, 
 For him who cannot what he wood. 
 
 He seekes belike to fortifie his Tenet 
 By proverbe, but no rule so generall is 
 Which not admits exception. So will this, 
 Or else you Ladyes all beleeve amisse. 
 
 19
 
 Another Tilter passeth by, in same equipage as the former, 
 his Page presenting his Shield. 
 
 King. A close-shut lanterne, darke as is the night, 
 Which gives no light at all ; yet hath a light 
 Burning within, as by the witty motto 
 May be conceiv'd. Ardor in occulto. 
 He burnes in hidden fire ; the more foole he, 
 Or for concealing his affection, 
 Or else for placing it so high, his hopes 
 Can ne're attayne unto their wish't for end, 
 And therefore he in silence doeth consume. 
 
 A third Tilter passeth by, as did the former. 
 
 King. An eye droppes teares upon a flinty heart, 
 The Motto, Hei mihi cur video 
 It seemes this Gentleman bewayles his lot 
 For having cast his eye on beauty, where 
 He can no signe of comfort yet receive. 
 Yet sure his Motto, speakes him wiser much 
 Than is the former knight ; his teares doe show 
 That he hath spoken though as yet in vayne. 
 The Frenchman sayes Feinine qui parte se rend. 
 If therefore you Sir Knight, who e're you be 
 Before your mistresse have your griefs lay'd open, 
 And she hath lent you eare to heare your moanes. 
 Doe not despayre, though this your weeping eye 
 In her yet flinty heart make no impression. 
 The teares which fall from thence pierce not by force, 
 But may by often falling cause remorse. 
 20
 
 A fourth Tilter passeth by, and doeth as did the former. 
 
 King. An arme from forth a cloud grasping a speare 
 And underneath Dat gratia vires. 
 Yea this is somewhat like, for this man seemes 
 T' have fought in Cupid's campe and overcome. 
 By his Impresa he would have us know 
 That grace and favour doe give life to Armes. 
 
 Another Tilter passeth by, as did the former. 
 
 King. A man sunke in the Sea, only his head 
 
 Borne above water by a Scepter, which 
 
 Is by a hand supported from the skyes, 
 
 His word HiNC sola salus. 
 
 This man it seemes ow^es all his Liberty, 
 
 His Life unto his Mistrisse, which he holds 
 
 No longer tearme in then when she shall please 
 
 Her hand of favour to withdraw, but whilst 
 
 That succours him, he fears nor tempest, nor 
 
 The fury of the Seas. May she be still 
 
 Propitious : so now they all are past, 
 
 And, Ladyes, say for what you now have seene. 
 
 Which of these noble Warriers 
 
 Goe most accompanied w^ith your well-wishings. 
 
 The Challenger I'm sure partakes of none. 
 
 His Tenet frights all fayre maydes wishes from him. 
 Flo. In mine they all doe share alike. 
 King. Nay, daughter, that's impossible : I, who 
 
 Have liv'd as many houres thrice told as you 
 
 Saw never yet a game at bowles or Cardes, 
 
 Or whatsoever other game, though they 
 
 21
 
 That play'd by me were all unknowen, but that 
 
 My wishes did accompany some one 
 
 More than the rest ; therefore pray daughter speak. 
 
 Flo. I to the second, third and forth wish well, 
 (aside) But hope the fif 't shall beare away the bell. 
 
 Luc. I must confesse, if I could aught prevayle 
 With my desires, they all should flocke about 
 The third : he in my opinion 
 Desers-^es most pity, who his love doeth place 
 Where he's repay'd with scorne and fowle disgrace. 
 
 Fid. Nay, there, Lucina, you must pardon me. 
 The second's sure in farre worse case than he ; 
 He hath outgone the former, he hath made 
 Know en his affection ; who but thither gets 
 Is sure advanc't one step towards th' atchievement 
 Of his desires, more than is he who yet 
 Never found way to make his passion know'en. 
 Therefore for my part may he victor prove 
 Whom love consumes, yet dare not say he loves. 
 
 King. Why so now ; this is somewhat ; heere's a theame 
 That would admit a seriouser discovirse 
 Than now the time affoords : Ladyes, 'tis best 
 We turne unto the fire to warm our selves 
 Whilst they doe on their tacklings. (Exeunt above. 
 
 1. Man. How now my lasses ? How like you this sport, 
 heere w^ill be brave doings anon. 
 
 2. Worn. The blessing of God light on them all, they are 
 e'ne the gallantest men my eyes ever yet saw^. 
 
 3. Wont. How bravely they strouted it ! but who were those 
 that talk't over our heads ? 
 
 22
 
 2. Man. The King, his daughter, with diverse Lords and 
 Ladyes of the Court. 
 
 I. Worn. The King ! whye, I had rather than a groat have 
 seene his sweet face, 'tis a sweet face, I warrant you, is it 
 not ? I never saw him in all my life. 
 
 I. Man. 'Tis no matter, thou mayest say now thou hast 
 seene him that has seene the King. 
 
 I. Worn. May I so Sir ? marry I thanke you for it. 
 
 3. Worn. Pray, let us be gone ; I am pitiously afraid we 
 have tarryed heere too long ; but neighbours, 'tis all one, for 
 you must resolve to be thrust at, and crouded both backside 
 and foreside^ 
 
 The Trumpets sound within, then still music : 
 so the Act endeth. 
 
 Actus Secundus, Scena Prima. 
 
 Lucina, Philocres. 
 
 Luc. This your misfortune S' in being unhors't, 
 And that so unluckily by Bellamour, 
 Will more estrange your mistrisse heart from you, 
 And settle it more firme on him ; 
 Therefore at length be wise and leave to follow 
 An untam'd savage beauty, which the more 
 You doe pursue, the more obdurate growes ; 
 And chuse some other Mistrisse : some who may 
 Without or cost of sigh, or losse of teare 
 Be wrought unto your will, some one who will 
 
 23
 
 As fast runne after you, as you do after her, 
 The pleasure is the same, the payne far less. 
 
 Phil, (to himself) She's strucke already, fastned in the 
 net. 
 And if I draw her not to land, and make 
 Her serve for baite to catch more gudgions by 
 My ciuining fayles me. 
 
 Luc. Sir, did you but know 
 
 The sweetes of love, the delicates thereof. 
 When two breasts fully fraught, doe intershocke 
 And meet each other ; vying which of them 
 Should outdoe other in expressions 
 Not only verball but reallityes ; 
 You would repent you had so late embrac't 
 My wholesome counsell, and be sorry for 
 Your time misspent. 
 
 Trye it but once ; you know not what it is 
 Till you have triall made ; if try'de you like 
 It not, with ease you may fall off againe. 
 
 Phil. There's none but common flesh will care for me, 
 Such as will play the after game, as well 
 With footboyes, as with me the foregame. 
 Now that I have been baffl'd, beate to ground 
 By Bellamour. 
 
 Luc. Sir, you do injure much 
 
 Your selfe, and those that as your servants love you, 
 By ballancing your selfe with Bellamour. 
 'Tis true h'ath had the better of the day, 
 But you may have the better of the night. 
 I know a Lady (though myselfe doe say't) 
 24
 
 That loves you dearely, dearer then her eyes ; 
 Then all the world together put, and you 
 Exempted thence, then as you'd pitty moove 
 In other's breast, let it moove first in your's. 
 
 Phil. Why that Parenthesis ? why (though yourselfe doe 
 say't ?) 
 'Twill not prove you, deare Madame ? will't ? say. 
 
 Luc. Alas ! alas ! I have at unawares 
 Betray'd my self, but what remedy ? fire 
 Will out, and though long time rak't up in ashes 
 It inwardly doeth burne the more ; and doeth 
 When it breakes forth break forth in greater flame. 
 Sir, 'tis too late to cloake my love, since you 
 Have gues't at it aright ; 'tis I that am 
 The party speaking, and the spoken for. 
 Nor doe I blush at it ; men are not deem'd 
 For wise nor provident, who in a case 
 That much concerns them, when they may themselves 
 Without controU have their accesse unto 
 The Judge or Prince's eares doe though employ 
 Some other on their errand ; y'are my Prince 
 The Judge fore whom my cause is to be heard 
 And censured ; in your hands doeth lye 
 The only power to bid me live or dye. 
 Why then should I be blamed, or any one 
 For doing that, to do the contrary 
 To which were folly and they fooles that doe it. 
 
 Phil. Madame, I'm much bound to your Courtesie, 
 I wish I may deserve it ; but so soone 
 Quite to forget my Florabella seemes 
 
 25
 
 Harsh and uncouth. 
 
 Luc. Pish ! thinke I am she 
 
 And 'twill be e'ne as good as if I were. 
 
 Pil, In troth you say aright, 'tis all but thought, 
 A very meere imagination. 
 
 Y'have therefore wonne me, Madame, I am yours, 
 Yet one thing as a favour, I would faine 
 Begge at your hand. 
 
 Luc. Speake freely and command. 
 
 Phil. That when you please t'appoint a time of meeting 
 You'd doe your best in all your actions, 
 Behaviour and gesture to imitate 
 My once-loved Florabell ; that so I may 
 Deceive my selfe, and whils't that I doe passe 
 The time away in dalliance with you. 
 May thinke it done with her. 
 
 Luc. All this and more : 
 
 I'le put on her apparell, the same cloathes 
 And knots she wore the day before ; for as 
 Her bed-fellow I well enough may doe't. 
 
 Phil, (to himselfe) How she outrunnes me, she'll not suffer 
 me 
 To speake, she's surely of the plot 
 And I not know it ; the successe muste needes 
 Be good, the entrance thereunto's so happy. 
 
 Luc. What's that you mutter to yourselfe my Lord ? 
 
 Phil. I say the entrance is so happy as 
 There's nought but good which can preceede thereon. 
 But, Madame, say what time will you appoint 
 And place, for now methinks already 
 26
 
 My love to Florabella vanishes, 
 And fixes here. 
 
 Luc. Name you the place and time. 
 
 Phil. What thinke you on to-morrow night, the place 
 The Antichamber to the Princess' lodging. 
 'Tis not amisse ; you easily may finde 
 Some cause of rising from her, there put on 
 Her cloathes i'th'outward chamber ; where perhaps 
 They're usually lay'd, where I'll not fayle 
 To meete you. 
 
 Luc. I, but how will you get thither ? 
 
 Her maydes lye alwayes in the inner roome 
 And locke the doores when we are both in bed. 
 
 Phil. For that take you no care, 'tis not the first 
 Love-theft that I have made ; as I remember 
 There's a Balconye-window in that roome 
 Which looks upon the water ; be you there 
 'Twixt twelve and one at night, and I'll provide 
 A silken ladder made for such-like feates. 
 Which you when I am come shall cast me down, 
 (Always provided th' one-end be made fast 
 Unto the window) thereby I will climbe 
 My tower of blisse wherein my Helene is. 
 
 Luc. You must be sure to come alone, I'de not 
 For all the world have any other know it. 
 
 Phil. Thinke me not so profuse of what's so much 
 By women valued, reputation. 
 
 The Moone shines bright about that hour, yet least 
 Or you or I may be mistaken when 
 I'm underneath your window, to my self 
 
 27
 
 rie say, I wonder what o'clocke it is. 
 If you be there and all things as they ought 
 Your answer is, much about two o'clocke. 
 Thus we are safe, and none can us descry. 
 
 Luc. It seems you are w^ell-practis'd, you so well 
 Provide for everything thereto belonging; 
 But if all be agreed clap hands upon't. 
 
 Phil. And lips too. Lady. 
 
 Luc. So, all's very well. 
 
 rie in least this my absence breede suspition : 
 Stay you a while behinde. (Exit. 
 
 Phil. Is not this better 
 
 Then storming rage ? in which perhaps myselfe 
 Might share as bad as he : thus without noyse 
 I'll take revenge on Bellamour, and on 
 His Florabella too in such a sort 
 As they shall have small cause to thanke me for't. 
 
 Actus Secundus. Scena Secunda. 
 Philocres, Bellamour. 
 
 Pliil. And see where luckily comes Bellamour. 
 
 Bell. Who knowes but that my yesterdaye's good luck 
 May be an omen of succeeding blisse ? 
 As such a one I take it : I will in 
 To my fayre Florabella, she I'm sure 
 Partakes a larger share of true content 
 Than I my selfe, in all that me befalls 
 Of good or glory. 
 28
 
 Phil, S'. a word with you 
 
 Before you passe to your fayre Florabell, 
 As you are pleased to terme her. Faith S' say 
 Are you so proud of the successe you had 
 In tilting yesterday, as nought can serve, 
 No meaner fortune recompense you for't 
 Than Florabella's favour ! 
 
 Bell. I'm betray'd. 
 
 But come what will come, since I'm thus farre gone 
 I will go through. 
 
 Phil. S' by your leave 
 
 You shall not 'lesse you make your way through me. 
 
 Bell. Were you tenne thousand men, and she my quarrell 
 I'd make my way through all of you. (They fight. 
 
 Enter King, Montalto, Garamont, Arnaldo. 
 
 (They part them. 
 
 King. Now by my soule Sir, this is not fayre play 
 Nor does it with your reputation sit 
 Thus to revenge your selfe by private Duell, 
 For what in publicke fayrely was perform'd, 
 And we ourselfe spectatour. 
 
 Phil. Mighty Sir, 
 
 Your Majesty's mistaken, and since 'twas 
 My fortune to receive the worst I'm glad 
 'Twas by the means of Bellamour, my friend, 
 Whom I so love as I am not ashamed. 
 Nor sorry for the blurre which I sustaine 
 Since that it addes unto his glory ; we 
 Not dreaming of your Majestye's approach 
 
 29
 
 Were onely lying at our severall wards 
 To try which was the better for defense 
 And which the best to passe upon. 
 
 King. What say you, Bellamour ? Tie take your word. 
 Was there no other matter in't ? 
 
 Bell. Sir, no. 
 
 King. That No came dryly out, but Tie not presse 
 Further into particulars ; quarrells 
 Are oft renew^'d, friendship is seldome made 
 By repetitions ; let it then suffise, 
 My pleasure is that all disputes heere ended 
 You two shake hands and vowe a hearty true 
 Reconciliation. 
 
 Bell. Sr 'tis more then needes. 
 
 King. Give me your hand I say, your's too, Philochres, 
 So, sweare a perfect love and amity, 
 The which if either of you violate 
 Know my displeasure hangs thereon. 
 
 Phil, I sweare 
 
 By this Majesticke hand, which thus I kisse, 
 Never for ought that is already past 
 To question Bellamour. 
 
 Bell. On the same booke 
 
 The self same oath take I for what concernes 
 Philocres the Majorcan Prince. 
 
 King. This 
 
 Affayre's well ended, looke you both observe 
 The oath y'have ta'ne. 
 
 Both. Assuredly we will Sf 
 
 King. Then Garamont, and you my other Lords 
 30 
 
 i
 
 Let's to our sport intended. Th' evening's calme, 
 And sure ere this the hawkes are sharpe, we shall 
 I trust see sport. 
 
 Gar. I, such my Liedge, 
 
 As well befits a King to be spectatour. 
 Methinks I doe already see i' th' ayre 
 Your Tarsell gentle lessened to a larke 
 Shoote like a thunderbolt upon his prey. 
 
 Mont. 'Tis true, the sight's delighful, but the flight 
 Best fits a king to see is when the Heron 
 Wrought up by Teesars, the stout Gerfaulcon 
 Is whistl'd off from fist, to see how first she sweepes 
 The earth with wings, and seems to steere her flight 
 A cleane contrary way, till by and by 
 You see her come about, and worke herself e 
 By inch-meale up till she be got above 
 The lofty Hearne ; to see her when she's there 
 Come powd'ring downe, till grappl'd with her prey, 
 They tumbling in the ayre come both to ground. 
 
 King. Will you, Philocres, goe along and you 
 Good Bellamour ? perhaps you have not seen 
 In your Majorca, nor in Italy 
 Such Hawkes as our's are. 
 
 Phil. S'. rie forthwith wayte 
 
 Upon your Majesty ; Tie stay but till 
 My horse be come, then haste and overtake you. 
 
 Bell, rie tarry S' and wayte upon the Prince. 
 
 King. I pray make haste, at least wise that you may 
 See th' evening flight, the which doth crowne the day. 
 
 (Exeunt all but Philocres and Bellamour. 
 
 31
 
 Phil. Friend Bellamour : for so I now must terme you, 
 And truth to say, did ever hold you such, 
 Let's calmly talke together, and though I 
 Might take it ill that you would goe about 
 To interrupt me in my love-affayres 
 With Princesse Florabella, (for 'tis like 
 You are not ignorant of my addresses) 
 Especially at this time, when I meane 
 For wife her of her father to demand, 
 Yet such is the respect I have always borne you 
 That setting by my quality of Prince, 
 And therein sure a fitter match for her, 
 I'le as your equall commune with you, and 
 Acquaint you with those reasons which doe moove 
 Me to pursue her love ; doe you the like 
 To me, and if your reasons better be, 
 More prevalent, of greater force than mine, 
 Take 't on a Prince's word, I'le not pursue 
 My suite one minute further ; but sit downe 
 To you ; marry I then will look for like 
 Respect from you 
 
 Bell. 'Tis reason, good my Lord, 
 
 And since y'are pleased to make so fair an offer, 
 I willingly doe entertayne the match, 
 And by th' faith of a Gentleman, which tyes 
 As much t' observance as a Prince's word, 
 I now, if your Highnesse shew me reasons why 
 You rather should or doe hope to enjoy 
 Her love than I, I'le not alone sit downe 
 To you, but doe the best lies in my power 
 32
 
 To helpe you in effecting your desires, 
 Alwayes provided you doe nothing say 
 But truth entire, and thereto take an oath. 
 
 Phil. Most willingly, and to this oath we will 
 Insert a clause of secrecy, that what 
 Soe're it be, is, or by you or me 
 Made known, shall by the other passe no further. 
 But rest with him, as if it were untold. 
 
 Bell. Then heere, upon these hilts, I swear by all 
 That sacred is, by all that is divine, 
 By th' honour of a Gentleman, by all 
 My hopes (and in them may I prosper so 
 As I doe keepe this vow which now I make) 
 By fairest Florabella's eyes, and by 
 Her love (which said. Tie say no more) 
 That if Philocres doe to me make know'n 
 Good reason why he rather should presume 
 On Florabella's love than I ; and doe 
 Therein say nought but what is certaine truth, 
 As I for my part heere doe vow to do, 
 rie cease from ever further seeking to 
 Enjoy her love, and doe my best to helpe 
 Him to his wish't desire ; I further vow 
 By all that formerly is said never 
 To let ought I shall now from him receive 
 Concerning this passe further then my selfe. 
 
 Phil. A better oath I cannot thinke upon. 
 And therefore in the selfe same words doe vow 
 By all that's sacred, all that is divine, 
 By th' honour of a Gentleman, by all 
 
 c 33
 
 My hopes (and in them may I prosper so 
 
 A.S I doe keepe the vow I now doe make) 
 
 By fayrest Florabella's eyes, and by 
 
 Her love (which said, I'le say no more) 
 
 That if that Bellamour to me make know'n 
 
 Good reason why he rather should presume 
 
 On Florabella's love than I, and doe 
 
 Therein say nought but what is certaine truth, 
 
 As I for my part heere doe vow to do, 
 
 rie cease from ever further seeking to 
 
 Enjoy her love, and do my best to helpe 
 
 Him to his wish't desire. I further vow 
 
 By all that formerly is said, never 
 
 To let ought I shall now from him receive 
 
 Concerning this, passe further then my selfe. 
 
 Bell. To witnesse I beleeve you, and beleeve 
 You'll punctually observe the oath y'have ta'ne, 
 Know what I know will trouble you to know ; 
 Yet be not you thereat with me offended, 
 For Charity (men say) begins at home. 
 Know then, that though I may be justly blam'd 
 For having placed my affection 
 
 So high, (and yet Love's bounds are ever boundlesse) 
 I still have met such correspondency 
 In all my love-affayres as would inflame 
 A heart, less subject to take fire than mine. 
 Nor should I e're have dared to make know'n 
 My passions, but have rather chose to dye 
 And smother out my heate in swep't up ashes, 
 Than suffer them to breathe forth to a flame, 
 34
 
 Had not they met with as great signes of love 
 As prone for birth in my fayre Florabell. 
 This graunted, I have not forborne to use 
 The best meanes lay in me to blow the coale, 
 By whose sole heate my soule receiv'd her being, 
 And have at last brought it to such a height 
 Of heate, not to be quench't but by the like, 
 As she hath freely given her consent 
 To marry me, nay, runne away with me, 
 For not without good reason, she dispayres 
 Ever to get the King her father's liking. 
 To this, (I must confesse) unworthy match, 
 She two days since bestowed on me this chayne. 
 Willing me weare it for her sake, as that 
 She held most dearest, left her by her mother. 
 This and much more of like I could informe, 
 But heere's enough, I doubt not, to put down 
 All you can boast of ; I doe therefore crave 
 The true performance of your vow. 
 
 Phil. Is this 
 
 All you can say ? if more you have, speak on, 
 Or else for ever after hold your peace ; for I 
 Am next to speake, you must no more reply. 
 
 Bell. What more can fall within the heart of man ? 
 Outdoe you this, and take her for your paynes. 
 
 Phil. I aske no more : but see you now put or* 
 As great a patience to heare what I 
 Shall say, and beare it full as patiently 
 As I have done 
 
 Bell. I should be else to blame. 
 
 35
 
 Phil. Then know I knew as much as this before, 
 God knowes full many a time hathe she of this 
 To passe away the time discours't with me, 
 Alledging she did all this, only to 
 Set off our future blessings : to be briefe 
 I know her carnally. 
 
 Bell. Thou ly'est, false slave. 
 
 Phil. Is this the patience you promised ? 
 
 Bell. 'Tis past all patience to heare her fame 
 Set as a pattern to all women else 
 Thus blister'd by thy base, false, venemous tongue. 
 
 Phil. Hold, you by this see I dare fight, and in 
 
 {They fight. 
 A cause so just as this feare not th' issue. 
 Yet can I not blame you for what you doe. 
 Nor am I thereat angry ; but when this 
 Is made apparent, when as you your selfe 
 Shall see this done, shall see me lye with her, 
 You'll then beleeve it, and perhaps you'll then 
 Repent this violence offer'd to a Prince 
 Who freely hath unbosomed himself 
 After a solemne oath of secrecy. 
 
 Bell. 'Tis false, 'tis more than false ; it cannot be, 
 When I see that, may I ne're after see. 
 
 Phil. Dispense but with your fury for a while, 
 For some few homes, I'le aske no longer time 
 Than this next night, and if I bring you not 
 Where you shall see all I have said made good 
 
 Resume your anger centuply'de and I'le j 
 
 Ingage my honour, more I cannot gage, 
 36
 
 To give you all fayre satisfaction. 
 
 Bell. This very night ? Dispense, my purest saint, 
 My this night's loytering ; I to-morrow will 
 Make ample satisfaction, when he 
 Shall not have face enough to looke on me 
 Who now spues slaunder on thy spotlesse fame. 
 
 Phil. All this I heare, and once more vow to meete 
 You heere to morrow 'bout seven in the morne, •^ 
 
 Where you may take your due revenge if I 
 Not this night shew you all that I have said. 
 
 Bell. Shall I then sheathe my sword ? I must, I must, 
 Or in not doing it prove too unjust. 
 Sir, I accept your offer, which you'd best 
 Make good (yet were you better damn'd than doe't) 
 Or rie make you serve for a president 
 To all backbiters, fowle-mouthed slaunderers. 
 
 Phil. 'Tis a hard choise, be damn'd or done to death ; 
 You see S' I am merry ; 'tis my cause, 
 The justnesse of my cause that causes it. 
 Meete me this night 'twixt one a clocke and two, 
 O' th' water banke on which her chamber looketh. 
 Place your selfe there where you may see unseene 
 Behinde a tree just 'gainst her chamber window. 
 Whate're you there shall see, beare patiently. 
 And call to mind your vowe made solemnly. 
 Nought to reveale that or you heare or see. 
 
 Bell. My vow I will not fayle t' observe, for if 
 (As 'tis impossible) it should prove true 
 I'll ne're more see, nor heare, nor her, nor you. (Exeunt. 
 
 37
 
 Actus Secundus. Scena Tertia. 
 Florabella sola, 
 
 Flo. I am resolv'd, and doubtlesse well resolv'd, 
 Better's a meaner life joyn'd with content 
 Than scepters wayted on with thorny cares, 
 For if well welgh'd, this worldly wealth and honour 
 Are burdensome ; who abounds in wealth 
 His part thereof is least ; he's thereby more possest 
 Than he doeth it possess : greatest tytles 
 As King or Queene are not true happinesse, 
 But rather fetters unto liberty. 
 The meaner subjects with more freedome doej 
 Their harmlesse sport enjoy than soveraignes. 
 But I much wonder Bellamour so long 
 Absents himselfe from me, he is not wont 
 To be so long away. 
 
 Enter Lucina. 
 
 Luc. What ! all alone 
 
 Fayre Lady? What's the businesse now in hand 
 That brookes no company ? may I partake 
 Of ought that troubles you ? 
 
 Flo. I thank my fates 
 
 There's nothing troubles me, my deare Lucina. 
 The calmnesse of the Evening tempted me 
 Missing of you to take the ayre alone. 
 But now I'm glad w'are met : what drew you hither ? 
 
 Luc. My service to seeke out your Ladyship. 
 You did not see the Prince of late Philocres ? 
 
 Flo. Nor care if I ever see him : pray leave 
 38
 
 Further discourse of him, or I'le leave you. 
 
 Luc. Nay Madame, rather than give you offense 
 In any thing I say, take heere my hand, 
 rie never ope my mouth concerning him. 
 
 Flo. On these tearmes none more wellcome than yourself e. 
 
 Luc. Say then, what shall we talke on ? shall's discourse 
 Of love in genera 11 ? 
 
 Flo. I know not what 
 
 Love meanes. If you make Love your theame 
 You must talke all yourselfe. 
 
 Luc. A Lady past 
 
 Fifteen and know not what belongs to Love ! 
 'Twere strange if true. 
 
 Flo. 'Tis not so strange as true. 
 
 Luc. Pardon me, Madame, 'tis against my Creede, 
 And as a w^oman I must not believe it. 
 
 Flo. Whom do you love, Lucina ? 
 
 Luc. Nay, that's more 
 
 Than I am bound to tell ; but that I love 
 I doe not blush to say, for 'tis most true. 
 Once e're we dye Cupid will shew his power, 
 And since 'tis so decreed, 'tis better we 
 Give way to him whilst yong than when w'are old ; 
 I have heard it said and do believe it true, 
 That there's no payne so great as when with dart 
 Cupid doeth pricke the aged doting heart. 
 Since then or first or last we must give way 
 To his all-swaying scepter, 'tis best betimes 
 "When w'are fit fewell for his fire ; but loe 
 Philocres comes. 
 
 39
 
 Flo. And as he comes I goe. [Exit Florabella. 
 
 Enter Philocres. 
 
 Phil. What, all alone my deare ? who was't, with whom 
 You now were talking, and hath left you thus 
 Unmannerly alone ? 
 
 Luc. Your quondam Saint, 
 
 The Princess Florabella. 
 
 Phil. O, was't shee ? 
 
 She needed not have made such haste away, 
 1 shall not her pursue when as you stay, 
 So let her goe, 'tis you I come to seeke. 
 
 Luc. Now you have found me what's the newes ? 
 
 Phil. Loe heere 
 
 The thing I told you of, take this, 
 And fayle not your appointed time, you know 
 How^ to behave your selfe, w^hat's to be done. 
 
 Luc. Let me alone, to such an enterprise 
 As this I neede no spurres. 
 
 Phil. Well then begone 
 
 Yet ere you goe, know I'll come in disguise, 
 Least in mine own shape men might eye me more. 
 And dogge me as I goe, 
 
 Luc. I understand : 
 
 You'll keepe your watchword ? 
 
 Phil. Yes. 
 
 Luc. And rie keepe mine. 
 
 But say, doe lovers use to part thus calmely 
 Without a kisse or two ? 
 
 Phil. 'Twas but forgot. 
 
 40
 
 This kisse will serve my love to feed upon 
 Till it meet soone with more delicious fare. 
 
 Actus Secundus. Scena Quarta. 
 Three Men, three Women. 
 
 1. Man. Hark y' Sirras, I have been with my neighbour the 
 woman you wot of, that fell to my share yesterday, where I 
 have seen a very pearle of womenkind, of countrey lasses I 
 meane. 
 
 2. Man. Who was't you saw ? her daughter she talk't of ? 
 I. Man. Who else? she hath a lippe man, melts in your 
 
 mouth like so much suger or honey when you kisse her. 
 
 3. Man. Why then you have tasted her lips. 
 
 I. Man. I, and may live to taste her hips too, but no more 
 of that till time serve : Mumme and catch a mouse, I love not 
 these prating companions ; they talke of twenty they never 
 durst so much as dreame of, when your slye fellow talkes of 
 none, and yet does more than dreame with twenty. 
 
 3. Man. Methinks a pretty dreame though doeth sometimes 
 not amisse, but let that passe ; hath she made you a promise ? 
 hath she given you a Rendezvous ? a place where ? a time 
 when ? 
 
 I. Man. Not too fast deare dapper Dicky, for feare of 
 stumbling, she hath promis'd me to meete me much about 
 this houre in this very place, and to bring two of her neigh- 
 bours along with her, and a Tabor and Pipe, to give me 
 and any two I shall bring with me a meeting where we may 
 
 41
 
 trip It for an hour or two, and afterwards as time shall trye, 
 and occasion rest contented. 
 
 3. Man. Shall I be one, deare Hodge ? 
 
 2. Man. And I, my lad of gold ? 
 
 1. Man. To what end brought I you hither else ? hearke, 
 I thinke I heare them coming : see whether she be not a wench 
 of her word or no. 
 
 2. Man. Is that first she ? 
 
 1. Man. I marry is't. 
 
 2. Man. I like the second as well. 
 
 3. Man. And I the third. 
 
 I. Man. Why then we are likely all to be pleas'd. 
 
 1. Worn. You see. Sir, I'm a woman of my word, I love to 
 say and hold, to doe as I would be done by. 
 
 3. Man. Marry, he that would doe by you, as you would 
 be done by, may have his belly full of doing, I warrant him. 
 But what say you, pretty mayde. 
 
 3. Worn. I'm come along with my neighbour heere, as you 
 see, she said she would bring us, where we should see fine 
 Courtnols. 
 
 2. Worn. I can daunce with them too ; are you they, I pray 
 you ? If you be, we have brought a very feat Tabourer along 
 with us. 
 
 2. Man. That you may know, pretty mayde, that we be 
 the men you looke for, command your Tabourer to strike up, 
 and we two to any two of them. 
 
 3. Worn. Nay, we'll all daunce, that's sure, we'll none sit by 
 for looker's on. 
 
 3. Man. Then let me take you by the hand, whil'st the 
 other two make the last couple in hell. 
 42
 
 I. Man. What daunce shall's have ? An old man's a 
 bagge full of bones ? 
 
 I. Worn, I never lov'd to have to doe with old men's bones. 
 Play me The souldier's delight. 
 
 1. Man. Why then, you must play your selfe pretty one, 
 for to my knowledge who have beene a souldier, their delight 
 lyes most in such as you are. 
 
 2. Worn. Nay, that's as old as the beginning of the world, 
 or Tarlton's Trunk-hose. Let's have Rose is red, and rose is 
 white, and rose is wonderous bonny. 
 
 2. Man. For a wager your name is Rose, Is it not ? 
 2. Wont. It is indeede Sir. 
 
 2. Man. Why then, let us have it. 
 
 3. Wont. Nay, by your leave Sir, why rather that than 
 Peggy Ramsey for my sake, or Joane's ale's new, for my other 
 neighbour heere, whose name is Joane. 
 
 2. Wont. Then to end the strife, least we fall out before we 
 fall in, let's have the new Daunce made at our last wake. 
 All. A match, a match. 
 
 (The musicke playes, and they daunce^ which done they 
 goe away in couples. 
 
 Actus Secundus. Scena Quinta. 
 
 Philocres, Bellamovu-. 
 
 Phil. 'Tis now friend Bellamour that you must trye 
 Your manhood, valour does consist no lesse 
 In suffering than doing ; then put on 
 
 43
 
 Your stoutest noblest resolutions, 
 For I shall put you to *t. 
 
 Bell. Sir you may spare 
 
 Your counsell ; busy yourself about 
 The making good your word, and be advis'd 
 In what you take in hand. Love hath sharpe eyes, 
 And is not easily deluded ; you 
 Perhaps doe hope to put some tricke upon me, 
 But if you do, (for I shall soone perceive it) 
 Thinke not to 'scape my hands. 
 
 Phil. I crave no mercy. 
 
 See, heere's the place where you must stand, to see 
 What will to you be poyson, baulme to me. {Exit. 
 
 Bell. He's very confident, and did I thinke 
 He could effect that which he boasteth of, 
 I would not live to see the triall made. 
 But who knowes ? he perhaps may have some plot 
 Upon my life, and by some treachery 
 May meane to kill me, now that he hath draw'en 
 Me out alone at this so late an houre. 
 'Twas well imagin'd, sure it must be so. 
 But rie prevent him ; Mines must be blovv'ne up 
 With countermines ; and see where luckily 
 
 (Enter Garamont with a closed lantern.) 
 
 Comes Garamont, the man of all the world 
 I should have chosen in a case of neede. 
 He's stoute and valiant, trusty to his friend, 
 And I for such a one have ever found him. 
 rie trye his friendship now, and if I winne 
 44
 
 Him to my side, I feare not though the Prince 
 Bring twenty with him ; better are two true men 
 Than twenty knaves ; their oddes i* th' cause 
 Is greater than the other's in their number. 
 Whether so late, Lord Garamont ? 
 
 Gar. Who's that ? 
 
 BelL 'Tis I Sir. 
 
 Gar. You, Sir, who are you ? some knave 
 
 Lying in wayte for cloake or hattes ? 
 
 Bell. Nay Sir 
 
 When you shall know who 'tis you injure thus 
 You'll sorry be ; know you not Bellamour ? 
 
 Gar. I crave your pardon Sir. 
 
 Bell. There's no harme done, 
 
 But faith, say whether, at this time of night ? 
 Some Mistrisse heere about, some dainty wench. 
 Some such affayre, I'le lay my life on't, is't not ? 
 
 Gar. 'Tis hard to halt before a cripple, you 
 By your owne errand guesse at what's another's. 
 
 Bell. Then Sir, let me obtayne a favour from you, 
 A great one too, which must not be deny'de. 
 
 Gar. 'Tis graunted e're demanded ; Tie not fayle 
 To wayte on you to morrow, to receive 
 All your commands. 
 
 Bell. My suite brookes no delay, 
 
 'Tis forthwith to be done. 
 
 Gar. So I shall make 
 
 My mistresse wayte in vayne. 
 
 Bell. I know you doe 
 
 Preferre a pleasure done unto a friend 
 
 45
 
 Before one houre or two spent with your Mistrisse, 
 
 And least whil'st we dispute, I should let slip 
 
 The opportunity wherein I am 
 
 To use your friendship, ask no questions, 
 
 Nor why? nor what? but doe your candle out, 
 
 And stir not from this place, unlesse you heare 
 
 Me call, which if you do, with sword In hand 
 
 Make haste unto me ; this is all I crave, 
 
 And one halfe houre will end the buslnesse. 
 
 Gar. Mistresse, then by your leave ; Sir, I am your's, 
 And for I see the buslnesse is of moment 
 I rest the more indebted, that you'll please 
 To use my service in't ; heere I'le stay. 
 And with implicite faith wayte your Commands. 
 
 Bell. Thankes noble Garamont, but as you prize 
 My friendship, stir not one foot further, till 
 You heare me call. 
 
 Gar. Your will serves for a Law. 
 
 Bell. Then thus, like him who grovells in the Darke 
 I seeke for what I would not find. 'Twas heere 
 He bade me stay, he'll not be long a comming. 
 
 Gar. Nor why ? nor what ? and come with sword In hand ; 
 These words Implye not nothing ; thus far off 
 He may receive some Injury e're I 
 Can get up to him ; pardon Bellamour 
 If I a little doe transgresse. The Gods 
 Doe know my heart ; my meaning is the best. 
 So now I'm neere enough ; heere I may see 
 What passes, and be readyer to helpe 
 If neede requires. I wonder what he meanes. 
 46
 
 Enter Philocres with a cloake muffled about him^ Lucina at 
 the window^ who at the watch-word given throwes downe 
 the rope and he climbes up. 
 
 Phil. So thus far all Is well ; see where he stands, 
 Now if Lucina play her part as well 
 As I have mine, the sequele will applaud 
 Mine industry. I wonder what's a clocke. 
 
 Liic. Sure 'tis Philocres, 'tis nigh two a clocke. 
 
 Bell. Sleep I or do I wake ? Sure 'tis no dreame. 
 The rascall cringes, she fawneth from above, 
 And I looke on ; curst be mine eyes which serve 
 For Conduits to convey so fowle a sight 
 Into my soule : 6 that I had been borne 
 Blinde, or indeed never been borne at all. 
 I should not then have felt such paynes as doe 
 Surpasse the tortures Hell inflicts on those 
 Who false like her, have falsifi'de their faith. 
 Since then there is no payne can equalize 
 My present torments why should I deferre 
 My lesse of paynes, if not my more of blisse ? 
 She who alone did give me life, for whom 
 I onely coveted to live, hath taken 
 My life from me, and gives it to another. 
 Why then should I svurvive ? to suffer payne 
 Unheard of, not to be exprest ; some would 
 Advise revenge, and thereby heape fowle guilt 
 Upon my soule ; but I not covet that. 
 May he enjoy that which she held too great 
 A blisse for me, and since all men must dye 
 
 47
 
 I see no reason why so should not I. 
 
 (He offers to kill himself. 
 
 Gar. For shame Sir, hold your hand, what doe you meane? 
 Is this the bravery of your mind ; are you 
 Not able to withstand fortune's first rubbe ? 
 This action would blurre all your former deedes, 
 And sullye your so fairely wonne renown. 
 
 Bell. Insatiate death ! what pleasure doest thou take 
 In still reserving me to misery ? 
 
 Thou like the Huntsman those poore soules pursu'est 
 Which flye from thee, but doest not pleasure take 
 In seising those that offer up themselves. 
 And you S' who thus hinder me from what 
 I gladlier would embrace than schoole-boyes doe 
 A play-day graunted, know if you had scene 
 What I have scene, and knew what I doe know 
 You'd be more mercifull. 
 
 Gar. Sir I have scene 
 
 All you have scene, and know all you do know 
 And begge your pardon for that I doe so. 
 My soule propheticke whisper'd rac i'th'eare, 
 Bade me the station leave you left me in, 
 And neerer draw lest mischiefe might ensue. 
 Since then thus dictated by my good Genius, 
 I hope your pardon eas'ly will be graunted ; 
 Take better resolution then deare Sir. 
 If you should thus put end unto your selfe 
 Your death would publish forth your guilt, whereas 
 If you survive there's wayes enough yet left 
 To remedye or to revenge your griefes. 
 48 
 
 i
 
 Bell. All remedy is vaine. As for revenge 
 I ayme not at it, why should I hate him 
 Who coveted what I myself did covet ? 
 I rather his integrity applaude 
 Who dealt so freely with me ; so to free 
 Me from those rockes on which my boate was bent. 
 Why should I hate him more than he hate me ? 
 His passions are the same as mine, his fire 
 Equally fervent, onely heere's the oddes. 
 Mine doeth derive from Hell, his from the Gods, 
 For so the sequell shows ; yet justly I 
 May playne of fals-hood in my Florabell. 
 To what end serv'd those hopes plenteously 
 She pamper'd me withall ? yes, to set off 
 Her joyes with greater gust ; but truth to say 
 'Twas Tyranny xinheard of, first to cause 
 The flame blaze high, then thus to blow it out. 
 But she's a woman : henceforth may he finde 
 Like griefe to mine, that e're loves woman-kinde. 
 
 Gar. Hate whom you will so as you love your selfe. 
 Put up your sword and cease these whining moanes. 
 Joyne you with me, or let me joyne with you. 
 And we, for all your grave Philosophy, 
 Will worke revenge ; say what you will or can. 
 Nought but revenge sounds sweet in injured eares. 
 And whosoever 't be hath done this deede 
 My skill shall fayle, or we'll make his heart bleede. 
 
 Bell. Sir, thus farre to obey you. (He puts up his sword. 
 
 Gar. So 'tis well. 
 
 Plucke up your heart man, I'le teach Florabell 
 
 D 49
 
 What 'tis to violate a plighted faith. 
 
 Bell. Sir, as you would preserve what you have done, 
 As you would favour winne of God or man, 
 As you desire fruition where you love. 
 As you love me, love goodnesse, love your selfe, 
 Forget what you have seen or heard, and let 
 No creature know what none but you know yet. 
 There nothing now remaynes to adde unto 
 My tortur'd soule, fresh pangs, save onely that 
 The fact made knowen, she may incurre displeasure ; 
 For had I million of lives I'de chuse 
 To loose them one by one rather than have 
 Her finger ake, or she receive a checke. 
 Therefore once more I you conjure by all 
 Your hopes of blisse you let not one word scape 
 Your mouth whereby her honour may be stayn'd. 
 
 Gar. Well, Tie obey you, but then take you heede 
 To use no further violence on your selfe, 
 For if that Ague-fit returne againe 
 I shall not hold ; murder beleeve't will out. 
 
 Bell. You could not, possibly have found a spell 
 Of equall power with this ; for this time Sir 
 You shall prevayle, but what will follow on't 
 *Tis hard to say, I'm sure my selfe not know. 
 And so Sir, fare you well. 
 
 Gar. Nay by your leave 
 
 I will not quit you, till in better tune. 
 It is not fit so great a melancholly 
 Be left alone, for feare of future folly. 
 
 Finis Acti Secundi. 
 50
 
 Actus Tertius. Scena Prima. 
 The King, Phllocres, Lords with Attendants. 
 
 King. In faith Prince you have mist the bravest sport 
 Perhaps you ever saw. What say you, Lords ? 
 Flew not the Hawkes all well ? all passing well ? 
 Besides the evening was so calme, the game 
 So plentiful, that in good sooth my Lord 
 I'm sorry you did misse your share thereof. 
 
 Gar. 'Twas pastime fitted for a King, and he 
 Who fayrely by your Majesty invited 
 Forbeare to come did not deserve the sight. 
 
 Phil. Sir, first, I humbly begge your Highnesse 
 pardon, 
 Then yours, my Lords. The knave my man, who went 
 To fetch my horse, loytred so long till I 
 Thought it had beene too late to overtake you. 
 Besides there past some serious discourse 
 'Twixt me and Bellamour, in which some houres 
 E're we were well aware on't, slip't away. 
 
 King. 'Twas well remembered ; I doe wonder much 
 I saw not Bellamour all yesternight 
 Nor yet to day, he is not us'd t'absent 
 Himselfe so long away from me ; to whom 
 He knowes his company is always wellcome. 
 Saw you him lately. Lords ? Lord Garamont 
 You are most inward with him ; what's the cause 
 He hath not yet to day appear'd in Court ? 
 
 Gar. Late yesternight so please your Majesty 
 I saw him, not since then, and then he was 
 
 51
 
 The saddest man, the most disconsolate 
 I ever saw. 
 
 King. Sad and disconsolate ! 
 
 Ha ! what's the matter ? hide it not from me, 
 For by my life I so much love his worth. 
 As I should grieve to see him sad, and if 
 It lyes within my pow're to helpe him, what 
 Soever be the cause of this his griefe, 
 I'ngage mine honour I will see't remoov'd, 
 And him restor'd unto his former health 
 Of minde. Therefore if you do know the cause 
 Speake it in his behalf, that so our Grace 
 May come upon him unexpected. 
 
 Gar. Sir, 
 
 I could not learne the cause, do what I could. 
 (Aside) (Pardon me, conscience, if I tell a lye) 
 But with perswasions and meanes I us'd 
 I left him much more quiet than before. 
 
 King. I'le know it whatsoe'er it be : I know 
 He'll not conceale't from me : who waytes without ? 
 
 Enter Groome. 
 Sirra, you, goe finde out Bellamour his lodging straight. 
 Tell him we greet him well, and much desire ' 
 
 His Company, and if he be not busy 
 Bring him along with you, make haste. 
 
 Groome. I'm gone. 
 
 Phil, (aside) I thought 'twoullle a bitter pille to swallow 
 
 King. What's that you say, my Lord ? 
 Phil. I say perhaps 
 
 H' as swallowed down some pilles to worke away 
 52
 
 His melanchoUy humour. 
 
 King. I'm resolv'd 
 
 If he be not in case to come to me 
 rie goe to him, for I do sit on thornes 
 'Till I doe know what 'tis that troubles him, 
 And when I know't, then I shall be as much 
 Perplex't till I have eas'd him of his griefe : 
 But see the Messenger's return'd, what newes my friend ? 
 How fares our Bellamour ? 
 
 Groome. I know not Sir. 
 
 King. How's that ? you know not Sir, wherefore I pray 
 Were you sent to him ? 
 
 Groome. Sir, he's not within, 
 
 Nor hath not been in's chamber since the clocke 
 Strucke five. 
 
 King. Who told thee so, thou nightcrow ? say. 
 
 Groome. His man, so't please my Liege. 
 
 King. What said he more ? 
 
 How did he rest last night ? 
 
 Groome. Sir, I did aske 
 
 His man who waytes upon him in his chamber, 
 What was the cause of his so earely rising ? 
 His man reply'de he did not rise at all, 
 For he who did not goe to bed 
 Cannot be said to rise. 
 
 King. How witty all 
 
 These Rascalls are in tort'ring with delayes ; 
 Why went he not to bed ? My soul prophetique 
 Foretells some dire event ; I am afraid 
 To aske, for feare of hearing some ill newes. 
 
 53
 
 Groome. AH I could learne, Sir, was that he came in 
 Much later than of usuall, last night, 
 Was very sad, and overheard to say 
 That he would not outlive th' ensuing day, 
 That after having oft'times measur'd out 
 His chambers length with walking o're and o're 
 With armes acrosse and eyes fixt on the ground. 
 As soone as 'twas broad day he left the roome, 
 And follow'd by his man, he beat him backe, 
 Threatning to kill him, if he straight-way not 
 Went to his chamber ; charging him to stay 
 'Till he return'd, w^hich might be should be never. 
 His man though did pursue him w^ith his eye 
 Untill he saw him out o* th' gate, which leades 
 To the Sea-side. Now Sir, you have the whole. 
 
 King. And in that whole much more than I desire. 
 Lords, hasten after him, pursue with speede, 
 Take every one a severall way, and he 
 Whose lucke it is to bring him backe to me, 
 Shall from my 'Chequer for a boone receive 
 Tenne thousand Duckets, for if he be lost 
 The cause not know'en, never was king so crost. (Exit. 
 
 Gar. Nay feare not but the cause shall soone be know'en ; 
 If ought of ill betide him what a foole 
 Was I so soone to leave him, yet I had 
 His honour plighted hee'd appease himselfe 
 Before I left him, but what will you more? 
 No salve is to be found for such a sore. (Exit, 
 
 54
 
 Actus Tertius. Scena Secunda. 
 
 Florabella sola. 
 
 Flo. Pray heavens my troubled thoughts forbode no III, 
 There's somewhat heere within that pantes and beates 
 And will not suffer me to be in quiet, 
 But I will strive to pacifie my selfe 
 For if I give this humour too much reynes 
 I feele 'twill grow upon me : 'twas a dreame 
 And may it vanish like a dreame, for they 
 Are rather semblances of hopes or feares 
 Caus'd by the daye's preceding fantasies 
 Than signes of truth in ought that is to come ; 
 And yet the soule sleepes not, though senses sleepe 
 But rather may be term'd to be the more 
 Awake, by how much it less troubled is 
 By the false formes of sense which then doe sleep. 
 Besides, there sure was somewhat more in it 
 Than dreame ; me thinkes I yet see Bellamour 
 When as the other threw his cloake about 
 His eyes, and having hoodwinck't him, to which 
 He freely did give way, (for had I dream 'd 
 T'had beene by force, I had sworne t'had been a lye. 
 And not have credited ought else therein.) 
 Me thought he then pluck't out his heart and cring'd, 
 And scrap'd to it, kist it, and hug'd it close, 
 At this me thought, my Bellamour did see 
 Though hoodwinck't, and although his heart was taken 
 From forth his breast and courted by another, 
 Yet he look't on till suddenly he fell, 
 
 55
 
 And with the fright to see him fall, I wak't, 
 And found my selfe all in a clammy SAveat, 
 Shaking as does the Sea when calmely blow'en on. 
 It addes unto my feares that he hath not 
 As yet to day perform'd his usuall visit, 
 He had not wont to be so long away. 
 
 Enter Lucina. 
 
 Luc. What Madame ? talking to your selfe alone ? 
 May I be happy to partake thereof? 
 
 Flo. Lucina, heard you me not talke last night ? 
 Talke in my sleep I meane. 
 
 Liic. No truely Madame, 
 
 (aside) I' dip other fish to frye. 
 
 Flo. I had a dreame ; 
 
 The strangest one er'e heard on. 
 
 Luc. (aside) I, a vision. 
 
 For sure 'twas more than dreame ; there was in mine 
 Realityes, and those so rarely pleasing 
 As if it were or dreame or vision, 
 I would have wish't t'have dream'd out all my life. 
 
 Flo. It seemes your senses all were busied. 
 Or you must needes have felt me shake. 
 
 Luc. She might 
 
 Have gi'n't the other word and not have lyed. 
 Why shake, deare Madame ? was your dreame so harsh ? 
 So full of terrour ? may I know what 'twas ? 
 
 Flo. Alas ! I have forgot it ; more than that 
 I'm sure 'twas ghastly, full of horror, such 
 As yet I cannot blot out of my minde. 
 56
 
 Luc. The worse the better ; dreames are always read 
 Like Hebrew backwards ; good if they be bad 
 Is to be hoped for ; bad, if they be good. 
 Therefore pluck up your spirits, what ? cast downe 
 For drowsy sleepy f ancyes ? see, here comes 
 Your women, they missing of you within 
 
 Enter two Women. 
 
 Are come to seeke you ; how say you pretty ones 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 Fiducia. Yes Madame, we were told 
 Her Grace was walk't forth this way, so we made 
 What haste we could to follow after her. 
 
 Luc. 'Twas done like careful wenches, now y'are come 
 See what you can invent to cheere your Lady. 
 She's wondrous sad, tell her some merry tales. 
 
 Nigretta. There's some of us perhaps have greater cause 
 To be chear'd up our selves than she. Promise and fayle ! 
 Make me sit up all night ! Expect in vayne ! 
 But if I not revenge my selfe — 
 
 Flo, Who was't ? 
 
 What promis'd ? wherein did he fayle ? 
 
 Nig. My Taylor Madame promised to take 
 Measure last night of me for a new gowne 
 Which I must weare on Sunday, and the knave 
 Made me sit up all night, yet never came, 
 So as to boote with losse of expectation 
 I shall not have my gowne made tyme enough 
 For me to weare, and wayte on j'^ou to Church. 
 
 Flo. 'Twas not a mourning gowne he was to make ? 
 
 57
 
 Nig. A mourning gown ? marry the Lord forbid ! 
 'Tis a Carnation sattin gowne, cutt upon white 
 Lay'd o're with silver lace. But Madame, pray 
 What meanes your Grace to talke of mourning gownes ? 
 
 Flo. Perhaps you may have neede of such a one 
 E're then, to wayte on me unto my grave, 
 For sure I have not long to live ; I feele 
 A sad benumming chilnesse seize my soule 
 Which does prognosticate my end to be 
 Neerer than you imagine. 
 
 Fid. Heavens forbid ! 
 
 I never saw her Grace in such a moode, 
 She's wondrous pale ; Madame how does your Grace ? 
 You looke as if you were not well ; perhaps 
 This ayre's too cold ; please it your Grace goe in ? 
 
 Nig. Madame, deare Madame, cast not down your selfe 
 With sad imaginations ; what can't be 
 That troubles you ? make us partakers of it ; 
 You know not what unthought of remedyes 
 Lyes sometimes hidden in a woman's breast. 
 
 Luc. What ? not a word ? deare Lady speake some comfort, 
 'Tis more than strange a dreame should cause all this. 
 
 Flo. What would you have me say ? I am posses't 
 With such a sudden seizure of my spirits 
 As that I hardly able am to speake. 
 There's sure some strange thing towards of disaster, 
 Pray let's goe in, and there obey the fates. 
 
 Fid. Hold her by th* other hand Nigretta : she 
 Needes all our helpes : 'would she were well in bed. 
 The like to this I never heard nor read. 
 58
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Nig. What saucy fellowe's this? do you not see 
 The Princesse ? that you passe so rudely by 
 Without respect jostling her as you goe. 
 
 Mess. The Princesse ? Is this then Florabella 
 Princesse of Corsica ? 
 
 Nig. Yes marry is't, 
 
 What foole are you that do not know the Princesse ? 
 
 Mess. 'Tis her I came to seeke. 
 
 Fid. Sir if you have 
 
 Any affayres with her y'had best forbeare 
 The making of them know'en till she be better, 
 You see she's not in case to give you hearing. 
 
 Mess. I must be heard and will ; I doe not come 
 To sue for any thing but to performe 
 The last commands of one that's lately dead. 
 
 Flo. Ha ! what's that ? dead ! stand off, my spirits now 
 Returne, enabling me to undergoe 
 The shocke of what bad newes soe're he brings, 
 Speake on my friend, for I will give you hearing. 
 You spoke of one was dead, say, did you not ? 
 
 Mess. Madame I did, and (with your patience) 
 Must speake it o're again, 'tis the last will 
 And Testament made by a dying man 
 And I th' executor who must see't fulfilled. 
 
 Flo. Discharge yovur selfe of that your trust at large 
 Forget not the least circumstance, be sure 
 You doe it faithfully ; nought can be worse 
 Than to deceive the trust o' th' dead. 
 
 59
 
 Luc. Who e're 
 
 Saw such strange sudden contrarietyes ? 
 She who but now scarce able was to goe 
 Seemes now more vigorous than ever before 
 I have know'en her be, there's some strange businesse in't. 
 
 Mess. Then Madame to obey both him and you. 
 As 1 this morning early on my way 
 Was this wayes travelling, I saw a man 
 Standing o'th* top of a high craggy cliffe 
 Which overhangs the Sea : this man saw me, 
 For overthwart the rocke my way did lie, 
 He beck'ned first, then louder cry'd unto me, 
 As I did ever hope for courtesie 
 In time of neede, that I to him would now 
 Afford my Companie for some small time, 
 This he redoubled often, insomuch 
 As though my businesse did require some haste 
 I therewith did dispense and went to him. 
 When 1 was got to th' top I might perceive 
 In his pale face death ghastly pourtray'd forth. 
 I hastened my pace : being come nigh 
 He drew his sword, pointed it towards me, 
 Charg'd me to come no nearer, least I would 
 Meete by the way with death ; this said, he put 
 This chayne on his sword point. 
 
 Flo. Ay me ! Ay me ! 
 
 Mess. Tos't it from thence to me, gave me in charge 
 To finde out Princesse Florabella, her 
 Whose love he had preferr'd before his life, 
 He bade me give it her from one whom she 
 60
 
 Sometimes was pleas'd to terme her Bellamour, 
 
 And tell her that the having scene too much, 
 
 (Thrice happy he if he had never seene) 
 
 Caus'd him to this ; this said he threw himselfe 
 
 Backward into the Sea, where I him saw 
 
 Plung'd under water. (The Princesse sinkes downe. 
 
 Fid. Helpe, helpe, she is gone. 
 
 And we for ever miserable. 
 
 JVi^. Rubbe 
 
 Her temples, pulle her by the nose. Alas ! 
 Goe fetch some water, bow her body forwards ; 
 What shall we doe ? would thou hadst been borne dumb 
 Thou scritch owle. (She reviveth. 
 
 Fid. Rubbe hard, she comes againe, Madame, deare 
 Madame, 
 Speake and speake comfort. 
 
 Flo. How can you expect 
 
 Comfort from her to whom yourselves do use 
 Such Tyranny as to recall a life 
 
 Tenne times more bitter than tenne thousand deaths. 
 If ever you do covet true content 
 And hope to crowne your wishes with fruition. 
 Be merciful and suffer me to dye : 
 I do conjure you in your Mistrisse name, 
 Her whom you ought t'obey ; shew but in this 
 Your due obedience, and for evermore 
 In all things after freely I acquit you. 
 
 Nig. When she is dead, she'll seeke no further service, 
 There's yet some end prefix't to servitude ; 
 But oh ! she's gone againe ; Fiducia your hand, 
 
 61
 
 Lady Lucina yours, let's carry her 
 
 Into her lodging, put her in her bed, 
 
 This ayre's too piercing ; friend to make amends 
 
 For what y* have done amisse, haste to the Court, 
 
 Tell the first gentleman you meete, how that 
 
 The Princesse Florabell is fallen sicke. 
 
 And with him send the Doctours to her chamber. 
 
 Mess. Lady, I will, and truely I am sad 
 To see my message have successe so bad. 
 
 Actus Tertius. Scena Tertia. 
 Garamont, Arnaldo, Montalto, 
 
 Gar. I have sought East as far as Land permits, 
 Inquired in every place, and yet can heare 
 No tidings of him. 
 
 Am. Well met Garamont, 
 
 Heare you yet any newes of Bellamour ? 
 
 Gar. Not I, doe you know any ? 
 
 Am. Faith nor I, 
 
 Yet I have sought him Westward to the mountaines, 
 Here comes two more, perhaps they may \ 
 
 Have met with him. Montalto, is it you 
 Have wonne the boone ? the King's tenne thousand crownes. 'i 
 
 Mon. No by this hand, not I, yet I have sought 
 As one would seeke a needle 'mongst the rushes. i 
 
 1 dare not see the King till he be found. j 
 
 Gar. None of us heare of him, sure he is sunke. i 
 
 But heere comes one, I'le goe inquire of him. 
 Sir- 
 da
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess, Sir, by your leave, 'tis I must first be heard, 
 My errand is of greater consequence. 
 Are any of you Courtiers ? 
 
 Gar. Yes all. 
 
 Mess. Then haste and send Physitians to the Princesse, 
 She is gone sicke to bed. 
 
 Am, Gone sicke to bed ! 
 
 What is the cause and how came you to know it ? 
 
 Mess. To answer why, and what and how, I knew it 
 Will be but to repeate that o're againe 
 Which I could wish had beene as yet conceal'd, 
 Besides the repetition may prolong 
 The Princesse succours ; therefore pray make haste 
 To send the speediest helpe ; soone enough 
 You all may heare what you'll be sorry for. (Exit. 
 
 Gar. What meanes this bird of midnight ? heaven forbid 
 My feares prove true. 
 
 Am. Nay I will after too, 
 
 I know nor what to hope nor feare. 
 
 Mon. E're long 
 
 Whate're it be will publickely be know'en, 
 If good, then soone enough, if bad too soone. (Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Serving Men. 
 
 I. Man. What can the matter be my maisters ? I n'ere saw 
 a house turn'd topsy turvy so on the sudden ; nothing yester- 
 day but tilting and revelling, nothing to day but finger in the 
 eye and lamentable complayning. 
 
 63
 
 2. Man. Why man, they say my yong mistresse, the Lady 
 Florabella, is not well, and can you then blame all the young 
 gallants to hang their heads ? Nay, they say the good old 
 King too in sufficiently unsensified. 
 
 3. Man. The King out of his wits ! the King mad ! beare 
 witnesse fellow Roger, if this be not downeright treason, I 
 know not what's what. 
 
 2. Man. Why goodman Jobernoll, you'll give me leave to 
 misinterpret my selfe. I mean insenst, and that's a word 
 surpasses your understanding, I wis. 
 
 3. Man. Nay, if you speake what I understand not I crave 
 your mercy. Sir, I am sure then I am not guilty of any fault, 
 if any such be therein. 
 
 1. Man. For what concerns faults doubtlesly there are 
 enough in us all, therefore never fall out concerning that. I 
 am sure, though some vertue went from me last night, 'twas 
 no vertuous act my neighbour's daughter and I were 
 employed in ; she appointed another meeting e're long, but 
 if matters mend not, our daunce by my good will shall be to 
 the tune of Lachrimy, though played on the baggepipe, as 
 well that we may follow the fashion in dauncingto a lament- 
 able tune as also that we may shew some compunction for our 
 late misdemeanour. 
 
 3. Man. Nay, soft, fellow Roger, by your leave. Tie taste 
 the sweet, as belike you have done, before I trye the sowre ; 
 sweet meate they say, indeede must have sowre sauce. But 
 marke, I pray, the sweet goes before the sowre, the meate 
 before the sauce, not I, I thanke you, I have yet onely had 
 faire promises, and promise is no performance. 
 
 2. Man. I would I could but performe as fairely as my lasse 
 64
 
 fairely promised too, and I would not thinke to be behlnde 
 hand with the best of you, but alas ! alas ! 
 
 3. Man. God sends a curst cow short homes, you would 
 say, would you not ? 
 
 2. Man. Faith much thereabouts, but they say he's an 
 errant Jade, that can neither wihye nor wagge his tayle, 
 therefore Tie not fayle to meete my mayde Mary on at the 
 great oake at the time appointed. 
 
 3. Man. The great oake, marry that is the place my minion 
 appointed to meete me at. 
 
 I. Man. The time? (they whisper), good lassies, in faith 
 all's made of the same metall, how^ t^iey jumpe together in 
 their appointments, hearke you Sirras, and you say the word, 
 let us practise the Catch we learn'd the other day, that we 
 may be ready in it when we meete with our Myrmidonians, and 
 then catch who catch may. (They sing a Catch. 
 
 Actus Tertius. Scena Quakta. 
 Garamont, Montalto. 
 
 Gar. Nay, seeke not to disswade me, you as soone 
 May with your fingers bend the aged oake, 
 Coole Autumn with your breath, or therewithall 
 Enforce the winde back to its hollow cave, 
 As change in me my resolution. 
 
 Mon. But yet a little patience : doe you heare 
 How she takes on ? how she doeth tear her hayre, 
 Wring hands, denye her selfe all nourishment ? 
 
 £ 65
 
 Save what as drinke she in her teares receives. 
 Thinke you if she were guilty, or had not 
 As dearely loved Bellamour as he 
 Doted on her, she could dissemble thvis ? 
 
 Gar. Bugge-beares to cozzen boyes withall ; to me 
 All this you say makes her appeare more blacke, 
 More fowly guilty ; is there any thing 
 Can bite like to the sting of conscience ? 
 And 'tis my comfort in my friend's behalfe, 
 My dead, my too much injur'd friend's behalfe, 
 To see her so tormented. 
 
 Enter to them King, Arnaldo, Argales, Philocres, 
 wiLli Attendants. 
 
 King. He was to blame, not for that he aspir'd 
 So high as dare to love my Florabell, 
 But for that 
 
 He did conceale his love, had he made me 
 Acquainted with it, I should or have had 
 Disswaded him, and strove t'appease his flame 
 With wholesome lenitives, or else have given 
 Her freely to him, for a Gentleman 
 So bred and so well parted as was he 
 Is a fit match for any w^oman. 
 
 Phil. Sir, 
 
 The Gods are just and shape their punishments 
 As men demerit ; so have they now quencht 
 Proud Bellamour's too high aspiring flame. 
 
 Arg. Prince, you may thanke the Gods 'tis as it is, 
 He'd pluck a feather else with you e'faith, 
 66
 
 Should he but heare this. 
 
 Am. What meanes Garamont 
 
 To struggle so with Lord Montalto ? 
 
 Gar. Most mighty Sir, since what I have to say 
 Must like a pointed dagger pierce your heart, 
 And yet I needes must say it, 'would 'twere said, 
 And I were straightway in my Coffin layd. 
 
 King. What mighty burden travells he withall ? 
 Out with it, Garamont, you had not wont 
 To be so moov'd with trifles ; I'm prepar'd 
 Be't what it will to give you patient hearing. 
 
 Gar. And you had neede of patience, Sir, to heare it, 
 Were't not my friend, my best friend Bellamour 
 That bids me on, bids me go boldly on, 
 To see his injur'd love, his death reveng'd, 
 I'd sooner bite my tongue out than relate 
 So dismall tydings. Sir, as this will prove, 
 But the name, friend, annulls other respects, 
 How many or how great so'ere they be, 
 Therefore, Sir, take it thus, fayre Florabell 
 Hath murdered Bellamour. 
 
 King. The man sure raves. 
 
 How could she murder him who drown'd himselfe ? 
 
 Gar. rie tell you how Sir ; 'tis not now unknowe'n 
 That Bellamour lov'd Florabell, and I 
 Though perhaps you not know so much, doe know 
 She seem'd to meete his love with equall fire. 
 But her's was counterfeit, celestiall his. 
 Last night unluckily he light on me. 
 And as I guesse feareing some Treachery, 
 
 67
 
 Will'd me to tarry in ^ certaine place 
 Till he should call ; I fearing some mishap 
 Broke his Command and stole up neerer to him, 
 Where many minutes had not past, e're we 
 Might see the Princesse Florabell 
 Appeare on the Balcony, and throw downe 
 A silken ladder, by the which straightway 
 A muffled man climb'd up, and in our sights 
 Did kisse, embrace, enjoy your Florabell. 
 
 King. Be well advis'd e're you for truth aflirme 
 A businesse of this nature ; justly poyse 
 The consequences which thereon depend ; 
 And suffer not your sorrow^ so transport you 
 For your friend's losse, as you may thereby runne 
 Hazzard of life your selfe ; you know^ the Law ; 
 Recant your rash assertion and in grace 
 rie attribute it to transcendent passion. 
 
 Gar. Most mighty Sir, I am not ignorant 
 Of what weight this my accusation is, 
 Nor have I rashly run upon't, before 
 Due consideration had in every point. 
 I first have thought upon the griefe immense 
 It must cause in your Majesty, and then 
 Upon the hatred I shall draw from all 
 Good men and w^omen on my selfe, nor can 
 I blame them for it. I should doe the like 
 To any one were in my case. I know 
 Your daughter's reputation, held for such 
 As had not these eyes scene, and these eares heard 
 What yesternight I did both heare and see, 
 68 
 
 J
 
 And did not as effect thereof ensue 
 
 My dearest friend's untimely end, I should 
 
 Have beene the first would have return'd the lye 
 
 Downe the appearing slaunderer's throate. I know 
 
 The Law likewise ; which doomes to death what mayde 
 
 Soe're she be, that is accus'd t' have lost 
 
 Her honour, forfeited her name 
 
 By knowledge of a man, before 'twixt him 
 
 And her the hymenean rights have past : 
 
 Unlesse some one will undertake her quarrell 
 
 And with his sword in hand e're three dayes passe 
 
 Maintayne th' accused virgin's honour 'gainst 
 
 Th' accuser, which if he doe overcome 
 
 The virgin's set at liberty, and he 
 
 That did accuse her justly undergoes 
 
 What punishment the law would inflict on her ; 
 
 But if the undertaker loose the day 
 
 Whereby 'tis judg'd th' accuser was i' th' right 
 
 The virgin suffers : All this I know. 
 
 And Sir, beleeve me, and you Gentlemen, 
 
 Whose angry lookes with patience I sustayne, 
 
 I'm no less griev'd than you ; no lesse incenst 
 
 Than you, or any of you 'gainst my selfe, 
 
 But should I not performe this latest duty 
 
 To my dead friend, I'm 'fraid his ghost would finde 
 
 No resting place, whilst I, who know the Cause 
 
 Of his disaster seeke not to appease 
 
 His wounded soule with coveted revenge. 
 
 'Tis therefore Sir (your pardon humbly begg'd 
 
 As your's Lords all for this my sad assertion) 
 
 69
 
 That heere I offer to maintaine 'gainst all 
 The world that Florabella's false, 
 And for the prostitution she hath made 
 Of her fayre body to the fowler touch 
 Of man, is by the Lawes ordayn'd to death. 
 
 King. I cannot on the sudden call to minde 
 Any so haynous sinne by me committed, as might deserve 
 This height of punishment ; but sure the Gods 
 Are just ; to doubt the contrary were to 
 Provoke them to more dire revenge ; and yet 
 I cannot guesse what more of horrour 
 Can me betide. But cease, such talke as this 
 Full ill becomes a Prince's mouth. 
 Surelj' they know both what my crime hath beene 
 Which merited this lash of theirs, and how 
 Yet more to humble me, if I not take 
 This their correction calmely : I have drunke 
 Deepe of their mercyes, tasted more of them 
 Than many others, for I ne're till now 
 Saw fortune pourtraited with knitted browes : 
 Than unaccustom'd to such frownes as this, 
 Pardon these teares ; these obsequies perform'd 
 To thy dead name my Florabella, now 
 Let's take such speedy order as we may 
 For the performance of the Lawes decrees. 
 Arnaldo, see straight proclamation made 
 How that my daughter is accus'd, of what. 
 By whom, and what she is to undergoe 
 If none in three dayes space her cause maintaine 
 Against th' accuser, and by vanquishing 
 70
 
 Of him, acquit her of the death, which else 
 She is to suffer. 
 
 Arn. rie forthwith see your Majestye's command 
 In execution put, but I had rather 
 Have shew'd my forwardnesse, my will to serve you 
 In ought by thought can be conceiv'd, than this. 
 
 Phil. Be not too much caste downe, most mighty Sir, 
 rie pawne my life the Lady's innocent 
 Of once committing such a thing in thought, 
 And Garamont's a fowle-mouth'd slanderer. 
 
 Gar. Prince, if you please by hazzard of that life 
 You'll pawne, to prove me so, the question soone 
 Will be decided, but if (as much I doubt) 
 Your acting correspond not with your words 
 I shall make bold to say y'are a paultry Prince. 
 
 Phil. I should be loath to put so fowle disgrace 
 Upon this nation, unto which I am 
 So vow'd a vassall, as to undertake 
 (Being a stranger) that, which should I doe. 
 Would much redound to all our nation's shame. 
 
 Arn. How discreete 
 He's in his apologies, pockes upon him ; 
 O that the fates had pleas'd have dish't in him 
 For food for Haddockes 'stead of Bellamour ! 
 The King is wondrous sad, nor can I blame him, 
 It is an humotu- they which feede upon 
 Will hardly e're be satisfide with, it needes 
 No sawse for shoing home to draw It on ; 
 And therefore best withstand its first assaults. 
 Sir, pardon, if I interrupt your serious thoughts, 
 
 71
 
 And take the boldnesse on me to advise 
 Your Majesty not suffer sadnesse seize 
 Too much your soule ; the Gods afflict not thus 
 But where they love ; and surely if you take 
 This their correction calmely as you ought 
 Their hand's not short'ned ; they will multiply 
 Blessings equivalent. 
 
 King. How different a thing it Is to give 
 Counsell, and take It. This playster, Patience 
 Is no fit salve for all sores, mine alas ! 
 Is of a more contagious sort, the part is gangren'd, 
 Corrosives or sword to cut It off, 
 Not lenitives must be apply'd ; she is my childe, 
 Thinke but on that, my friend. 
 
 Mont. Sir, we are all your children, you 
 Father .nto us all, Rex pater patri^, 
 Your kingdomes wellfare doth depend on your's. 
 Suffer not then that we your Subjects all, 
 Your loyall Subjects, by the bad events 
 Which may ensue on this your melancholly, 
 Prove Orphans. 
 
 King. Though Kings pay their debt to heaven 
 
 The people seldome want a father long. 
 
 Mont. O Sir, but many Ages may passe o're, eVe we 
 Having lost you (which God prohibit) be 
 Blest with the like. But Sir, methinkes It would 
 Better become your Majesty to doe, than thinke ; 
 Rowse up your spirits Sir, and let us all 
 Consult by what blest meanes 
 We may your daughter free from Calumny. 
 
 i 
 
 j] 
 I
 
 Be pleas'd goe in, and have your Counsell summon'd, 
 Many eyes see more than one. 
 
 King. I thanke you for 
 
 Your wholesome Counsell, which I thus obey. (Exeunt, 
 
 Actus Quartus. Scena Prima. 
 Fiducia, Nigretta. 
 
 Nig. Had ever Lady such a sore disaster ? 
 And she, poore soule, how patiently she takes it ! 
 You never heare her storme nor curse, as I 
 By this good light should doe, were her case mine ; 
 She onely weepes the losse of Bellamour, 
 Not mentioning what she her selfe's to loose, 
 Her life ; and what she hath already lost, 
 Her reputation ; but gladded seemes 
 She shall so soone i' th' other world meete with him, 
 Where whatsoe're the world shall heere thinke of her, 
 Or he have thought whilst here deluded ; he 
 Meeting her there, shall know her spotlesse souJe, 
 Which that it might the sooner meete with his 
 Did eVe her noontyde d'off her clayye garments. 
 
 Fid. If there remayne one ounce of worth in mankind 
 So early she will not disrobbe herselfe. 
 And were I not assur'd that yet some sparkes 
 Of fire from heaven descended, did remayne 
 Within our Corsick's breast (which if there be 
 Any such heate divine 'twill now breath forth, 
 
 73
 
 And burne to ashes that base slaunderer 
 "Whose venemous tongue durst goe about to blast 
 Our Mistrisse* honour) I say did I not rest 
 Secure of this I once would weare the breeches 
 And not despayre, but woman as I am. 
 Make him doe penance for so fowle a lye. 
 
 Nig. Nay, were it true, — he does deserve 
 To be with pinnes and needles done to death, 
 A blabbe ! blisters upon his tongue. 
 Can he not see others fare well, but he 
 Must crye out rost meate ; a pockes upon him. 
 He should have beene with me that very night, 
 I long in vayne expected ; but he belike 
 Was plotting this damn'd treachery, for which 
 May he live long, and loath'd of all looke on him. 
 
 Fid. May people point at him, may the pockes 
 Cleave to his bones. 
 
 Nig. Nay, may he never 
 
 Know so much pleasure as must precede 
 That curse. 
 
 Fid. May his desires be longing, 
 
 His aym'd at happinesse some piece of flesh 
 Who hath serv'd 'prentiship in Malta Gallyes. 
 
 Nig. And when he comes t'enjoy this hop't for blisse 
 May he for disabilitye be kick't downe stayres 
 And wellcom'd with a brok'n necke to th* bottome. 
 
 Fid. May he be buried in some brothell house. 
 
 Nig. A ballet be his epitaph, and that 
 Sung by some pocky flatt-nos'd whore. 
 
 Fid. May — 
 
 74 
 
 i
 
 But see heere's one will interrupt our wishes. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 Whether so fast my friend ? 
 
 Mess. For you my pa3n:e 
 
 Of pretty ones, the King commands you both 
 Straight make yovu- personal appearance 
 Before him and his Counsell. 
 
 Nig. What's the matter ? 
 
 I'm sure neither of us deflovir'd his daughter. 
 
 Mess. Having once summon'd you, my errand's done. 
 
 Fid. What e're the matter is we had best t'obey. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Actus Quartus. Scena Secunda. 
 Philocres, Lucina. 
 
 Luc. What say you now my Princely Paramour ? 
 Was it not true I told you ? Finde you not 
 Some difference 'twixt longing all in vaine 
 After a beauty, and enjoying one, 
 Though perhaps altogether not so fayre ? 
 
 Phil. I doe my deare Instructresse, I now finde 
 Sighes are not as they seeme refreshing blasts 
 To a scorch't heart ; but like tempestuous windes 
 They blow the fire, and make the heate farre greater, 
 Whilst only they enjoy the comfort of 
 A nourishing heate, who doe without 
 Or cost of sigh, or losse of teare possesse 
 A mutuall love, such as doe you and I. 
 
 75
 
 But pray thee say, how does the Princesse beare 
 This her discovery, for 'tis certaine truth. 
 
 Luc. Now by my soule Sir, I dare sweare 'tis false. 
 Nay I doe know it false, and so may you, 
 If you remember that same very night. 
 Wherein she stands accus'd to have been t'ane napping 
 You were her Guardian ; it was you that watch't 
 I'th' out roome, and kept her chamber doore, 
 None could passe in Sir, but by your connivance, 
 And sure you will not prove your selfe a Pandar, 
 
 Phil. The calling backe to minde that night, 
 Makes me misdoubt there may be some mistake 
 In Florabella's businesse, sure 'twas so. 
 A pockes upon my pate, where were my braynes ? 
 I did not light on it before. 
 
 Luc. What is't 
 
 That troubles you, my Lord ? 
 
 Phil. No, nor you neither 
 
 You could not thinke upon't. 
 
 Luc. Not thinke on what ? 
 
 Phil. For certaine Garamont saw you and me 
 Our first encounters make that very night, 
 And so mistooke you for the Princesse. 
 
 Luc. O me unfortunate ! 'tis most apparent, 
 Shall I then prove the cause of all her sorrow ? 
 And which is worse, not able be to give 
 The least redresse. 
 
 Phil. Appease thy selfe my love, 
 
 All this may make for thee. 
 
 Luc. But you Sir may 
 
 76 
 
 i
 
 Salve all, and make amends for that wherein 
 You have unwittingly offended. 
 
 Phil. What meanes my fayre Lucina ? 
 
 Luc. 1 know I shall not neede use Arguments 
 Of provocation ; your honour does 
 Ingage you to't. 
 
 Phil. To what my dearest love ? 
 
 Luc. To make you undertake the Princesse cause, 
 And her defend against Lord Garamont, 
 Since you must now needes know her innocent, 
 And you your selfe the originall of what 
 Of mischiefe can betide her. 
 
 Phil. Pardon me, 
 
 It not becomes a Prince hazzard his person 
 In other folke's affayres ; Did I her love 
 As whilome e're I tasted of thy sweetes 
 Much might be done : but since the love I bore 
 To her is vanish't, and fix't heere with thee. 
 No fighting I, I doe love thee too well 
 To hazzard that of blisse the fates intend thee. 
 
 Luc. There's nought of good can me befall, if ought 
 Of bad befall her. 
 
 Phil. You may be mistak'n, 
 
 I spake it knowingly, if you your selfe 
 Stand not in your own light you shall not neede 
 Envy the Princesse, you shall be as great, 
 As puissant a Princesse as is shee. 
 
 Luc. Mocke not, my Lord, the humblest of your vassalls. 
 
 Phil. Not to detayne you on the Tenter hookes, 
 Since we have both, though unaware, been guilty 
 
 77
 
 Of Florabell's misfortune ; our abode 
 
 Heere may be dangerous. The King and Counsell 
 
 Neglect no meanes of sifting out the truth, 
 
 Which should they finde, what would become of you ? 
 
 My birth would beare out such an amorous slip, 
 
 Dangers foreseene are easily prevented. 
 
 Therefore to shunne all sinister event, 
 
 rie take my leave o' th' King this very day. 
 
 Luc. But wherein, I pray, am I the safer ? 
 
 Phil. Thinke you that Tie leave you behinde, my fayre one ? 
 No, sure, we will in fortune share alike. 
 
 Luc. I goe along with you ? what will the King 
 Yoiir father say f what will the people thinke 
 To see you bring a woman over with you ? 
 'Twill hardly suffer good construction. 
 And trust me, Sir, I value more mine honour 
 Than to be a know'en concubine to e're 
 A Prince alive. 
 
 Phil. You injure me in these 
 
 Your doubts ; to witnesse which no sooner you 
 Shall set your foot within Majorca 
 But I will marry you, make you my wife, 
 And hereupon I plight to you my faith. 
 
 Luc. Sir, since y' are pleas'd thus unexpectedly, 
 (For I durst never ayme at such a blisse) 
 To honour me with th' title of your wife, 
 rie strive to bring in stead of portion 
 And correspondent birth to yours, obedience. 
 
 Phil. And that's more worth than millions are without it. 
 Therefore my heart, least we may be prevented 
 78 
 
 I
 
 Make haste ; and if you have or jewells 
 
 Or ought you value else, see't soone pack't up. 
 
 About an hour hence I will send a couple 
 
 Of trusty servants to you, who shall wayte 
 
 Upon you, and conduct you safe aboard 
 
 My Gaily, which lyes ready in the Haven ; 
 
 rie meane time kisse the King's hands, faigne t' have had 
 
 Some sudden summons which doeth call me home. 
 
 Then put on wings to follow thee, my deare. 
 
 Luc. Was ever Prince so truly generous ? 
 
 Phil. Not to be so were to be worse than beast. 
 
 Luc. Sir, you are all compos'd of worth, I dare 
 Not doubt your word, and therefore thus obey you. 
 The Gods are just, and doubtlesse will not suffer 
 The Princesse thus injuriously to suffer. (Exit, 
 
 Phil. So, thus far all goes well ; should she not be 
 Convey'd away, or rather made away 
 Er'e her examination be taken 
 Who knowes but she for want of good take heede 
 Might somewhat say that might give light unto 
 The businesse, so all be discover'd. 
 Thus it behooves to mine and countermine 
 If men their ends will compasse ; I will 
 Marry her if ever she set her foot 
 Within my Countrey. I am bound by oath 
 Which I will keepe, to doe so : But if she 
 Never come there, then I'm at liberty, 
 And if she ever doe my skill shall fayle me. 
 Who waytes without there ? ho, Francisco. 
 
 79
 
 Enter Francisco. 
 
 Frail. Sir, 
 
 "What is your pleasure ? 
 
 Phil. Where's your fellow Ponto ? 
 
 Fran. I left him, Sir, sharpning his dagger's pointe. 
 
 Phil. Goe, call him hither. (Exit Francisco. 
 
 Heere's a payre of Rascalls, 
 Will for a brace of crownes not stick to cut 
 Their mother's throate, and for a couple more 
 Make the deede good, and sweare she was a whore. 
 
 Enter Francisco and Ponto. 
 
 Come hether foreward Franck, and trusty Ponto 
 You'll sticke at nothing I command you doe ? 
 
 Pont. Sir, does there breathe that man you'd fain see dead ? 
 
 Fran. Is it a Virgin you would have defam'd ? 
 
 Pont. A vcteresse you would have strumpeted ? 
 
 Fran. Some holy man accus'd of heresy ? 
 
 Pont. Some altar robb'd of all its ornaments ? 
 
 Fran. What is't you'd have us doe ? speake but the word. 
 'Tis done. 
 
 Phil. None of all these my trusty blades. 
 Hearke in your eare ; (they whisper) and for your reward 
 Take all the gold and Jewells are about her. 
 
 Pont. Is this all Sir? I'm sorry your commands 
 Are of no higher nature ; as for this 
 Beleeve it done already. 
 
 Phil. I neede not sweare 
 
 You unto secrecy. 
 
 Fran, Faith Sir, doe if you please 
 
 80
 
 For 'tis all one whether you doe or no. 
 Were not our lives concern'd 'tis not an oath 
 Would weigh thus much with either of us both. 
 
 Phil. I love those that tell truth. 
 
 Pont. You'll n'ere love us then. 
 
 Phil. Well, well, be gone about your businesse. 
 
 Both. W are gone. Sir. (Exeunt both . 
 
 Phil. Things thus must he contrive 
 Who in this world does meane to thrive. 
 The Politicke wise not valiant stout 
 Is he who brings his ends about. 
 
 Actus Quartus. Scena Tertia. 
 Fiducia, Nigretta. 
 
 Fid. I pray thee wench, what questions ask't they you ? 
 I never was so Catechiz'd before. 
 
 Nig. More than a good many, that I'm sure. 
 They ask't what a clocke it was when as 
 My Lady came into her chamber ? who came with her ? 
 What time she went to bed ? who lock't the doores ? 
 Who lay with her that night ? whether that I 
 Saw her in bed or no ? what time she rose ? 
 Whether I found her cloathes lay'd i' th' same place 
 Next morning, as when she put them off ? ' 
 
 And twenty more such frivolous questions, which 
 I not remember. 
 
 Fid. Such like questions just 
 
 F 81
 
 They ask't of me ; but pray thee, say 
 
 What didst thou answer to their last demaund ? 
 
 For I remember when I came i' th' morning 
 
 Into her chamber, I might see her gowne, 
 
 Her knots, her petticoates, and all she wore 
 
 The day before, remov'd from where they were 
 
 When we put her to bed, which made me wonder. 
 
 Nig. I, I remember how they lay, w^hen w^e 
 Came in, as if put off in haste, disorderly. 
 And not as we did leave them. 
 
 Fid. Well, 
 
 How^ didst thou answere that interrogatory ? 
 
 Nig. At first I answer'd nothing, but stood mute, 
 At which their Lordships' startling, swore I'de best 
 Tell trueth, the naked bare fac't trueth, 
 Or they by tortures would compell it from me. 
 I did obey their w^isedomes ; did confesse 
 I found her cloathes misplac't ; at which they all 
 Heaving their shoulders up into their neckes, 
 And looking flxtly one upon another. 
 As if the case were evident, bade me 
 Be gone, for I had said too much, if true. 
 
 Fid. I cannot blame them ; if they do misdoubt 
 The argument is shrewd, yet I dare pawne 
 My sjoule she's innocent. 
 
 Nig. I cannot tell 
 
 rie lay no wagers ; though she be a Lady 
 She is compos'd of the same flesh as we 
 Her servants are : Besides, if you remember 
 The Balconye-window in the outward roome 
 82
 
 Was open In the morning, and I'm svire 
 I saw it bolted e're she went to bed. 
 
 Fid. Somewhat there must be in't ; why doe they not 
 Question Lucina ; she that lay with her, 
 She's likelyest to know of all that is past, 
 And to say trueth, I rather doe misdoubt 
 Her, than the Princesse ; nay, I'le rather doubt 
 My selfe, and thinke I might walke In my sleepe, 
 Or you, or to say trueth, all woman kinde. 
 Her passion for her Bellamour is such. 
 As had I scene what Garamont affirms 
 He saw, I should beleeve I'de scene amisse, 
 For ccrtalnely such demonstrations 
 Of gricfe, cannot be counterfcltt. 
 
 J>Jig. Nay, certainly I doe beleeve she did 
 Love Bellamour, but will not sweare but she 
 Might love some other too. Full ill advis'd 
 Is she who suffereth her selfe to be 
 So ill provided of servants as to have 
 One onely sweetheart ; so foolish certainly 
 Will ne're Nigretta be. 
 
 Fid. What meanes the wench ? 
 
 I'm sure thou doest not speake as thou doest thinke. 
 
 Nig. Yes in good faith, and so should you thinke too 
 Would you thinke wisely. Take it on my word 
 Who have past some more yeares i'th' Court than you. 
 The wisest and the fayrest thus doe doe 
 In Courts and Cityes, thus the Ladyes live. 
 To shake a lover off 'mongst them is sinne 
 And foolishnesse accounted ; and what one's 
 
 83
 
 Not able to performe many may doe. 
 
 Some one may be convenient to send 
 
 Of errands ; if his Mistresse bid him see 
 
 What Ladyes are i'th' privy lodgings ; whether 
 
 The Princesse stirre abroad or no, or but 
 
 Enquire at the backe stayres what colour'd gowne 
 
 Her Grace puts on to day, what knots, 
 
 "What fashion'd ruffe: he lowly cringes. 
 
 Kisses her glove, professes how much he's 
 
 Her humble servant, how much honoured 
 
 By this employment, so forthwith is gone. 
 
 Another may be good to laugh at, to 
 
 Make sport withall, or to remoove the spleene ; 
 
 This man though laugh'd at ne're so loudly, ne're 
 
 So palpably, takes all in excellent part, 
 
 And does professe him selfe the happiest man 
 
 Alive, in that he makes her Honour merry. 
 
 Others there be compos'd of mettle more 
 
 Refin'd, may serve for Cabinet Counsellours, 
 
 For bosome friends, and when they're once got thither. 
 
 They will not sticke to stray a little lower. 
 
 Fid. Sure you do force your selfe to talke all this 
 Onely to trye what mettle I am made on, 
 But it is more than needes, I never yet 
 Knew other love than to my Mistrisse service, 
 And should fond hayre-brayn'd love e're get 
 Dominion over me he ne're should boast 
 Of more than one shaft which could wound my heart ; 
 And she indeede that wounded is with more, 
 Was never hurt at all, nor ever knew 
 84
 
 What did belong to faith or constancy. 
 
 Nig. I hate this love's Philosophy. What's this 
 That you call faith ? what tearme you constancy ? 
 They're onely meere imaginary names 
 To cozzen fooles and babes withall. 
 Faith in a woman (if such faith there be 
 In any woman, whereof I must needes 
 Professe my selfe totally ignorant) 
 It is no goodnesse, no, nor vertue is it. 
 But meere necessity of love, 
 A woeful badge of faded beauty, which 
 Likes onely one, because no more like her. 
 The Lawes of love which practis'd are by all 
 Your wisest Ladyes, most experienc't Dames, 
 Is to have many sweet hearts, but make use 
 Onely of one at once, and often change. 
 
 Fid. Well, I shall ne're be saved by your beliefe ; 
 Therefore leave this discourse, or talke alone. 
 And that I may reduce you to the point 
 From whence you have runne ryott : I pray y', say 
 What may the cause be why Lucina is 
 Not yet examin'd, when 'tis likelyest 
 If any body doe know anything 
 Concerning this affayre, it must be shee. 
 
 Nig. I heard Philocres, and his friend Feredo 
 Were by the Counsell pray'd to question her, 
 But I beleeve their wisdomes may have err'd 
 In having made no better choice. I know 
 Whereto the Prince's questions all doe tend. 
 
 Fid. Why? hath he ever question'd you, Nigretta ? 
 
 85
 
 Nig. Yes, and had had his answere too, but that 
 I not presume to be my MIstresse' taster. 
 
 Fid. I perceive you'll to th' old Theame againe, 
 Therefore Tie in least that the Princesse may 
 Lacke anything. I fear we may have stay'd 
 Too long already. 
 
 Nig. rie in with you too. 
 
 Actus Quartus. Scena Quarta. 
 Montalto, Arnaldo, Feredo. 
 
 Mon. Could you learne ought, Feredo, of Lucina, 
 Which might give light unto this deede of darknesse? 
 All our enquiries of the other wenches 
 Have beene but so much time spent to no purpose. 
 
 Fer. Your Lordships know that when I was commanded 
 To take Lucina'es examination 
 The Prince desired he might have leave 
 To goe along with me, which being graunted, 
 We left your Lordships and we forthwith went 
 To finde her out, and as we crost the Court 
 The Gates being open, we might see i* th' parke 
 Some halfe a dozzen set of fayre Coach-horses 
 Brought thither to be scene and solde, if any 
 Tooke liking to them. 
 The Prince not thinking that our errand 
 Requir'd so much haste, was much desirous 
 To looke upon the Steedes, for that he said 
 86
 
 He was to buy some. I reply'de 
 
 Fde wayte upon his Highnesse as soone as 
 
 I had dispatch't what I was sent about. 
 
 But he alleadging that the best might be 
 
 Perhaps bought off e're I had done 
 
 With questioning Lucina, was so earnest 
 
 In his desires, as I for to obey him 
 
 Went along with him. He perused each horse 
 
 Apart, then coupled them together 
 
 To see how they would match ; and faults he found 
 
 In most or all of them ; some's colours pleas'd him not, 
 
 And those whose colours pleas'd, he did not like 
 
 Their shape ; there was but one amongst them all 
 
 Which he found not somewhat to say unto. 
 
 And that indeede I must confesse 
 
 Was such a one, as were it to be match't 
 
 With five such other, the mightyest Prince alive 
 
 Might be proud to be draw'en by them. 
 
 His colour bay, but his extremities, 
 
 As feete, tayle, maine, coale-blacke save that 
 
 His neere hinde-foot was white, his head 
 
 Was small, a starre he in his forehead had. 
 
 His eares were short and piked, his eyes large 
 
 And quicke, his nostrills still extended. 
 
 His mouth still foaming, and perpetually 
 
 Cranshing his bitt, his necke short and lofty. 
 
 His breast broad, his backe not overlong. 
 
 And with a blacke list gutter' d to the docke, 
 
 His buttockes large, and full of brawny flesh* 
 
 His legges were cleane and sinewye, the one 
 
 87
 
 Of which he still kept pawing, 
 
 His foot was somewhat high, and his hoofe hard. 
 
 Some hoxires or better we did spend in this 
 
 Perusing of those horses ; which being done 
 
 We tooke our w^ay towards Lucina'es chamber, 
 
 We found the chamber doore lock't, first we knock't 
 
 Softly, then louder, lastly very loud. 
 
 But had no answere made ; we said we came 
 
 Sent by the King ; all would not doe, we could 
 
 Have no replye ; we angry grew, at last 
 
 We broke the doore, but found not her, 
 
 We then sought for her over all the Court, 
 
 But could not heare of her ; at last we went 
 
 To the Court-gates to know whether or no 
 
 She was gone forth ; where we did heare that she 
 
 Some houres before wayted on by two men 
 
 Had passed through the Gate. 
 
 We by inquiry trace't her, till we found 
 
 She was gone out o' th' towne ; we there left watch 
 
 To bring us word when she return'd, but yet 
 
 We have no news of her, and sure 'tis now 
 
 So late the City Gates are lock't, so as 
 
 I feare I shall not light on her this night. 
 
 Am. No, nor to morrow neither, I beleeve. 
 Trust me, you were to blame for loytering 
 When sent about a businesse of this weight. 
 She sure knew all, and fearing least it might 
 Be wrought out of her, she hath left the Court. 
 
 Fer. I doe confesse my fault, my Lords, but had 
 Either of you beene in my place, and so 
 88
 
 Importun'd as was I, I doe beleave 
 
 You would have done as I did ; God he knowes 
 
 I dream'd of nothing lesse than her escape. 
 
 Mont. Knowes the King of it yet ? 
 
 Fer. He does my Lord, 
 
 And is so much incens't (for he till now 
 Did never doubt his daughter's innocence.) 
 As giving it for graunted, she's in fault, 
 Has vow'd never to see her face till she 
 Hath clear'd herself : or for not doing so 
 Have suffer'd death. Her cloaths mislayd, and that 
 The window was left open, doe worke much 
 On his beliefe. 
 
 Am, I, that balcony window 
 
 Stickes in my stomach too. Nigretta did depose 
 'Twas boulted when she went to bed, and sure 
 There must goe hands to th' opening of it. 
 
 Mont. Besides Lord Garamont is knowe'n to be 
 Of so unquestion'd a reputation. 
 So prone too to defend (as all men ought. 
 All men of worth I meane) a Ladye's honour 
 Rather than rayse false calumnyes, which may 
 Sully their names, as that's surely, I thinke 
 The cause why none appeares in her defense. 
 
 Arn. I know not what to say, but I could wish 
 The Law were wink't at : for if things proceede 
 As yet they doe our wives and daughters too 
 May chance hop't headlesse ; love's 
 Bred within us, and as we increase in yeares 
 And strength, so it increases, nature's selfe 
 
 89
 
 Doeth graft It In our hearts ; and where it once 
 Gets footing, heaven and earth obey. 
 
 Mont. 'Tis true Arnaldo, and I oft have thought 
 The Law In this point to be too severe, 
 For If so sweete It be to sinne, and not 
 To sinne so necessary, or nature Is 
 Imperfect, which oppugnes the Lawes, or else 
 The Law's too hard which does contend 'gainst nature. 
 
 Enter Argales. 
 
 Arg. The King, my Lords, doeth greete you well and doeth 
 By these his letters Patent, constitute 
 You Lord Montalto, Lord high Constable 
 And you Lord Marshall, for he Is resolved 
 To have no Ceremonlall part omitted, 
 But all things punctually perform'd, as doe 
 The Lawes require. 
 
 Mont. How fares his Majesty ? 
 
 Arg. Sad, you will well beleeve, and yet beleeve me 
 He beares It bravely, faith, they not deserve 
 To rule by Lawes that will not be rul'd by them. 
 
 Am. His patient bearing this so sad disaster 
 Crownes all his other deedes of memory. 
 Win he himselfe be present ? 
 
 Arg. No, my Lord, 
 
 But If his daughter be not clear'd by some 
 To him yet unknowe'n w^ay, he vowes the Law 
 Shall passe upon her. 
 
 Am. Faith, I falne would hope, 
 
 But know not what. 
 90
 
 Mont. Who knowes, when man's most weake 
 
 The Gods are strongest, and the heavens inspire 
 The man that hopeth well with heavenly fire. 
 
 Actus Quartus. Scena Quinta. 
 Sylvander, Bellamour in disguise. 
 
 Syl. I have rid all night, and never met with man 
 Nor house, nor scene so much as candlelight, 
 Nor heard a dogge barke ; this for certaine is 
 Terra Incognita ; now that the day 
 Begins to cleare, I certainely shall meete 
 With some or other who will able be 
 To tell me where I am, and luckily 
 See yonder walkes a man, Sir by your leave — 
 
 Bell. Sir, good leave have you. 
 
 Syl. Nay, friend, more than so, 
 
 We must not part thus ; I have lost my way, 
 Or, to say true, I thinke I ne're was in't : 
 Heere I have travell'd in these unpath'd woods 
 All night, and doe not love to wander 
 Thus all alone, as by your melanchoUy 
 It seemes you love to do, therefore pray, say, 
 What Towne w'are neerest to, and which way leads unto it ? 
 
 Bell. You could not, Sir, have met with one lesse able 
 T' instruct you than you have done. I know not where 
 We are, nor what this place is call'd, 
 Yet can I not say I have lost my way, 
 
 91
 
 For all wayes are alike to me ; only I love 
 Those best where I may be most private, 
 Therefore that I may love this, as I did 
 Till I encountred you, pray leave me. 
 
 Syl. Sir, you shall pardon me, my horse and I 
 Are well nigh famish't ; I have left him tyed 
 To grasse this morning by an oake, remarkable 
 For its broad spreading boughes, whilst I perchance 
 Might light upon some passenger. 
 The Sunne hath made his journey 'bout the world 
 And visited each Cranye of the Universe 
 Since he or I did taste of any food. 
 
 Bell. Since heerein to[o] your hudwinck't fortune hath 
 Cast you unluckily on me ; 'tis twice 
 As long, since I or ate or dranke ; 
 And yet I lye, I have had my belly full 
 Of water ; but alas ! all would not serve 
 To ease me of this irksome life, wherewith 
 Some day or two I must be longer yet 
 Annoy'd. 
 
 Syl. You cannot then direct me in 
 
 The way that leades to the next Towne ? 
 
 Bell. No, Sir. 
 
 Syl. Then farewell. I must finde out some that can. (Exit. 
 
 Bell. O bitter sweetes of love ! Farre better 'tis 
 Never to have knowe'n you, than once knowe'n to loose you J 
 How happy a condition would it be 
 To be in love, if the delights once tasted 
 Were never to be lost againe ; or if 
 When they are lost, witn them their memory 
 92
 
 Did likewise vanish ; so should I not now 
 
 Call backe to mind fayre Florabella's favours 
 
 Wherewith she pleas'd to mocke me, nor grieve for 
 
 Their losse. But truce a while 
 
 With passion, since the fates have not decreed 
 
 That I should drowne, for if't had been their will 
 
 The fisher boate would not have beene so nigh 
 
 To save me when I plung'd into the deepe. 
 
 I will a while survive, and I'le returne 
 
 Backe to the Court to heare whether or no 
 
 The Princesse doeth bewayle my death, and see 
 
 What doeth become of her. In this disguise 
 
 Sure none will know me ; somewhat I'd fayne doe 
 
 If I knew what, e're to the other world 
 
 1 made my passage, whereby to make knowe'n 
 
 To all the world, and to her selfe in chief e, 
 
 How I might well have merited her love 
 
 Had she so pleas'd, better perhaps than he 
 
 Who e're he be that did and does enjoy her. 
 
 When this, I know not what, is done, I'le dye 
 
 In peace and quiet ; but the lowly valleys. 
 
 The hills, these woods which I have taught so oft 
 
 To echo backe her name, shall make my moanes 
 
 Knowe'n to all passengers ; fountains shall weepe 
 
 For me, the windes shall sigh, and in 
 
 Their loudest blasts make all my sufferings knowe'n. (Exit, 
 
 Enter Lucina, Francisco, Ponto. 
 
 Luc. Whether doe you dragge me thus ? How long will't be 
 E're you performe your Maister's will ? y'are yet 
 
 93
 
 More cruel than is he ; he but commanded 
 My being put to death once, you your selves 
 Confesse, and your unheard of tyranny 
 Hath caus'd me dye as oft as houres have past, 
 Since yesterday you tooke me from my chamber. 
 I oft have heard and now doe finde it true 
 The feare of death is worse than death it selfe, 
 Therefore be merciful), and end my miseryes. 
 
 Pont. You may thanke him for your so long delay ; 
 You had beene dead, and cold else long e're this, 
 But now prepare to dye. 
 
 Fran. Prepare to live. 
 
 Since fayre meanes all this while cannot prevayle 
 rie now use this {He draweth). 'Tis thou not she must dye, 
 Or else release up all thy interest 
 In her and what is hers freely to me, 
 So thou mayst still live poore and we in plenty. 
 
 Pont. So thou shalt first be hang'd and she be damn'd. 
 
 {He wounds Lucina and fights with Francisco. 
 
 Luc. I thanke thee more for this than him for what 
 Of good he did intend me. Better I finde 
 It is to dye than live with tortur'd minde. 
 
 Enter Sylvander. 
 
 Syl. 'Twas swords which I heard clash, see where they are : 
 Or sheath your swords or I will make the third 
 
 (Francisco and Ponto runne away, 
 "What? both so nimble? sure their cause was bad. 
 They w^ould not else so soone have left the field. 
 What meanes that gentlewoman which lyes there ? 
 94
 
 See, see, she bleedes apace. How fares it with you ? 
 
 Say, lady, speake, your murderers are fled, 
 
 Be of good comfort, 'tis a friend speakes to you. 
 
 Luc. Be then a friend, and suffer me to dye. 
 
 Syl. No, by your leave, faire Dam'sell, not unlesse 
 My old friend fayle me heere, and he's not wont 
 To sticke at trifles, many a sorer wound 
 
 (He draweth out a boxe of balsame.) 
 Than this, I hope, will prove, I oft have cured 
 With this my balsome, which I carry still 
 About me for like accidents as this 
 That happen sometimes in an houre. 
 Which will not chance againe in a man's age ; 
 I'de not have beene without it at this time 
 For more than I will speak of. Loe, 
 The bloud is stay'd already, be of comfort. 
 Stand up my wench, and e're you tell the story 
 Of your disaster, say how hight these woods, 
 And how we may get out of them. 
 
 Luc. Sir, your lookes 
 
 Speakes you a Gentleman ; and for your charity 
 Us'd towards me you ought to be obey'd. 
 These woods are call'd The Forrest of Disaster : 
 Not farre from hence there lyes a way which leades 
 Into the beaten rode. 
 
 Syl. The forrest of Disaster ! 
 
 You well may call it so, had not my starres, 
 My better fate directed me this way 
 It might have prov'd disasterous to you. 
 But I thanke destiny. Lady, be pleas'd 
 
 95
 
 To come along with me. I have a horse 
 Not farre from heere will serve to beare us both. 
 I will not leave you till in better hands 
 Than those I tooke you from ; you by the way 
 May, if you please, relate your story to me, 
 And wherein I may serve you may command. 
 
 Luc. Who would command must first learn to obey. 
 So I doe you Sir : that way lyes the way. 
 
 Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. 
 Three Women, three Men. 
 
 1. Man. My friends, it is no laughing matter, nor ought we 
 be in our jollitye when our good King and all the Court are 
 so afflicted, and yet I am of your opinion too that we ought 
 to keepe our appointment, ovu- Rendezvous, for else the 
 maydes would not take our words another time, and there- 
 fore am I come hither along with you, onely to desire them 
 to have us excused for this time, and promise to make amends 
 another day. 
 
 2. Man. I cannot gaynesay anything you have said, for you 
 are the greater clerke of the two. But yet methinkes it is 
 pitty to deceive the poore silly-soules, and see where like 
 honest wenches they stand expecting us. 
 
 3. Man. I would it might have stood with the good liking of 
 the higher powers, our Lords and Counsellours, to have put off 
 this sad businesse till some other day, my mouth waters to 
 have one friske for all this. 
 
 96
 
 I. Man. There will be no feare of your miscarrying, though 
 you loose your longing. Well met, fayre maydes, I see you 
 are women of your words, and to the end we might appeare 
 as true as you, we are come, though onely to make our 
 appearance and bid you farewell. 
 
 I. Worn. How so sir, I pray ? what may the matter be that 
 hath thus marred our intended mirth. 
 
 1. Man. The matter is shortly this. This is not a day for 
 revelling. The Princesse Florabella is this day to loose l?er 
 head. 
 
 2. Worn. Her head ! Marry God forsfend : I hope you doe 
 but mocke. 
 
 3. Man. He tells you true. 
 2. Worn. For what, I pray? 
 
 2. Man. For that, which had you all your dues, I am 
 afraid your's would not sit long upon your shoulders : for 
 loosing of her mayden-head. 
 
 3. Worn. Why then, that head's lost already. Come, I see 
 they do but jeast wiih us, strike up, and let us loose no time. 
 
 1. Man. Beleeve me, we are in too good earnest, and 
 therefore, by your leave, no dauncing this day, but fayrely fare 
 you well. 
 
 3. Woin. Nay then by your leave Sir, we will not part so. 
 rie see some thing surely for my comming abroad. Tie goe 
 along and see what passes. 
 
 2. Worn. My heart will never give me to looke on so 
 pittious a spectacle. A Princesse loose her head for such a 
 trifle. Mine stands fast yet, and therefore Tie believe her's 
 may do so too, and in that hope I'le goe along. 
 
 3. Worn. You'll not breake company, Madge, will you ? 
 
 G 97
 
 I. Worn, rie goe, if it be but to curse the peeching rascall 
 that accuseth her. 
 
 I. Man. On these tearmes we shall not breake company. 
 Well wayte upon you to the Towne, and do you the best 
 service we can in placing of you. 
 
 Oinnes. We thanke your worship heartily. 
 
 Actus Quintus. Scena Secunda. 
 Montalto, Arnaldo, with Attendants. 
 
 Mont. 'Tis much, none yet appeares will undertake 
 The Princesses defence : had not the King 
 Impos'd this place on me, and therewithal! 
 An incapability of serving her 
 As Champion ; Tie take Heaven to witnesse 
 If none should take her cause in hand, I 
 Would have had beene the man my selfe. 
 
 Am. I thinke it fitter farre 
 She suffer, who through unrelenting doeth 
 Cause matchlesse paynes within her servant's breast 
 Then she, whose yielding breathes new life into him. 
 If the same heate, the very same desire 
 Doe egge both sexes on to taste those sweetes 
 Of love, which to the ruder vulgar seeme 
 Faults punishable ; why should women be 
 Blam'd for committing that with one or more, 
 Which men comniit and recommit each houre, 
 And are the most esteem'd, not punish'd ; trueth to say 
 98
 
 The Lawes unequall ought be abrogated : 
 
 But though our offices exempt us, there are enough 
 
 Yong lads i* th' towne ; me thinkes some halfe a thousand 
 
 Should strive for th' honour of the undertaking, 
 
 And if none doe then may my wish prevayle 
 
 That none betwixt nineteen and fourty nine 
 
 May ever have commotion beneath the girdle. 
 
 Mont. All this is but discourse. The time's at hand, 
 Therefore let us provide all things be ready, 
 That come or come they not, we be not found 
 Faulty in executing of our dutyes. 
 Who waytes without there ? 
 
 Enter three Servants. 
 
 I. Man. What's your pleasure Sir ? 
 
 Mont. Are all things ready ? Is the scaffold up ? 
 Are things within the lists ordered as 
 You had command ? 
 
 I. Man. All straightwayes will be done. 
 
 Mont. It were then best my Lord that you and I 
 Went to acquaint all parties wh' are concern'd 
 That they prepare themselves, for th' houre drawes nigh. 
 
 (Exeunt. 
 
 Actus Quintus. Scena Tertia. 
 
 Three Serving Men. 
 
 I. Man. Come then, my friends, let's to our businesse, though 
 I must confesse I never went about any in my life with so ill 
 a will ; but they that are bound must obey. 
 
 99
 
 2. Man. Would I were bound for the furthest part of the 
 earth, so I were not bound for this voyage. D's lud, that I 
 were but a Gentleman for his sake, Fde teach his Lordship, 
 as goodly as he is, to peech, with a pockes to him. 
 
 I. Man. Were you with the Carpenter ? is the Scaffold 
 finish't, and all things in a readinesse belonging thereunto ? 
 
 3. Man. 'Twas e'ne as good as done three houres agoe, 'tis 
 surely done by this. I'le goe and see, and if it be ready Tie 
 bring you word presently. 
 
 1. Man. Pray thee doe, and see you loyter not by the way, 
 for they say 'tis as good to have one's head off as ever aking, 
 and in my conscience the sweet Princesses head is not well at 
 ease at this time. Know you that Gentleman that walkes so 
 
 (Enter Bellamour disguised.) 
 
 melanchoUy yonder, he hath somewhat surely in his pate we 
 know not of. 
 
 2. Man. I never saw him before, he is sure some stranger. 
 I am sure he belongs not to the Court ; who knowes but having 
 heard of the Princesse her accusation, he may be con?e to 
 shame all the Gentry of Corsica, and take her defense upon 
 
 him. 
 
 1. Man. O that that were true ! but what's the haste with 
 thee ? why com'st thou so soon backe ? thou can'st not have 
 beene there, and heere again so soone. 
 
 3. Man. Let me take breath before I speake, and in the 
 meantime take you courage and comfort. I am so glad ! 
 
 2. Man. Of what ? man. If there be any cause of gladnesse, 
 pray thee let us share with thee In it ; any thing belonging 
 to joy never could come in a more needful time. 
 
 100
 
 I. Man. Speake then, and hold us not upon the racke of 
 expectation. 
 
 3. Man. As I was going to the Carpenter about the 
 businesse you wot o', I met a pretty little Gentleman, who 
 ask't me if none had yet undertaken the Lady Florabella's 
 defense ? I told him no, and that if they came not the sooner, 
 'twould be too late, for within less than an houre, as she had 
 lost her muyden-head, she was likely to loose woman's-head. 
 He said, I lyed like a paultry knave, for neither had she lost 
 the one, neither should she loose the other, for he was come 
 to prove Lord Garamont a Iyer. 
 
 Bell. What's that my friend ? pray say it o're againe. 
 
 3. Man. Nothing Sir, but that there is one come who will 
 defend the Lady Florabella's cause against Lord Garamont. 
 
 Bell. That must not be. 
 
 I. Man. Why so Sir, I pray? if you doe no good, I hope 
 yoix will do no harme. 
 
 Bell. No svu-ely friend, but all the good I can 
 To the fayre Princessse falsely slaundered. 
 And to that purpose I my selfe am come 
 To be her champion. I nor must, nor will 
 Permit another robbe me of that glory. 
 
 I. Man. Nay then Sir, I crave you mercy: so her cause be 
 defended I doe not care by whom. 
 
 3. Man. Marry, but this is the likelyer Gentleman to make 
 it good, he hath something of strength and bones in him. 
 The other I tell you is a very little timber'd Gentleman, and 
 I am afraid will not be able to hold out against Lord 
 Garamont, therefore this for my money. 
 
 Bell. Pray which way went that other Gentleman ? 
 
 101
 
 3. Man. Straight towards the Court, as I conceived. 
 
 Bell. Then pray, friend, let me begge your company, 
 To go alone with me to the Court, 
 And let the Lords appointed to see 
 The this daye's business performed, know 
 That there another combattant is come 
 "Who first desires the combat. 
 
 3. Man. With all my heart Sir, and I thanke you too, 
 heartily. I'le wayte upon your worship, and hope for some 
 reward for my good newes. 
 
 (Exeunt Bellamour and the third Man. Manent the 
 first and second Man. 
 
 1. Man. Whye, so then, this is somewhat, better late than 
 never, goeget you gone, and bring the women hither presently. 
 
 2. Man. I'm gone. 
 
 I. Man. 1 pray God, the Ladye's defense fall to the share of 
 this Gentlemen that was heere. I like his aspect wondrous 
 well, me thinkes he promiseth victory ; and yet who can tell ; 
 your little men are all fire, they have no drosse in them, they 
 are true mettle from head to heele. Well, I will hope the best. 
 See here comes Hodge, with his leash of Conyes. Well say'd 
 Hodge ; Thou hast made haste indeede. Not a word, but 
 stand close there. 
 
 Enter Feredo, with people bringing in the Scaffold. 
 
 Fer. So, well said, my friends, bring in the Scaffold, 
 And set it up there on that side : 
 Make ready on that other side the place 
 Appointed for the challanger, 
 102
 
 And see all things be in a readinesse. 
 
 Set up the chayre for the Lord Constable 
 
 And Lord high Chamberlaine. The King will not 
 
 For all this possibility of freedom to 
 
 His daughter be persuaded to looke on. 
 
 H'as made a vow never to see her face 
 
 Till she or be acquitted or be dead, 
 
 And she on her part too hath made a vow 
 
 That 'till or dead or freed from what is laid 
 
 Unto her charge, no man shall see her face. 
 
 And to that purpose she hath leave obtayn'd 
 
 To appeare vayl'd ; and to say trueth 't had beene 
 
 Much misbecomming otherwise t' have done. 
 
 Her vayle may hide the blush, which certainely 
 
 Guilty or not will have recourse unto 
 
 Her cheekes, and yet who knowes ? perhaps 
 
 A looke from her might have put life and strength 
 
 Into her Champion. So now all is well, 
 
 And see, the Lords doe come. 
 
 Actus Quintus. Scena Quarta. 
 
 Montalto, Arnaldo, with Attendants who take 
 their places, Philochres. 
 
 Mont. All is well marshall'd, thankes to you Feredo. 
 There now remaynes nothing to be done 
 But that the parties interess'd be call'd, 
 And pray'rs be made to heaven for just successe, 
 
 103
 
 Which from my heart I zealously do begge. 
 
 Am. And so do I. 
 
 Omnes. So do we all, my Lords. 
 
 Am. I thirke 't were best, my Lords, we sent Feredo 
 To bring the Princesse in and place her first, 
 Shee'U have the longer time to pow're forth prayers 
 To the all-hearing heavens, and may they be 
 Propicious to her what e're [she] requests. 
 I'm glad she shall have some play for her life. 
 And not like ordinary malefactors 
 Be bi. ought, voyde of all hope, unto the gallowes. 
 
 Mont. Feredo, goe, wayte on the Princesse hether. 
 Eut now. my Lord be. ore the Champions 
 Appeare, 't were good we did agiee which of 
 The two should be the man. 
 
 Am. Let them agree 
 
 Of that themselves. 
 
 Mont. But say they'll both contend 
 
 For the precedency. 
 
 Am. Then let the dice 
 
 Decide the question, and fayre fall the chance. 
 
 Enter Feredo, leading the Princesse vayVd and her woman, 
 
 Mont. Madame, be not dismay'd, be of good courage, 
 This unexpected comming of your friends 
 So in the nicke of time is a good omen, 
 For such a one pray take 't, and take your place. 
 
 {She bowes and is led to the seate. 
 Now some give notice to the Challenger 
 The Court attends him. 
 104
 
 Phil, (aside) Had they but stay'd 
 
 One houre yet longer, my revenge had beene 
 Compleate without the counterchecke of chance : 
 But I hope well in Garamont, and come 
 What will come, I am satisfi'de in part, 
 And should be fully saw I her head start. 
 
 (Trumpets sound. Enter Garamont, who takes his place.) 
 
 Mont. 'Tis now, my Lord, the last time we can aske 
 The last time you can answere ; be well advis'd 
 You yet may time enough recant and if 
 I might prevayle with you, you should do so. 
 Sir, you are not the first hath beene deceiv'd, 
 I doe beleeve you thinke you saw the Princesse 
 In wanton dalliance, as you have affirm'd. 
 But doe beleeve you may have scene amisse. 
 Doe you beleeve so too, and thereby make 
 The King as much your friend as he shall doe 
 Who by the hazzard of his life shall free 
 His daughter of the calumny 
 You lay upon her. 
 
 And that you may not doubt there will want those 
 Will undertake it, know, that there are two 
 Who take upon them Florabell's defense. 
 
 Gar. Sir, now I thanke my fates, and ne're till now ; 
 The mightiest witt, or man best fraught with art, 
 If they doe want materialls, whereupon 
 To shew their high conceits, their curious skill, 
 May boast (and that is all) of their perfections, 
 But never try it by the touch of trueth. 
 Had I not met some object, whereupon 
 
 105
 
 By vent'rlng of my bloud, my zeale I might 
 
 Make manifest to Bellamour's dead corpse, 
 
 And thereby strive t' appease his injur'd ghost, 
 
 I should not have had given so true a test 
 
 Of my true friendship : men perhaps might thinke 
 
 If I had met with opposition, I 
 
 Should have done what you, my Lord, advise, 
 
 And yet Sir, I doe thanke you for your counsell, 
 
 As knowing it proceedes from forth a breast 
 
 Full fraught with honour. But I must crave pardon 
 
 For not obeying you therein, the name 
 
 Of friend, of grossely injur'd friend, 
 
 Must pleade my pardon both to you and all 
 
 The world besides ; therefore I pray, my Lords, 
 
 If there be any champion that appeares. 
 
 Let him be sent for, so I may eschew 
 
 The twice repeating what will be no lesse 
 
 Grievous to me to speake than you to heare, 
 
 For never did two contrarietyes 
 
 So struggle for the upper hand in man 
 
 As now they doe in me. 
 
 Mont. Call in the Champions, 
 
 Gar. I am not ignorant what hatred I 
 Deservedly plucke on me from the State, 
 The King, the Subjects, you fayre Florabell, 
 The blame I shall incurre from all who shall 
 Hereafter heare of this, and not consider 
 Perhaps so duely as they ought th' inciting cause. 
 
 Enter Champions. 
 
 106
 
 But when I put the thought, the thought ! the knowledge 
 
 Of Bellamour's much undeserved wrongs, 
 
 His sufferings which thereupon ensued, 
 
 Into the other ballance, they weigh downe the scale, 
 
 And therefore thus I doe avouch for truth. 
 
 Which with my sword I'm ready to make good 
 
 'Gainst any dare maintaine the contrary, 
 
 The Princesse Florabella is unchast. 
 
 And hath committed that (I looking on) 
 
 For which the Lawes doome her to death. 
 
 And I require of you, my Lords, who are 
 
 Our Soveraigne's substitutes, the Law be put 
 
 In execution ; if any here 
 
 Doe doubt of this, and dare make good his doubt 
 
 I thus defie him — 
 
 (He throws downe his glove.) 
 Take it up who dare. 
 And I not doubt to doe the wretch to death. 
 
 (The two champions stoope and struggle for the glove.) 
 
 Mont. Part the contestors, take the glove from both. 
 And give it to the Princesse at the barre. 
 If it stand with your liking, Lord Arnaldo, 
 Let her who hath most int'rest in the quarrell 
 Decide the businesse. 
 
 Am. No evener way, 
 
 Lesse leaning towards partiality 
 Can be imagined ; 'tis reason she 
 Whose life and honour both lye at the stake 
 Doe chuse her champion ; nor can these Gentlemen 
 (Her choyce once made) appeale from thence, they both 
 
 107
 
 I rest assured will stand to her decree. 
 
 {They both bow in token of assent.) 
 Then take the glove Feredo, give it to 
 The Princesse ; now Madame, come from the barre, 
 And chuse yovir Champion : he to whom you give 
 The glove, must be the man for whose successe 
 Your pray'rs and ours must joyntly seeke to heaven. 
 
 (She comes forth, makes low reverence to the lesser 
 Champion, gives her glove to the taller, so retireth. 
 
 Bellamour. (disguis'd, in a counterfeit voice, saith) 
 First, Madame, give me leave to kisse your hand 
 In humble thankfulnesse for this your favour ; 
 Next, let me begge of you that whil'st I doe 
 Make your accuser doe just penance for 
 His blacke assertion, you be not afraid, 
 But have assured faith of prosperous 
 Successe in him who lives or dyes your servant. 
 And now to you Sir, fewest words are best, 
 He lyes that saith the Princesse is unchast. 
 
 (The warning to the hattell is given by Trumpets, 
 they fight, and having fought awhile, Sylvander 
 comes in with Lucina in man's apparell, who 
 parteth the Combatants. 
 
 Syl. Put truce awhile to your death-doing swords, 
 Brave Cavaliers, and no one stroake make more, 
 Have patience till I shall say what will, 
 Without the shedding of your noble bloud, 
 Decide this question, cleare that spotlesse Princesse. 
 108
 
 Mont. Ha ! what's that he saith ? Stand some of you 
 Betweene the Combatants, keepe them from further fighting 
 Till he be heard : now Sir, pray speake your minde. 
 
 Syl. I first pronounce the Princesse cleare, as is 
 The childe unborne, of what she stands accus'd, 
 Next, I embrace the Challenger, as one who doeth 
 Deserve the best of names, name of a faithful friend. 
 Nor must you, bold brave Sir, scape unsaluted, 
 Y'have done enough by this your undertaking 
 To eternize your fame ; and now to you, 
 My Lords, I must addresse my speech. Know then 
 That if this combat further do proceede. 
 And (as 'tis likely) death ensue therefrom, 
 Whether the challenger or challenged 
 Doe dye, he dyeth innocent ; the one 
 Thinks he is in the right, nay I dare say, 
 Beleeves it confidently, nor doe I 
 Blame him for doing so ; so should I doe 
 Were I as he, yet surely he's i' th' wrong. 
 Unwittingly a falsehood he maintaines. 
 The selfe same errour, which bereav'd of life 
 His dearest friend, makes him take armes in hand 
 To vindicate his suppos'd injury. 
 The other knowes not whether he maintaine 
 The trueth or no, nor thinke I he doeth much 
 Regard the justnesse of his cause, even just as he 
 Doeth, should I do were I in his place. 
 'Tis noblenesse of spirit, meere good nature 
 Makes him to grapple thus with death itselfe. 
 To save from perishing so great a beauty, 
 
 109
 
 And yet the right o' th' cause is wholly his. 
 I helpe and comforte bring to th' innocent, 
 But death and dire damnation to the guilty. 
 
 Mont. Sir, you have promis'd much, may you performe 
 As bravely, then we all shall worship you. 
 To shew that we covet as much to heare 
 What you would say as you to utter it, 
 We doe ordayne cessation of armes 
 *Till you have said. Be pleas'd then Gentlemen, 
 To lay aside your weapons for a while. 
 For ever, if this Gentleman make good 
 His word ; if otherwise you shall again 
 Resume them. Now Sir, speake your minde at large. 
 
 Syl. Then thus my Lords, I doe accuse the Prince, 
 Philochres, that trayterous Prince, 
 Of all the mischiefs hath ensu'd as yet, 
 And what hereafter might ensue heereon, 
 Were't not that I miraculously met 
 With the discovery of all his plots. 
 
 Phil. My Lords, this fellow raves, lay treachery 
 To my charge ! I demand the Law, my Lords, 
 The execution of the Law against 
 
 This fowle-mouthed slaunderer. (aside) I'm sure Lucina, 
 Is safe enough, and then I feare no peaching. 
 
 Syl. O Sir, is't you that are the Prince Philocres ? 
 I'm glad I have you heere ; e're you and I 
 Doe part, the world shall see that fowle 
 Mouth'd slaunderer you speake of prove your selfe. 
 It was not you, who 'cause that Florabella 
 Would not give eare to your unpleasing suite, 
 110
 
 Did plot revenge upon her ; caus'd Lucina, 
 
 Her bed-fellow who much did dote on you 
 
 To d'on the Princesses cloathes, then give you meeting 
 
 At the Balconye window, before which 
 
 You formerly had placed Bellamour, 
 
 That he might see you clamber up the window, 
 
 And take Lucina for the Princesse, who 
 
 (As he it seems deserv'd) bore more affection 
 
 To him than you ; No, nor it was not you 
 
 That sent Lucina to be murdered 
 
 By two base Rascalls, making her beleeve 
 
 You'd send her to your Gaily, and straight come 
 
 Your selfe and marry her ; all this for feare 
 
 Least somewhat might be sifted out of her, 
 
 Whereby your villany might come to light. 
 
 Phil. You say true, Sir, indeede it was not L 
 
 Syl. You lye, false Prince, 'twas you, and none but you 
 Which thus rie make good. (They draw and fight. 
 
 Mont. Part them, I charge you. This is more than lyeth 
 In our commission, which extends no further 
 Than to the combat 'twixt the challenger 
 And the defender of the Ladye's cause. 
 The which though that this man be, he does not though 
 Fight 'gainst the challenger. Now sir, be pleas'd 
 To make your legall proofes of what y'have said, 
 And be assur'd you shall have all fayre hearing. 
 
 Syl. Then thus, sir, to my proofes : know you this face, 
 (He pluckes out Lucina's hat and beard.) 
 Nay never blush for't man, murder will out. 
 
 Am, The Gods are just, and we for this their care 
 
 111
 
 And providence over our Princesse' life 
 And fame, have ever cause to prayse them, 
 For surely all is true this gentleman 
 Affirmes. How say you minion ? is it not ? 
 
 Luc. (kneels) My Lords, I trust I shall the sooner taste 
 Of mercy from you, pardon from you, Madame, 
 When't it does appeare I was not of the plot 
 Of any harm intended to the Princesse, 
 And since't hath pleas' d the Gods to make of me 
 As well an instrument to cleare her, as 
 Unwittingly I was to work her ruine, 
 This in mine own excuse admitted, I assure 
 All that this noble Gentleman hath said 
 Is trueth, nor do I thinke Philocres dare deny it. 
 
 Mont. How say you. Sir ? 'tis your turne now to speake. 
 
 Phil. I am a Prince, you cannot torture me, 
 I crave leave to be gone, and whilst I stay 
 Within this kingdome, I will nothing say. (Exit. 
 
 Mont. Then silence gives consent. Goe call the King 
 That he may be the first may bring his daughter 
 From the accused barre to Throne of State 
 And we surrender up our place to them 
 
 (They both come down. 
 Which with how much more joy I shall goe downe 
 Than I came up, I take the heavens to witnesse. 
 
 Am. Were the degrees tenne times as high methinkes 
 I could them caper down. 
 So much of lively-hood have you deare Sir, 
 By this your blest discovery put into me. 
 And now my Lords and Gentlemen, all friends 
 112
 
 Let's all shake hands, all share in equall joy. 
 
 Why seeme you yet so sad, Lord Garamont, 
 
 In this glad time of universall mirth ? 
 
 I boldly dare affirm it was no spleene 
 
 By you borne to the Princesse made you take 
 
 This businesse in hand, but to expresse 
 
 Your friendship to your good friend Bellamour, 
 
 Which since you have so well perform 'd, as all 
 
 The world will scarcely parallelle, not outdoe you, 
 
 Me thinkes you should with us joyne in expressions 
 
 Of mirth and jollitye. 
 
 Gar. You are, my Lord, 
 
 Much in the right : so may I thrive as I 
 (For what concern'd myselfe) did with as much 
 Reluctancy accuse the Princesse, as 
 You would have seene her head ta'ne ofi, and therefore 
 In charity you will beleeve I share 
 As deeply in this general joy, as you 
 Or any heere, and if my lookes doe not 
 Paint forth my joy in full as lively colours 
 As may be seen in yours and all these faces 
 Which doe surround you, judge the cause aright. 
 For when I thinke on Bellamour's disaster 
 His most unfortunate mistake, wherein 
 I shar'd as well as he, when, as I thinke 
 How Wellcome these newes would have beene to him. 
 Who now's become incapable thereof, 
 I must confesse it somewhat doeth allay 
 The height of happinesse I else should have. 
 
 Mont. 'Tis true, my Lord, but where nought will avayle 
 
 H 113
 
 It is lost labour to lament and wayle. 
 
 Bell. But I were much to blame should I permit 
 This sadnesse on his soul one minute sit : 
 See here, my best of friends, your Bellamour. 
 
 (He discovers himselfe.) 
 Gar. If this be true and nothing false here meant, 
 rie vye with all the world for true content. 
 
 (They all salute Bellamour. 
 
 Enter King. 
 
 King. What meanes that mass of people heap't together ? 
 'Pray God there be nothing of new arrived 
 To counterpoyse my unexpected blisse. 
 Be it but some meane crosse I shall applaude 
 The destinyes in their care over me. 
 Who may have sent some rubbe, least too much joy 
 Might have had strucke me dead. 
 
 Mont. Let's leave saluting : see where comes the King ; 
 Sir, though I doe presume you have already 
 Partaken of the newes you most desired. 
 The undoubted cleering of your spotlesse daughter, 
 Yet if you have but any crann^'^ left 
 Within your Princely breast, unfill'd with joy, 
 Keere's wherewithall to cramme it full. 
 He who did undertake the Princesse* cause 
 Is prov'd to be your servant Bellamour. 
 
 King. Softly I say : doe not so all at once 
 Heape on your blessed tidings ; let me disgest them 
 
 (Bellamour kisseth his hand. 
 Peace-meale, least exccsse doe cause a surfeit. 
 114
 
 One short ejaculation of thankes to heaven, 
 
 Which shall more fully praysed be hereafter. 
 
 I first to you, my daughter, turne myselfe 
 
 And crave your pardon : if I for a while 
 
 Forbeare to fetch you forth from where you are 
 
 To w^here you should be, heere : you are our ow^ne, 
 
 And all respects ought first be show'en to strangers, 
 
 And yet because I cannot long forbeare 
 
 To see what once within this houre I would 
 
 Have given my crowne to see, I will be short 
 
 In thanking all these cavalyers, who have share 
 
 In this your freedom. 'Tis not words, but deeds 
 
 Speakes thankfullnesse : To witnesse then my thankes 
 
 I in a King's word promise to these three, 
 
 Who stickled in my daughter's cause, a boone, 
 
 A boone to each of them, whate're it be 
 
 They shall demand shall graunted be by me. 
 
 They who did know so well how to employ 
 
 Their service, will as well know what to ask 
 
 A guiderdon ; and now daughter, to you — 
 
 (He takes her from the Barre, pulles off her vayle, and 
 instead of his daughter findes her mayde Fiducia. 
 
 What meanes this Pageant ? I not like these trickes, 
 
 Say some of you — what do you say ? You stand 
 
 Amazed gazing one on another 
 
 As if you knew not ho^v to doe withall. 
 
 On your alleageance I charge you all 
 
 Reade me this Riddle ; you, Montalto, say 
 
 What meanes this property ? I cannot brooke delay. 
 
 115
 
 Mont. May't please your Majesty, I know not what 
 To say or thinke, I know no tricke that's in't, 
 I tooke Fiducia, vayl'd, to be your daughter. 
 
 King. May*t please your Maistership, it does not please me, 
 Speake, some that's wiser. 
 
 Omnes. Sir we are all 
 
 In this as ignorant as he. 
 
 Am. You'd best inquire 
 
 Of her who tooke her place upon her, she 
 Is likelyest t 'unfold the businesse. 
 
 King. Speake then, good wench, hold up this jest no 
 longer, 
 Where is my daughter ? what's become of her ? 
 
 Fid. In sooth I cannot tell. 
 
 King. In sooth, forsooth, 
 
 Or tell, or I will torture't out of you ; 
 How came you hither ? you can tell me that. 
 
 Fid. Obedience to my Mistresse's command 
 Brought me thus hither : This morning when she wak't, 
 (And trueth to say she hardly slep't all night) 
 She call'd me to her, whisper'd me i' th' eare, 
 And made me vow^ secrecy and assistance ; 
 She then sent forth her other mayde Nigretta 
 Upon some sleeveless errand which might keepe 
 Her busy till she had dispatch't with me. 
 Nigretta gone, and none but she and I 
 r th' chamber left, she said. My good Fiducia 
 'Tis now that I must try thy love and service. 
 Goe, get some boyes apparell ; aske not why ? 
 But straightway bring it hither : I obey'd, 
 116
 
 And brought a suite was yesterday brought home 
 
 For a young brother of mine ; she instantly 
 
 Leapt out of bed, and don'd those cloathes ; she made 
 
 Me strippe my selfe and put on her apparell, 
 
 Put on her vayle ; which when I'de done, she said, 
 
 Inquire not after me whether I goe. 
 
 Or what I meane to do ; when they shall come 
 
 To fetch me forth, goe you in stead of me, 
 
 And play my part, leave me to play another ; 
 
 I pawne my troath there shall no harm ensue 
 
 To you, Fiducia ; not one hayre of your's 
 
 Shall fall into the ground ; but that was more 
 
 Than needed ; to have saved her head 
 
 I would full willingly have lost mine owne. 
 
 She went her way. 
 
 And as she went came you Nigretta in, 
 
 Since when you know you could not get me speake 
 
 One word. Sir, now you know all I can say. 
 
 King. I know you are a cunning hallotry, 
 But must know more than this, or ne're know more, 
 What say you, Mistrisse Minkes ? how goes affajrres ? 
 
 Nig. Sir may I dye a mayde, if I know ought 
 Belonging thereunto ; when I came backe 
 I found her, whom I for my Mistrisse tooke 
 Sitting cross 't-armed, with head hung in her bosome. 
 Who, doe I what I would, would ne'er be brought 
 To speake one word ; I wayted on her hither, 
 Still taking her to be the Princesse, this 
 Is all I can affirme. 
 
 King. Was ever King thus cros't 
 
 117
 
 In mids't of all his joyes ; but I will sift 
 
 It out, or make some smart for't : who waytes there ? 
 
 Goe, take this piece of frailty ; dragge her to 
 
 The racke, I'le trye, whether or no 
 
 The extention of her joynts will serve t'enlarge 
 
 Her tongue. 
 
 Fid. Before I goe know all — 
 
 King. Stay her, I thought the racke would draw it forth. 
 
 Fid. That whatso'ere through frailty of my flesh, 
 To tortures not iniur'd, I may perchance 
 Hereafter say or more or lesse than what 
 I have already said, is nothing so ; for may 
 My soule share blisse, as I the trueth doe say. 
 
 King. Goe, dragge her hence, and see her soundly tortur'd. 
 
 Flor. (kneels) I begge the boone your Majestic was pleas'd 
 To promise me. 
 
 King. Name it, and it is granted. 
 
 Flo. This mayde's release from bonds, or further torture. 
 
 King. Thinke on some other suite, this must not be. 
 
 Flo. Your word is past, I'le nothing begge but this. 
 
 Am. Sir, be persuaded, truely I beleeve 
 The mayde hath told the trueth ; besides your word 
 Is past, and cannot be recalled with honour. 
 To adde to this, there is no doubt, where e're 
 The Princesse is, when she shall heare of this 
 She'll instantly return to Court. We all 
 Will goe in pursuite of her. 
 
 King. Loose the mayde. 
 
 Flo. Thankes to your Majesty ; and heere I vow 
 Since my fates would not suffer me to fight 
 118
 
 For Florabella, never to see 
 
 Your Majesty till I have found her out, 
 
 And brought her to you. Come you along with me. 
 
 (Exit Florabella and Fiducia. 
 
 Bell. Till newes be heard of her, there shall no newes 
 Be heard of Bellamour. I'le seeke the world 
 Throughout but I will find her. (Exit. 
 
 Mont. Sir, courage, certainely she will be found. 
 
 King. I hope she will ; meanetime pray let us know 
 To whom it is we stand so much indebted, 
 And how you came to make this blest discovery. 
 
 Syl. Sir, I'm a Cyprian of the Isle of Cyprus : 
 The reason of my comming hither was 
 To seeke a Prince out ; now the king of Cyprus, 
 (For our late king is lately dead) his sonne 
 Some six months since, for that his father would 
 Have forced a marriage on him, left the Court, 
 And privately stole in disguise away. 
 Leaving a note behinde him in his study, 
 Whereby he signified he had tak'n an oath 
 Which he would most religiously observe 
 Ne're to returne, nor yet make himselfe know'en 
 For w^hat he was, whils't that his father lived. 
 The old king hearing this, strucke through with griefe 
 Fell sicke, and five months after died. Our State 
 Now^ wants a Governour, to helpe the which 
 Fifty o' th' Court, whereof myself e am one 
 Tooke all a vow never backe to returne 
 Till we had found the Prince, or heard newes of him- 
 My lot fell this way, where whils't I was riding, 
 
 119
 
 Not many houres agoe amidst a wood 
 
 I heard an hideous outcrye ; I spurr'd on 
 
 A pace towards the place from whence it came, 
 
 And well it was I spurr'd, else all had been in vayne. 
 
 For I might see two villaines with their weapons 
 
 About to murder her whom here you see, 
 
 Whose screekes brought me to succour her ; the 
 
 slaves 
 When they saw me betooke them to their heeles. 
 And did, to save themselves, not murder her ; 
 My errand was not to pursue them flying, 
 But rescue her, as luckily I did. 
 When she had taken breath, and found her selfe, 
 In safer custody than formerly, 
 I asked her why this outrage was intended ; 
 She told me all what y' have heard already 
 Touching the treason plotted 'gainst the life 
 Of Florabella, and how she herselfe 
 By the same treacherous Prince was doom'd to 
 
 death. 
 For, that her death might be more terrible 
 The rogues had told her this before : 
 You will beleeve when I heard this I made 
 What haste I could to do what I have done. 
 Save th' innocent and makes the guilty know'en, 
 I onely stay'd to make my footboye shift 
 Apparell with Lucina, that she so 
 Might come along with me disguis'd and serve 
 If neede should be for witnesse, as sh' has done, 
 And now. Sir, you know all. 
 120
 
 King. I know myselfe indebted much to you 
 Which to requite Tie use all power I have 
 To finde your Prince out ; to that end Montalto, 
 Give order Proclamation be made in every place 
 Which may divulge the King of Cyprus death. 
 
 (Exit Montalto. 
 rie write to all my neighbour Princes 
 Intreating them to do the like, this way 
 'Tis like the Prince may soonest here of it, 
 Which when he doeth he surely will returne. 
 
 Syl. I humbly thanke your Majesty for this 
 So noble favour, which our State shall know. 
 
 (Enter Florabella in her own clothes, who kneeleth downe 
 before her father and saith 
 
 Flo. Your pardon, Sir, for having been the cause 
 Of some houres sorrow in you. 
 
 King, My Florabell, 
 
 My dearest childe, and now more deare than ever 
 Since freed from calumny ! where hast thou beene ? 
 Goe, call backe Bellamoiu*, say she is found. 
 
 Per. Ne're did the Grayhound with more willingnesse 
 Pursue the flying hare than Tie doe him. (Exit Feredo. 
 
 Flo. Sir, when I saw the time draw neere and none 
 Appeare in my defense, rather than perish 
 So calmely, I resolved to be 
 Mine own defender. I did thinke the Gods 
 Would never suffer innocence to suffer, 
 Besides there was by this course some meanes offer'd 
 Of coveted revenge, which I was sure 
 
 121
 
 To purchase in some sort, 
 
 For or I should have overcome, or when th' accuser 
 
 Should see whom he had slayne, 'twould have appeas'd 
 
 My slaunder'd soul to see how 'twould have vex'd him : 
 
 I to this purpose did what you have heard 
 
 Fiducia relate, but was prevented in 
 
 The execution of my designes 
 
 As you have seene Sir. 
 
 King. Happily prevented. 
 
 Enter Bellamour and Feredo. 
 
 Bell. The King of Cyprus's dead, the Princesse found 
 And innocent ; then Sir, I crave the boone 
 You promised w^ith more assurance than 
 I thought I should have done. I crave your daughter 
 For wife unto the King of Cyprus. 
 
 {He discovereth himselfe to be Prince of Cyprus. 
 
 Syl, Beyond my hopes see I have found him out ; 
 Sir, thus in name of all your subjects I 
 Salute you King of Cyprus. 
 
 King. And I with joy not easily expres't 
 Doe thus make good my boone. Take her, and take 
 With her more joy than e're befell a Prince ; 
 1 neede not aske your leave, deare daughter, neede I ? 
 
 (He gives him Florabella. 
 
 Flo. Sir, you have given me more of true content 
 In this, than I till now had cause to hope for : 
 Yet I must begge one favour more. 
 
 King. Speake on, 
 
 122
 
 Denyalls now are out of season. 
 
 Flo. That you'll be pleas'd, Sir, to forgive Lucina. 
 
 Syl. Madame, 'twas that I mean't t' have made my 
 boone, 
 But since your Highnesse hath prevented me, 
 I crave another, th' abrogation 
 Of this to women too unjust a Law. 
 
 King. All's graunted : Pardons, Boones, whate're they 
 be, 
 For this must be a day of Jubilye. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 123
 
 NOTES 
 
 In printing this play the spelling of the manuscript has been 
 followed as closely as possible. Of course it will be under- 
 stood that the spelling in this, as in most manuscripts and 
 printed books of the time, is by no means uniform ; and this 
 will account for the fact that one word will often be found 
 to be spelt in two or more ways even within the compass of 
 a few lines. The reader will notice also some peculiar forms 
 of spelling (such as doeth, know'en, trueth, &c.) which, 
 though common enough in older works, do not often occur 
 in books or manuscripts of so late a date as this. It was a 
 question with me as to whether it was worth while to pre- 
 serve these forms ; but it seemed, on the whole, best to retain 
 them. With the punctuation, however, I have dealt very 
 freely, since to have preserved that of the manuscript would 
 have been doing an ill service to the author. In many cases 
 the original punctuation has the effect of obscuring instead 
 of clearing the writer's meaning. I have endeavoured so to 
 regulate it as to bring out as clearly as possible the meaning 
 of the text. 
 
 For most of the following notes I have to thank my friends, 
 Percy Simpson, Esq., and G. Thorn Drury, Esq. 
 
 125
 
 Page 5. Lines 24-27. 
 
 her 
 I have observed ne're to be so well 
 In tune, or set upon so gay a pin 
 As when screw'd up by him. 
 
 C/. Chaucer, " The Marchante's Tale," 271-272. 
 
 By my fader kin 
 Your herte hangeth on a Joly pin. 
 
 *' The origin of the expression is obscure. In later 
 
 writers it is sometimes associated [as it is here] 
 
 with the musical tuning-peg." — "New English 
 Dictionary." 
 
 Page 9. Line 8. 
 
 You runne too much upon the counter-byas. 
 
 C/. French, a contre hiais. The earliest quotation 
 of the expression in the "New English Dictionary" 
 is dated 1656. 
 
 Page 14. Line 22. 
 
 From selfe-unworthiness to think 
 
 C/. Ford's " Broken Heart," Act i. Scene 1 : j 
 
 So much out of a self-unworthiness 
 His fears transport him. 
 
 Page 18. Line 18. a pretty moather. C/. Fletcher, "Maid 
 in the Mill," Act iii. Scene 2 : 
 
 A pretty child she is, although I say it, :\ 
 
 An handsome mother. 
 126
 
 Page 19. Line 17. Trumpets sound, &c. Cf. for this scene 
 of the tournament, "Pericles," Act ii. Scene 2. 
 Consult also Green's " Shakespeare and the Emblem 
 Writers," where much information as to mottoes 
 and devices, such as those employed by the knights 
 in these two scenes, is given. 
 
 Page 42. Line 20. Courtnols. *' Courtnoll." * A contemp- 
 tuous or familiar name for a courtier.' — •• New 
 English Dictionary." In some cases, as in the pre- 
 sent, it seems to mean not the courtiers themselves, 
 but their servants or dependants. 
 
 Page 42. Last line, the last couple in hell. "Barlibreak, 
 or the last couple in hell. The name of a rural 
 sport, very often alluded to by our poets." — Nares' 
 •* Glossary." 
 
 Page 43. Line i. What daunce shall's have ? The various 
 dances named in this scene are all, I believe, well 
 known, and the music of some of them w^ill be 
 found in Chappell's ** Popular Music of the Olden 
 Time." Of one of them Chappell says : " An old 
 man's a bed [not bag] of bones " is the same tune as 
 " Cock Sorrel." 
 
 Page 43. Line 9. ' Tarlton's Trunk-hose.' Cf. T. Wright, 
 "The Passions of the Minde in generall," 1601. 
 " Sometimes I have scene Tarleton play the clowne, 
 and use no other breeches than such sloppes or 
 slivings as now many gentlemen weare : they are 
 almost capable of a bushel of wheate ; and if they 
 be of sackecloth, they would serve to carrie mawlt 
 to the mill." 
 
 127
 
 Page 57. Line 3 from bottom. 
 
 I shall not have my gowne made tyme enough 
 
 This line, having evidently been accidentally 
 omitted by the copyist, has been inserted in 
 another handwriting, which I take to be that of 
 the author. There are three or four other in- 
 stances in the manuscript of lines thus inserted, or 
 of slight corrections made, by another hand. 
 
 Page 64. Line 20. the tune of Lachrimy. " Lachrymas. 
 The first word of the title of a musical work, com- 
 posed by John Dowland in the time of James I." 
 — Nares' " Glossary." It is evident from the 
 many references to this work by the poets and 
 dramatists of the time that it must have been very 
 popular. It was first published in 1605 ; and thus 
 w^e have a proof that the present play could not 
 have been written before that date. 
 
 Page 65. Line 6. ' that can neither wihye nor wagge his 
 tayle.' Cf. Jonson's "Every Man out of his 
 Humour," Act ii. Scene 2. 
 
 *' Nay, looke you, there's ne're a gentleman i' 
 the country has the like humours for the 
 hobby-horse as I have ; I have . . . the wigh- 
 hie, . . ." 
 
 Page 66. Line 22. So bred and so well parted. Cf. the char- 
 acter of Macilente, prefixed to *' Every Man out of 
 his Humour ": 
 
 "A man well parted, a sufficient Scholler." 
 128
 
 Page 69. Line 9. the hymenean rights. The two forms, 
 "rites" and "rights" were used indifferently at 
 the date of this play. 
 
 Page 79. Line 19, ' good take heed.' Cf. Fletcher's and 
 Massinger's "Spanish Curate," Act iv. verses iio- 
 III (ed. McKerrow) : 
 
 I know you want good diets and good lotions, 
 And in your pleasures good take heed. 
 
 Page 82. Last line. 
 
 The Balconye-window in the outward roome. 
 
 It would appear from this line, taken together with 
 line 14 on page 89, that "balcony" was then ac- 
 cented on the second syllable. It was in fact so 
 pronounced almost invariably till about 1825, 
 though there is one instance in Swift of the modern 
 pronunciation. See " The New English Dictionary." 
 
 Page 98. Lines 13-14. 
 
 If none should take her cause in hand, I 
 Would have had been the man my selfe. 
 
 This is the reading of the manuscript ; but per- 
 haps we should read : 
 
 If none should take her cause in hand, I would 
 Have beene the man my selfe. 
 
 Page 102. Line 4 from bottom. So, well said. A common 
 expression for "well done." "Well 'sayed," /.e., 
 essayed. 
 
 I 129
 
 Page 115. Line 20. * A guiderdon.* This form of ♦' guerdon" 
 is very rare, if not altogether unknown. No in- 
 stance of it is given in the "New English Dic- 
 tionary." There is, however, the old French form, 
 guedredon, and mediaeval Latin, widerdonum, from 
 which it may have been derived, though it is 
 unlikely that so archaic a form should be used at 
 so late a date. 
 
 Page 117. Line 19. ' hallotry.' This is the spelling of the 
 manuscript ; but it is, I suppose, merely an error 
 of the writer, since there does not appear to be 
 any other instance of the word being spelt in this 
 way. 
 
 Pages 1 18-19. Florabella's words and behaviour here and on 
 page 121 seem to have been suggested by those of 
 Rosalind in the last act of " As You Like It." 
 
 Page 119. Line i. 'For Florabella, never to see.' This 
 line is defective as it stands ; probably we should 
 add " again" to it. 
 
 Page 121. Line 21. 
 
 Fer. Ne're did the greyhound . . . 
 
 This speech, in the original, is given to Arg. 
 (Argales), but evidently in error. 
 
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