TOJBf ir .'! * * SUPPLEMENT TO THE PLAYS WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE: COMPRISING THE SEVEN DRAMAS WHICH HAVE BEEN ASCRIBED TO HIS PEN, BUT WHICH ARE NOT INCLUDED WITH HIS WRITINGS IN MODERN EDITIONS, NAMELY: THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN, THE LONDON PEODIGAL, THOMAS LORD CROMWELL, SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, THE PURITAN, OR THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET, THE YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY, THE TRAGEDY OF LOCRINE. EDITED, fify Mote, anfr an I ntrototian to mt[j BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. AUBURN AND ROCHESTER : ALDEN AND BEARDSLEY. NEW YORK : J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 1855. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, BY GEORGE F. COOLEDGE & BROTHER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Southern District of New York. TO THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE, (0)1? HE? Ei A 7 ]3>s The acute and laborious worker in the old, but still ample and green, fields of British Dramatic Literature, this humble labor, a FIRST American edition of the imputed Plays of SHAKSPEARE, is I) cnj Ucspcctfullg 3nsrribu&, BY THE EDITOR. WOODLANDS, SOUTH CAROLINA, January 20, 1848. 2040633 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. IN undertaking to supply the American reader with an edition of the plays which have been ascribed to Shakspeare, but which are not usually included among his writings, the publishers do not, by any means, propose to decide upon their authenticity. They prefer to leave this question, as they find it, to future criticism and the sagacity of the reader. It is enough for them that the question of authorship is still under discussion, and may long re- main so that some of the best critics of the age that is passing incline to the belief that several, if not all, of these imputed productions, however inferior to the generally-received performances of Shakspeare, are nevertheless from his pen and, that the weight of exter- nal testimony clearly corresponds with this opinion. For this matter, the reader will see the separate prefaces to the several plays, as they occur in this edition, where an endeavor has been made to bring together, for the purpose of facilitating the popular judgment, all the known facts in the history of their production and publication in past periods. The object of the present publishers is to afford to the general reader an opportunity, if not of deciding for himself upon the genuineness of these plays, at least of becoming familiar with their merits. Such a purpose, indeed, appears to belong particularly to the duties of a pub- lisher, who, though his aim be gain, is yet required to regulate his selfish desires by a due and equal regard to the claims of the public, and the writer whose works he brings before them. He stands in a relation of double responsibility ; and it seems scarcely proper that 4 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. the publisher of Shakspeare's writings, or of any writings, should presume to settle a diffi- culty so important to his author, by excluding, on the merest conjectures of criticism, a large body of literature which has been confidently ascribed to his pen, either by his con- temporaries or by those nearest to him in point of time ; and this, simply because of their inferiority, whether obvious or only supposed, to the average merits of his received perform- ances. They do not see that they enjoy the right, in the case of any author, of rejecting tes- timony, however inadequate as proof, at the simple instance of shrewd but conjectural criti- cism ; and are persuaded, in the case of so great a master, that, while the incorporation, with his recognised productions, of the plays which are doubtful, can by no means disparage or impair his acknowledged excellences, their exclusion, while any doubt exists, is an abso- lute wrong and injustice to the reader, who should at least be permitted to enter into a sim- ilar inquiry' with his critic, and to decide for himself upon what is intrinsic in the discussion. At all events, he should be permitted to believe that he possesses all of the writings of his favorite, though this conviction be coupled with the misgiving that he possesses something more. That he should arrive at the ordinary opinion the justice of which the present publishers do not propose to gainsay that these doubtful plays are, in point of merit, far below those which usually complete the body of Shakspeare's writings, will not, in any respect, lessen the propriety assuming it as possible that the former are really his of bringing the two classes together. They may, or may not, form a part of the same great family changelings, perhaps sons of premature birth of inferior stature and propor- tion "scarce half made up," "and sent into the world before their time;" but this infe- riority, or even deformity, should constitute no sufficient objection to the scheme of uniting them in the same household. There shall be a decrepit, a mute, or an idiot, in a noble family, while the true heir shall be of erect and symmetrical figure, with all attributes per- fect and superior ; but the practice would be pronounced Scythian and barbarous, which should destroy summarily, or banish to a desert cave to perish, the imperfect or inferior progeny, because of its unhappy disparity with him upon whom the hopes of the family are placed. The case finds its exact parallel in these instances of premature birth and imperfect organization in the literary world ; and there is an equal cruelty and impolicy in our consign- ing to oblivion the more homely or feeble production, because it so strikingly contrasts with that which we have learned to study and to love. This very contrast has its uses, since the defects of the one more strikingly impress us with the beauties of the other ; and we frame our own standards of excellence quite as frequently from the contemplation of the humble and the faulty, as of the perfect and the high. In the recognition of this opinion, the literary student has a leading interest, since he is naturally curious to see in what manner his predecessor has worked from what small be- ginnings, against what obstructions, and with what inferior tools. It is important, indeed, that he should see where, and how frequently, the great master has faltered, or has fallen, in his experiments. The very inequalities of the exemplar commend him somewhat more to our sympathies, as they tend to bring him within the laws of a humanity which is noto- riously imperfect. We are pleased to see how much was toil and trouble how much was care and anxiety how much was industry and perseverance how much was in mortal powers, in the secret of his successes; to discover that it was not all Genius all inspira- tion all the fruit of a special gift of Heaven, to a chosen individual, which no follower may hope to share. We are pleased to see how, feebly, step by step, he has continued to struggle, onward and upward, until, from awkwardness, he arrives at grace ; from weak- ness, he has grown to strength ; from a crude infancy, he has risen into absolute majesty and manhood. Those inequalities which declare the transition periods in the progress of the mind, and show the natural but laborious advance of the thinking faculties, from senti- ment to idea, and from idea to design and structure, are particularly grateful to the student, who, delighting in the excellences of a favorite author, acquires a personal and familiar in- terest in him, when thus permitted to follow him into his workshop to trace his gradual GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 5 progresses the slow marches of his intellect through its several stages of acquisition and utterance, infancy preparing the way for childhood, childhood for youth, and youth for man- hood, as naturally as in the physical world ; and the curiosity which requires to behold the singular processes of each individual self-training, the results of which have been eminence and fame, is the fruit of a just ambition, enlivened by instincts, which make it equally profit- able and pleasant to survey the modus operandi of the great genius, not yet fairly conceiving the peculiar mission which follows from his endowment, yet preparing, step by step, for the consummation of its objects. It is, indeed, by the faults and errors, rather than by the more symmetrical achievements of the masters, that we improve. The perfect models, seen by themselves, and totally uncoupled with those qualifying exuberances and failings, which are the necessary shadows to their successes, are rather more likely to discourage us by their manifest superiority, than invite by their examples. The difficulty of ihe model might impair our hope to excel or equal it, were we not permitted to know how frequently its author has failed, and how many abortive efforts have fallen from his hands, before he attained the degree of success in which he felt that his art could go no farther. We are encouraged when the laborious artist takes us into his studio, and reveals to us the painful difficulties which he has been compelled to overcome the rudeness of his own first con- ceptions and designs the feeble prurience of his childish fancies the unsymmetrical crudenesses of his thought, and the huge, ungainly fragments that lie about his workshop, which prove the pains, the labors, and frequent miscarriages, which preceded the perfect birth. This study of the artist in his cell, or of the author in his garret the familiarity thus acquired with his tools, and a proper idea of the toils, the obstacles, and the trials, which his patience, courage, study, and genius, have finally overcome, is, indeed, the true field of research for all those who would follow in his footsteps ; discouraging the vain and feeble, humbling the presumptuous, and fully unfolding, to the resolute and endowed worker, the true nature of that destiny for which he was chosen. It is mere dilettantism alone, which shrinks from such a development preferring only the knowledge of the per- fect results of labor, without being troubled with its processes. The mind of the true worker is best seen in these very processes. The genuine student and to such alone is it permitted to behold and to appreciate the highest objects and excellences of art prefers this survey, in connexion with the final results attained, simply as it unveils the peculiar processes of an individual mind : giving birth to an original thought, a new truth, shaped by imagination into a form which the world finally receives as a model and a law. It was the misfortune of Shakspeare, perhaps, that his early critics and commentators to say nothing of their more modern and recent successors have not been willing to ac- knowledge these considerations. Regarding their idol, most properly, as, perhaps, the most various wonder that mortal genius ever displayed, they were not willing that he should be found mortal in any respect. They entertained the vulgar notion that, in order to enhance his merits, they were to depreciate his advantages overlooking the notorious truth, that all successful art, no matter what has been its social fosterings or privileges, must still de- pend upon self-education a training of the inner nature, adapted particularly to the indi- vidual characteristics of the man, and to be conceived and carried on wholly by one's self. The achievements of Shakspeare, according to these philosophers, were to derive their value from the fact that his genius was totally unassisted by the usual school acquisitions, and his successes were to flow to him in spite of a condition of social life more than commonly un- friendly and adverse. He was to be wretchedly poor and destitute of training, and it was for accident alone, or a call of Providence rather, to prompt his mind to that direction, by which it was to effect its wondrous performances. Banished from his native hamlet, as a profligate and deer-stealer, he was to wander off to London as a link-boy, and the merest appanage of a theatre ; and, all of a sudden, he was to confound the world with the wonders of a genius to which his domestic fortunes had shown themselves hostile to the last. Most of this history is untrue, and much of it is absurd. The life of Shakspeare is gradually to 6 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. bt rewritten The earnest activity of such workers as Dyce, Collier, Knight, and t*ie gen- tlemen connected with the Shakspeare Society, in England, will continue to make discov- eries, such as they have already made, which will most probably lead us to such an approxi- mation of the true, in Shakspeare's career, as, at least, to relieve his biography of the gross exaggerations and errors which have disfigured it. We shall probably learn, as in part we do already, that his family was one of good repute and condition, though somewhat reduced in fortune, and not so much stinted but that his education was quite as good as could be afforded in that part of England during his boyhood that he was not only somewhat informed in Greek and Latin, as Jonson, indeed, tells us, though the wilful biographers of Shakspeare have perversely construed his line " And though them hadst small Latin and less Greek," into the possession of neither but that he was probably, in some degree also, acquainted with the French and Italian, and visited the continent, at some early period ef his life making a personal acquaintance at Venice with the Rialto, and receiving his prompting for that most perfect of all love stories, Romeo and Juliet, at the very tomb of the Capulets in Verona. It is also highly probable that, on leaving the grammar-school of Stratford, he passed into the office of an attorney, and picked up that familiarity with legal phrases, which his writings betray to a greater extent than those of all his contemporary dramatists to- gether. Here, it is probable we will suppose at fifteen or sixteen that his mind re- ceived its first dramatic direction. Several of his townsmen seem to have been players several of those who afterward appeared in his pieces the famous Burbage among them ; and Stratford had its theatre when John Shakspeare, the father of William, was bailiff of the town. It might be that the office of the father procured for the son some peculiar the- atrical privileges. Here, then, at this period, relieving the daily toils of an attorney's office by an occasional nocturnal frolic with the players, at the expense of Sir Thomas Lucy's park at Charlecote, he most probably commenced his first feeble career as a dramatic author. To suppose that he wrote any of the plays usually ascribed to him, at this early period, or, indeed, at any period of his life before his twenty-fifth year, unless Titus Andronicus and Pericles,* is almost an absurdity. These all betray, in addition to the manifest possession of the highest genius, the equal maturity of experience and reflection, the fruits of con- templation a knowledge only derivable from long and active association among men an art made confident by frequent successes a taste polished and refined by repeated and long exercise an imagination invigorated by habitual training a fancy curbed in its excesses by attrition with rival wits, and a constant familiarity with books from the best hands, not to dwell upon the singular knowledge of dramatic situation and stage effect, which his more mature pieces exhibit a knowledge which could only arise, as in the case of Sheridan Knowles, from a long practice in theatricals. These possessions are not gifts, but acquisi- tions. They are the work of time and practice. They are not to be found in youth, even in the case of the highest genius, since they contemplate human standards which fluctuate arts which depend upon a social condition, and a knowledge which is not derived from the natural or-external world, but the capricious world of man, and the appreciation of his finite characteristics and conditions. If, then, the great masterpieces of Shakspeare, such as his Othello, Macbeth, and Hamlet, were not likely to have been the work of his boyhood not likely to have been produced before his twenty-fifth year at least in what manner did he employ his genius during the ten years which preceded this period ? To suppose that he remained idle, pursuing a mere Shakspeare went to London in his twenty-third year, and Titus Andronicus appeared soon after, and became instantly popular. Indeed, it was one of the best pieces that had yet appeared on the English stage, however much we may despise it now ; and the very horrors and stateliness for which we condemn it, were the peculiar and distinguishing features of the English drama at that period, and commended it more especially to the taste of its unlettered audience. In Shakspeare's subsequent improvement, it is his merit, as it was that of Chaucer, to have lifted his people with him. GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 7 vegetable life in Stratford, from his fifteenth to his twenty-third year, when he went to Lon- don, would be a strangely unreasonable supposition. It is, ordinarily, about the fifteenth year that the poetic germ, in persons thus endowed, usually begins to exhibit itself with zeal and activity. To suppose that he did nothing until his twenty-fourth year, when Titus Andronicus first appeared, and that his first attempt should place him above all his prede- cessors, from whom he must have learned the very first rudiments of his art, is quite im- probable. Rejecting Titus Andronicus wholly, is it not equally unreasonable to imagine that he leaped to perfection at a single bound, armed in all the panoply, not merely of genius, but of thought, study, and experience, like Minerva, full clad and grown, from the thigh of Jupiter ? How much more reasonable to assume that his youth was employed in those crude performances which have been ascribed to him by his contemporaries and their imme- diate successors ; that it was with his Locrines and Titus Andronicuses that he first began his career in tragedy, and that some of the feeble comedies in this collection were the first fruits of his boyish embraces with the comic muse. There is nothing improbable or unrea- sonable in the conjecture, even if you show, not only that these crude productions are im- measurably inferior to his great works, but that they are totally unlike them in all the pecu- liar characteristics by which the master makes himself known. In these, a mere beginner, for the first time practising in an unfamiliar art, he naturally wrote in the fashion of the times. The horrors of Locrine and Titus Andronicus the unbroken stateliness of the lines, the swelling pomp of the diction, the free use of the heathen mythology, and the ex- travagant rant of all the characters were the common characteristics of all dramatic wri- ting at this period ; but it is no less remarkable than true, that, though in these respects partaking of all the vices common to the dramatic authors of the time, the author of Titus Andronicus was still their superior : and this very production was as far superior, in its real merits and proofs of genius, to most of its contemporaries, as Shakspeare's better dramas are superior to it. We have said that the deficiency of these works, in the usual characteristics of Shak- speare though we are far from admitting this deficiency in all respects is by no means to be regarded as an argument against their legitimacy. The opinion is not entertained without serious deliberation. The truth is, that a young author seldom writes from himself at first. He is more apt to write like anybody but himself. He subdues and suppresses himself. He does not feel himself. He is compelled to look out of himself for models and authorities, before he can properly unfold himself, and he naturally turns his regards upon the writers who are most popular whose books are most cried up by his neighbors, and whose stature most imposingly rises upon his young and timid imagination. This very un- folding of self is the great business of life never wholly effected, even with the utmost dili- gence, until the author has reached the mellow period of middle life, and seldom entirely then. We have numerous illustrative examples of this history in modern times, with which the reader is familiar. Who, for example, ever looked to the feeble ballads of Walter Scott, poor imita- tions of Monk Lewis, for the splendid creations of Marmion and Ivanhoe ? Who, in the boy- ish ditties and college exercises of Lord Byron, so cruelly but justly cut up by Brougham, in the Edinburgh Review, would have looked for signs of that genius which afterward brought forth Manfred, Childe Harold, and Cain ? Or who, in Cloudesley, the work of Godwin's senility, would recognise the daring and vigorous writer of Caleb Williams and St. Leon? The inequalities between the imputed and the acknowledged writings of Shakspeare are hardly greater than these contrasted performances of writers in our own period, and the dawnings are equally unlike the characteristics of the day which followed. The beginnings of a young writer are necessarily feeble, and, mostly, grossly imitative. His first aim is not idea or structure. It is the power of voice only such as his peculiar art requires the command of language in oratorical array. This very necessity makes him imitative of va- rious authors ; and he never becomes in any degree original, until he has acquired such a flexibility of speech as to enable him to clothe his thoughts, as they arise, with utterance. 8 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. Gradually, his original vein unfolds itself. You have, amid masses of common-place, an occasional germ which betrays freshness. You see a certain peculiarity of thought and manner, and possibly glimpses of design and conception, which are only buried where they occur, but which the author will be apt, finally, to extricate from the places where they were first planted, as in a nursery, and set out elsewhere in a connexion which shall enable them to flourish appropriately, and to their most legitimate effect. In these plays, whether by Shakspeare or not, will be found several instances of the germ, which has afterward been developed nobly in his subsequent performances. Here and there a line or thought, and here the glimpses of a scene or scheme, which the timid and unprac- tised hand of the boy-beginner had not courage or patience to pursue to its complete suc- cesses in the first premature endeavors of his muse. Let us pursue this point a little farther, by a reference to the supposed order in which his plays are thought to have been produced. This conjectural arrangement, by the way, is exceedingly illusory. It resolves itself, apart from the evidence of the author himself, into mere guesswork, since, even the first publish- ing of a piece affords us no certain assurance that there are not others in his possession that do not precede it in point of time. Nor axe the intrinsic qualities of the piece any better guides, since the experience of all literature shows the frequent fact of the failure following the successful effort, quite as commonly as it precedes it. But, taking these estimates for what they are worth, let us see how the case appears. We have before us the several conjec- tures of Chalmers, Malone, and Drake. Titus Andronicus was produced upon the stage when Shakspeare was twenty-three years of age. The Comedy of Errors, according to Chalmers and Drake, appeared first in 1591 ; and Malone says 1592. This would make Shakspeare, who was born in 1564, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age. Now, we are free to declare the opinion, that, of the two pieces, Titus Andronicus is immeasurably the best, and exhibits an immense superiority over the Comedy of Errors, in all the essential proofs of poetry and character. Hamlet is supposed to have been produced (Chalmers and Drake) in 1597 ; Malone, more probably we think, makes it 1600, or nine years after the production of the Comedy of Errors, and twelve years after that of Titus Andronicus. Now, if we compare the relative gain of Shakspeare's genius, in this stretch, whether of nine or twelve years, as illustrated by the superiority of his Hamlet over the Comedy of Errors, what may we assume it to have been during the interval from his twenty-seventh year, when the Comedy was produced, and the period of his life at Stratford, from fifteen to twenty-three, when it is scarcely rational to suppose that he lay completely idle ? He who examines carefully the plays in this collection, will find no such wonderful inequality be- tween them, and the Titus Andronicus, Comedy of Errors, and Pericles pieces which any attempt to wrest from Shakspeare is eminently absurd as exists between these latter pieces and the great works which make him the wondrous master that he is. In the three plays just mentioned, his now-admitted works, there is greater polish, symmetry, dexterity, and worldly knowledge ; but the germs of poetry are not more frequent, nor more decided, nor the proofs of originality and invention more certain or satisfactory. The acknowledged plays of Shakspeare, thirty in number, including Pericles and Titus Andronicus, occupy, in the period of their production, a space of time ranging from 1588 to 1614 a period of twenty-seven years. This, if he began at twenty-four, the period when Titus Andronicus was produced, and ceased to produce in 1613, when he left the theatre, and retired from London to Stratford, would show an average production of one play to every eight months. How many, then, should he have written during the long period of probation, when, if we receive not the writings of this volume, he did absolutely nothing. Supposing him, how- ever, to have been equally industrious and prolific, as Ben Jonson and others of his contem- poraries tell us that he was, is it not highly probable that he carried with him a considerable stock to London. He went thither in 1587. Two things may be assumed for him in this connexion, namely, that he would seek publication as soon as possible, and that he would bring out his best production first. Titus Andronicus, accordingly, appeared in 15S8-'9 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 9 Pericles, according to Drake, in 1590 ; and, as we have seen, the Comedy of Errors appeared the year after. These were, no doubt, the best pieces in our young poet's collection Titus Andronicus being really the best of these. Their success may have stifled his inferior pro- ductions in the birth, or have prompted him to put them forth indifferently or anonymously, under the obvious necessity of not risking the renown which he had already won, by works, the crudities of which his now-rapidly growing experience enabled him to see. His Love's Labor's Lost, another of these inferior productions, but less offensive by its crudities, and more decidedly a work of art, was suffered to appear in 1591 (according to Drake), 1592 (Malone), 1594 (Chalmers). The conjecture of Drake is the most reasonable, though we must repeat that nothing can be more unsatisfactory or doubtful than these speculations. We need not continue them. Taking them for what they are worth and they embody no improbabilities and we have reason to assume, that he whose progress in dramatic art had been so moderate between the period when he produced these latter pieces, and the first, might naturally enough have written the works in the following collection at a still earlier date. We insist that the characteristics of the pieces above mentioned are not much more decidedly like those of the great the full-grown Shakspeare, than the performances which have been imputed and denied. But, our opinion is, that the prolific youth took with him to London the germs of all these early plays the Comedy of Errors, as well as Peri- cles, and Titus Andronicus, the Love's Labor's Lost, and the Two Gentlemen of Verona that he there altered and amended them, as his increasing experience with the stage and people counselled, and that the inequalities of thought and language, to be found in all these pieces, and which so constantly compel the critics to cry aloud that they see two different hands at work, are due entirely to these graftings, made by the more practised hand, upon the imperfect growth of its more feeble and inexperienced planting. Doubtless, if time had been allowed him were not his muse too prolific and too fond of the provocation of new scenes and subjects, which diverted him from works, the topics of which could no longer excite his imagination we should have seen these pieces furbished up in the same manner, and have been compelled, by the obvious impress of the master, shown here and there by a decisive thought and fancy, and such lines as betray a grace which genius knows how to snatch from nature without the assistance of art, to admit the still-abortive production as from the unquestionable hand of Shakspeare. These pieces were thus suffered to find their way to the stage and the public, without the paternal care which they could no more reward ; or, it is possible that they preceded even Titus Andronicus in performance, and that they were brought out by his friends, the players, at Stratford, or were carried up, by the same hands, to London, even before he adventured to the great city himself, and were finally left to their fate, in consequence of that condition of things in the theatrical world, a proper knowledge of which would tend to account for that otherwise singular indifference which the dramatic authors of that time have shown toward their productions. A few words on this head, in explanation, may not be unadvisable. There was really no such indifference of the author, to the fate of his writings, as our frequent wonder and lamentations have unjustly made to appear. The old dramatists were as jealous of their fame, their name, and the fortunes of their pieces, as the most sen- sitive writers now. By constant squabbles and controversies, which not unfrequently grew from words to blows, they proved themselves to be true members of the genus irritabile ratum. A world of pamphlets, essays, critiques, prefaces, and epigrams, remain to us, illustrating this belligerent disposition, from the pens of a host of angry combatants ; and when their pieces were denounced and driven from the stage, they rushed to the press, am 1 made their final appeal their temper quite as apparent as their logic to the judgments of a higher class, or to the more deliberate, the sober second thought, of the very critics by whom the pieces had been censured. The plays, accordingly, which we have received from the hands of the authors themselves, are those, chiefly, which failed upon the stage. These, consequently, are likely to have come to us in the most perfect condition. That 10 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. such should le the case, is not a subject of surprise to those who remember that the legit imate mode of dramatic publication is from the stage, and not from the press. A suc- cessful play was a property of the theatre, for which it was usually written, not unfre- quently under contract with the manager ; and it derived its value almost entirely from the fact that it was kept from the press. It was thus preserved as a novelty, and always bore an air of freshness when it was produced. The great cause of the decline of modern theat- ricals, is to be found in the fact that the press has made the people familiar with the pieces played ; and those who attend the theatre, accordingly, go only to discriminate between the styles of actors thus substituting one art for another to witness the pageantry, hear the music, and see the company. In withholding the play from the press, the manager equally withheld it from the author. The latter had sold entirely the right of property in his pro- duction, and no longer held any control ovej its destination. The work of his hands was thus entirely released from his jurisdiction. It could be lopped or lengthened at the pleasure of the manager, played or suppressed, altered in title, and subjected to alterations and interpo- lations, to suit particular exigencies and occasions ; and these alterations were as frequently confided to the hands of strangers as to those of the original author. In this way, it is not unreasonably supposed, that Shakspeare himself has given his peculiar impress to the works of inferior artists, and that his own great productions have been impaired by the unskilled efforts of common workmen, to adapt his pieces to the common standard, or the particular occasion. The great body of English dramatic literature never found its way to the press at all, until in the ascendency of the puritans, when the theatres being overthrown and abolished, the property ceased to have a value in the original and legitimate form of publi- cation, and was sold to, or seized upon by, the early publishers, to whose carelessness and ignorance we owe the wretched mangling to which the finest strains of tragic song have been subjected, and from which the original and perfect versions have, to this day, but im- perfectly recovered. To any one who has ever seen a first edition of Shakspeare's Hamlet, it is scarcely necessary to say, that the piece is not to be recognised at all, compared with the restored production, faulty as that still is, which we now possess. The breaking up of the theatres led to the dispersion equally of players and plays. The latter, scattered abroad in various hands, were lost and destroyed in immense numbers. Where they survived the tender mercies of such appreciating critics as the Cook of Warburton, they still suffered from a treatment which nothing but the native hardihood of their constitutions enabled them to withstand. Neither the sway of the Stuarts, nor that of Cromwell, was favcfrable to the higher forms of art and poetry. The divine genius of Milton succumbed under the one, and was compelled to work as a politician only for the other ; while the bald comedy of an infe- rior school, to which a vastly inferior talent was the minister, failed utterly to compensate the nation for the manhood, the soul, the vigorous, sinewy, and deeply-energetic blood and courage, of the earlier and the nobler muse. That Dryden must be recognised as a redeem- ing worker in the more modern period, will not impair the justice of its general condemna- tion. When the plays of the old dramatists found their way to the press at first, they enjoyed none of the advantages of editorship. The players themselves, unless in the case of their own writings, which they seldom edited, were indifferent as to what became of pieces which no longer yielded them a livelihood. The proprietors gave or sold them to the .press, without feeling or affection ; and the publishers, if not so indifferent as the players, were less capable of correct readings of the manuscript. Titlepages were lost, blurred, or oblit- erated ; titles themselves were changed, to suit the whim of the publisher, or meet the fashions of the times. The plays were hurried through the press, with all their imperfec- tions on their heads. The original draughts of the author the copies of the player, cov- ered with his private marks or opinions were published just as the printer found them, defaced with extraneous matter, which was perversely incorporated with the text. Verse was printed as if it were prose, and prose as verse. Stage directions were mingled with the matter, lengthening the line, and baffling the sense ; and even the cues of actors, and their GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 11 sometimes whimsical and mischievous comments, were studiously set forth to the reader, in the body of the play, to the equal disparagement of the sense and symmetry of the piece. It is only of late days that the press has been repairing its own mischief, in the case of the early dramatists ; whose fortunes have been thus peculiar, from the peculiar characteristics of their profession, and not from any such wholesale indifference to the awards of fame as has been so thoughtlessly ascribed to them. English and German criticism, with an inge- nuity and industry which can scarcely be too highly commended, has done wonders in re- trieving many noble writings from oblivion, by correcting the mistakes, and amending the decisions, of a preceding age ; restoring the purity of the text of favorite authors particu- larly Shakspeare so as to afford us a tolerably fair substitute for writings which no substi- tute, not of an author's own choosing, can possibly hope to render altogether satisfactory. The undoubted plays of Shakspeare, published in his lifetime, were Othello, Troilus and Cressida, King Lear, Hamlet, Merry Wives of Windsor, Much Ado about Nothing, Mid- summer Night's Dream, Merchant of Venice, the first and second parts of Henry IV., Henry V., parts II. and III. of Henry VI., Love's Labor's Lost, Romeo and Juliet, and Richard II. and III. To these are to be added Pericles and Titus Andronicus. The editions thus published were all imperfect, apparently from- copies surreptitiously obtained ; and some, as in the case of Hamlet, from reporters at the theatre, relying chiefly on the ear for the text, during the rapid and passionate enunciation of the performers. Both proprietor and author were equally interested in arresting such a practice ; but it was one for which the crude and imperfect legislation of that day scarcely much bettered, in respect of copy- right, in our own could suggest no remedy. The pieces in the collection which follows the Two Noble Kinsmen excepted were also printed, either with his name or his initials, in the lifetime of Shakspeare. An edition of his works, put forth after his death, by Heminge and Condell, his friends, associate pro- prietors with him of the Globe theatre, contained (making the same exception) the same body of plays : and the dedications and prefaces to this edition are supposed, with reason, to have been from the pen of Ben Jonson, his intimate friend, and most profound and dis- criminating admirer. They and he ought to have known whether these plays could prop- erly, or should, be imputed to his pen. They include them without comment, and, seem- ingly, without doubt or misgiving. The plays which have been imputed to Shakspeare, but which the critics have concluded to regard as doubtful, may be divided into two classes. The one consists of those plays only which have been (wholly or in part) ascribed to his pen, and included, at an early pe- riod, among his works ; the other, of those which a vague tradition, no longer to be followed, has assigned him, or which have been assumed to be his, in consequence of certain supposed resemblances to his writings, in thought and manner, which have been discovered in them by ingenious criticism. The present publication is confined wholly to the former class. It comprises seven dramas. The first of these the Two Noble Kinsmen is supposed to be from the joint hands of Shakspeare and Fletcher. The first act, indeed, has been confidently ascribed to the pen of the former, not merely by the critics, on the strength of its peculiar merits, but by a tradition of the playhouse. On this point, our opinion, which is offered with great deference, will be found in the immediate introduction to the play in question. The six other plays are in the order of the old folio of Heminge and Condell : the London Prodigal ; the History of Thomas Lord Cromwell ; Sir John Oldcastle Lord Cobham ; The Puritan, or the Widow of Watling Street ; a Yorkshire Tragedy ; and the Tragedy of Locrine. The history of these six plays, so far as it is now known to us, will be found in the sepa- rate introductions, as they occur at the opening of each, and will not require farther notice. Indeed, most of these introductions have been rendered copious, somewhat at the expense of the "general introduction," suggesting views and arguments which might have been examined here. They will not, accordingly, require our farther consideration. 12 GENERAL INTRODUCTION. Of the second class of imputed plays, which do not appear in this volume, the list is quite as large as the former. It comprises " Arden of Feversham" a piece of considerable merit ; " the Reign of King Edward III." a work so like Shakspeare's, in the respects of versifi- cation and manner, that it is difficult to hit upon any writer who could so happily have imi- tated him ; " George a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield" which is now supposed to have been written by Robert Greene, but upon the most slender of all sorts of evidence ; " Fair Emma" which Mr. Knight assigns to a period subsequent to the death of Shakspeare ; " Mucedorus," of which we know nothing, and can express no opinion, Tieck and Horn, the German critics, pronounce it a youthful production of Shakspeare ; Mr. Knight gives us a brief analysis of the story, describes it as a lively play, with some few passages of merit, but, otherwise, speaks of it slightingly ; " The Birth of Merlin" which, in its first known edition, that of 1662, was announced as the joint production of Shakspeare and Rowley ; and " The Merry Devil of Edmonton" a performance which, as Mr. Knight justly remarks, is that of a true poet, whoever he may be. These seven plays, constituting the whole number of those, the ascription of which to William Shakspeare rests chiefly upon opinion, may be made, hereafter, to constitute the materials for an additional volume to that which is now offered to the public. In compiling and preparing such a collection for the press, the object will be, as in the present instance, not to assert, or even to assume, that the writings in question are those of Shakspeare, or so to argue as in anywise to give a direction to the question which denies their legitimacy, but simply to enable the reader to be sure that he loses nothing, even of what is puerile and immature, in the writings of so great a master. It is thought better and safer to impute to him, erroneously, those productions to which no other author presents an equally reasonable claim, than to leave the reader in doubt whether some of the performances of his favorite have not been withheld from his possession. INTRODUCTION TO THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. THIS play was first printed in 1 634, with the fol- owing title : " The Two Noble Kinsmen: presented at the Black Friers by the King's majesty's servants, with great applause : written by the memorable wor- thies of their time, Mr. John Fletcher and Mr. Wil- liam Shakspeare, gent., and printed at London by Thos. Cotes, for John Waterstone, and are to be solde at the signe of the Crowne in Paul's churchyard 1634." In the first folio edition of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher, in 1647, the Two Noble Kins- men did not appear. It is reprinted in the second folio edition, with some slight alterations from the quarto. The story is taken from the " Knight's Tale," in the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer. It is certainly a very fine performance ; marked by considerable ine- qualities of execution, but lifted by frequent passa- ges of great nobleness, delicacy and power. In some portions, the plot is managed with skill and spirit; the slightest suggestions of Chaucer's muse being seized upon and brought out with the happiest and most dramatic effect. In other parts, we have to regret that the dramatist has slurred over some of the points made by the old poet, which might have been illustrated with rare scenic ability. The open- ing scene, considering the action only, is quite wor- thy of Shakspeare's hand, even if it did not employ it. It presents a dramatic spectacle of great and tragic interest. Other scenes correspond with this in merit : we may instance that in which the broth- ers assist each other in putting on their armor before the duel, and that in which they appear severally be- fore their favorite deities with their invocations and offerings. These scenes must have shown very im- pressively upon the stage. They unite high tragic dignity with a progressive dramatic interest, which, while it raised the expectations of the audience, filled their hearts with solemnity and emotion. The story is one of considerable difficulties, being better suited, in some of the most interesting por- tions, for narrative and epic, than for dramatic pur- poses. Some of the most important events are con- veyed to the spectator by narration, rather than in action. It is enough to indicate the combat between the rivals and their friends, and the final catastrophe which determines the fate of the triumphant party. Another of the obstacles to the complete dramatic success of this tragedy, is that want of personal prominence and individual superiority in either of the chief characters, on which so much of the suc- cess of a play depends. The rival youths, Palamon and Arcite, are distinguished rather by the descrip- tive passages of the author, than by their own per- formances, or, in these, only in the minor and less impressive portions of the piece. There is no such inequality of character, between the princes, as will permit the audience to choose between them. The spectator knows not which to make his favorite, and dare not yield his sympathies to one of the parties, lest he should do wrong to the claims of the other. They are both equally pure, brave, and virtuous equally accomplished in arms, and alike graceful and winning in deportment. To decide between them, the author himself finds impossible, and can only extricate himself from his embarrassment by throw, ing the catastrophe upon the gods an accident de- termining the success of one of the princes, after the prize has actually been awarded to his opponent. The question of the authorship of this play is one much more difficult to decide than its merits. An old tradition of the play-house reports that the first act was written by Shakspeare, and the rest by Fletcher. The tradition, with the titlepage of the quarto of 1634, are therefore the only direct external evidence in favor of the notion that Shakspeare had a hand in its production. The evidence is almost equally doubtful, indeed, of Fletcher's participation in it. The first editors of the collected edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's works omit the Two Noble Kinsmen, withseventeen other plays, because it had been printed before in separate form. It is included in the second edition of 1679, in order, as they al- lege, that the writings of these authors may be " per- fect and complete." That they were not prepared to make it so, with proper circumspection, maybe infer- red from the fact that they included in this collection one, at least, of the known performances of another writer. The truth is, the external testimony is very 14 INTRODUCTION. nearly a blank in regard to the claims of both drama- tists. It may be Shakspeare's, or it may be Fletcher's. The claim of the latter, from intrinsic evidence, seems to me the better founded. On the same evidence, could we rely upon it solely were it not, indeed, the most uncertain and most illusory of all modes of determin- ing authorship we should say that Shakspeare never wrote a syllable of the piece before us, though much of it is directly imitated from Shakspeare. Yet we must express ourselves with becoming defer- ence. Mr. Pope supposes that the hand of Shak- speare may be discerned in some of the scenes. Dr. Warburton believes that he " wrote the first act, but in his worst manner." Mr. Coleridge says boldly, though, as he was wont to say many things, adven- turously : " I can scarcely retain a doubt as to the first act's having been written by Shakspeare." Charles Lamb speaks of some of the scenes as giving " strong countenance to the tradition that Shakspeare had a hand in this play They have a luxuri- ance in them which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner, in those parts of his plays where, the prog- ress of the scene being subordinate, the poet was at leisure for description." The German critics, who .claim to know more about Shakspeare than the Eng- lish, and who certainly have shown a just sympathy with his genius, by their fine and instinctive appre- ciation of it, concur in this opinion ; but their spec- ulations, as well as those which we have quoted, are wholly conjectural, and based upon assumptions, few of which will bear the test of a close examination. As we have seen, we have not a tittle of external evidence available at the present moment, which can furnish any sufficient clues to the mystery. A glance at the internal proofs satisfies us that the Two Noble Kinsmen a noble play, worthy of Fletcher, Chapman, or Ben Jon son is yet not Shak- speare's. It does not show, to us at least, any satis- factory marks of his footstep. Ex pede Herculem. The versification is not his. In spite of what Mr. Lamb has said on this subject, it lacks his flow and rivacity. The great marks of Shakspeare are his equal profundity and lucidity. He rises always with. a wing from his subject, however low that may be, as we see birds skim along the surface of the ground, just above and without touching it. His most difficult thoughts, ordinarily, are those which flow most mu- sically ; and the more comprehensive the range of his passions and ideas, they seem to choose for them- selves an utterance of special clearness in due degree with the natural obstacles of the conception. Now, let the reader examine the metaphysical verse of the Two Noble Kinsmen, and he will see what embar- rassments occur to the utterance of the writer in pro- portion to the subtlety of the sentiment. The near- est approach which he makes to Shakspeare's ac- knowledged writings, is to portions of such plays as Troilus and Cressida, of which the piece before us seems partly an imitation. Nor are these difficulties of utterance, when profound thoughts are to be ex- pressed, calling for a new phraseology, to be account- ed for by supposing that this was a production of our great dramatist in his youth. The Two Noble Kins- men is not the work of an apprentice. It shows the familiarity of a master with his tools one who would have done greatly better, had he trusted to himself wholly, avoiding anything like imitation His versification, if not that of Shakspeare, has force, readiness, compactness and animation. It is distinct and manly, if wanting something in freedom ; and the sentiment is declared with confidence and promptness, as the voice of one who has been long accustomed to speak. Were there less promptness, less skill and spirit, we might better be prepared to admit Shakspeare's agency in the piece at a time when he had not yet learned the extent and strength of his own resources. It is too confident a performance for the inexperienced writer, and too wanting in the higher freedoms of music and imagin- ation, for Shakspeare, in the day of his mature man- hood. It is very certain that Shakspeare never con- ceived the clumsy copy of his Ophelia which appears in this performance. Is it probable that he would have participated in the composition of a play in which his associate should presume upon such a gross caricature ? THE T0 NOBLE KIISMEK. PERSONS REPRESENTED. THESEUS, Duke of Athens. PALAMON, ) The Two Noble Kinsmen, in love with ARCITK, ) Emilia. PERITHOOS, an Athenian general. VALERIUS, a Theban nobleman. Six valiant knights. Herald. Gaoler. Wooer to the Gaoler's Daughter. Brothers, Friends, QERROLD, a schoolmaster. to the Gaoler. HIPPOLYTA, bride to Theseus. EMILIA, her sister. Three Queens. Gaoler's Daughter, in love with Palamon. Servant to Emilia. A Talorer, Countrymen, Soldiers, Nymphs, SfC. SCENE, ATHENS ; and in part of the First Act, THEBES. ACT I. SCENE I. Enter HYMEN, with a torch burning ; a Boy, in a white robe, before, singing, and strewing flowers ; after HYMEN, a Nymph, encompassed in her tresses, bear- ing a wheaten garland ; then THESEUS, between two other Nymphs, vtith wheaten chaplets on their heads ; then HIFPOLYTA, the bride, led by PERITHOUS, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging ; after her, EMILIA, holding up her train. 1 SONG. Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue ; Maiden-pinks, of odor faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true. Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry, spring-time's harbinger, With her bells 2 dim ; 1 Thia is the original stage-direction ; with the exception that Hippolyta, by a manifest error in the old copies, is led by Theseua. 8 Query : Harebells J 2 Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks'-heels trim. All, dear Nature's c5iildren sweet, Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense ! [Strew flowm. Not an angel of the air, 3 Bird melodious, or bird fair, Be* absent hence. The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 6 Nor chatt'ring pie, May on our bridehouse perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly ! Enter three Queens, in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns. The first Queen falls down at the foot of THESEUS ; the second falls down at the foot of HIPPOLYTA ; the third before Emilia. 1 Queen. For pity's sake, and true gentility, Hear and respect me ! 2 Queen. For your mother's sake, And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair Hear and respect me ! [ones, 3 Queen. Now for the love of him whom Jove hath marked The honor of your bed, and for the sake Of clear virginity, be advocate For us, and our distresses ! This good deed Shall raze you out o' the book of trespasses All you are set down there. Thes. Sad lady, rise ! Hip. Stand up ! Emi. No knees to me ! What woman I may stead that is distressed, Does bind me to her. Thes What's your request ? Deliver you for all. 1 Queen. We are three queens, whose sovereigns fell before The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endured The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes. He will not suffer us to bum their bones, To urn their ashes, nor to take th' offence Of mortal loathsomeness from the blessed eye Of holy Phoebus, but infects the winds 3 Angel is used for bird. Dekker calls the Roman eagle " the Roman angel." Gifforfs Massinger, vol. i, p. 36. * Be. The early copies, it. 5 dough he is the reading of the old editions. 16 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. With stench of our slain lords. Oh, pity, duke ! Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword, That does good turns to the world ; give us the bones Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ! And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note, That, for our crowned heads, we have no roof Save this, which is the lion's and the bear's, And vault to everything ! Thes. Pray you kneel not ! I was transported with your speech, and suffered Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting As wakes my vengeance and revenge for them. King Capaneus was your lord : the day That he should marry you, at such a season As now it is with me, I met your groom By Mars's altar ; you were that time fair, Not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses, Nor hi more bounty spread j 1 your wheaten wreath Was then nor thrashed, nor blasted. Fortune at you Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Her'cles, our kins- man, (Then weaker than your eyes) laid by his club ; He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide, And swore his sinews thawed. Oh, grief and time, Fearful consumers, ye will all devour ! 1 Queen. Oh, I hope some god, Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereto he '11 infuse power, and press you forth Our undertaker ! Thes. Oh, no knees ; none, widow ! Unto the helmeted Bellona use them, And pray for me, your soldier. Troubled I am. [Turns away. 2 Queen. Honored Hippolyta, Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain The scythe-tusked boar; that, with thy arm as As it is white, wast near to make the male [strong To thy sex captive ; but that this thy lord (Born to uphold creation in that honor First nature styled 2 it hi) shrunk thee into The bound thou wast o'erflowing ; at once subduing Thy force and thy affection ; soldieress, That equally canst poise sternness with pity, Who now, I know, hast much more power on him Than ever he had on thee ; who own'st his strength, And his love too, who is a servant' for The tenor of thy speech ; dear glass of ladies, Bid him, that we, whom flaming war doth scorch, Under the shadow of his sword may cool us ! Require him he advance it o'er our heads ; Speak 't in a woman's key, like such a woman A s any of us three ; weep ere you fail ; Lend us a knee ; But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove's motion, when the head's plucked off! Tell him, if he in the blood-sized 4 field lay swoll'n, 1 " Nor in more bounty spread her," is the old reading. The omission equally helps the sense and the measure. * I should prefer to read " staled it in," that is, dressed or habited in, meaning the masculine dignity with which man was endowed, as superior, at the creation, and with which, though an Amazon, the queen of Theseus must not conflict * Servant, attendant, one who even now waits to hear what you have to say. * Blood stained. Size or tiling, is a glutinous ground -employed by painters. Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, What you would do ! Hip. Poor lady, say no more ! I had as lief trace this good action with you As that whereto I'm going, and never yet Went I so willing way. 8 My lord is taken, Heart deep with your distress. Let him consider ; I'll speak anon. 3 Queen. Oh, my petition was [Kneels to EMILIA. Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops ; so sorrow wanting form Is pressed with deeper matter. Emi. Pray stand up ; Your grief is written in your cheek. 3 Queen. Oh, woe ! You cannot read it there ; here, through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream, You may behold them ! Lady, lady, alack, He that will all the treasure know o' the earth, Must know the centre too. He that will fish For my least minnow, let him lead his line To catch one at my heart. Oh, pardon me ! Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits, Makes me a fool. Emi. Pray you. say nothing ; pray you ' Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in't, Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you To instruct me 'gainst a capital grief indeed ; Such heart-pierced demonstration ! but, alas. Being a natural sister of our sex, Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me, That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity Though it were made of stone ; pray have good comfort ! Thes. Forward to the temple ! leave not out a jot Of the sacred ceremony. 1 Queen. Oh, this celebration Will longer last, and be more costly, than Your suppliants' war ! Remember that your fame Knolls in the ear o' the world. What you do quickly Is not done rashly ; your first thought is more Than others' labored meditance ; your premeditating More than their actions : but, (oh Jove ! ) your actions, Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish, 5 Subdue before they touch. Think, dear duke, think What beds our slain kings have ? 2 Quen. What griefs our beds, That our dear lords have none ! 3 Quern. None fit for the dead. Those that with cords, knives', drams, 6 precipitance, 7 Weary of this world's light, have to themselves Been death's most horrid agents ; human grace Affords them dust and shadow. 1 Queen. But our lords Lie blistering 'fore the visitating 9 sun, And were good kings, when living. Thes. It is true : and I will give you comfort, To give your dead lords graves. The which to do, Must make some work with Creon. [doing : 1 Queen. And that work now presents itself to the 8 Query : willingly T 6 Osprey, or ospring. the sea-eagle. 1 Dram, in the sense of drug ; suicide, by poison. 8 This is usually printed " Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance." We receive " cords," &.c., as genitive cases to "precipitance." 8 Query : vegetating 7 ACT I. SCENE II. 17 Now 't will take form. The heats are gone to-mor- Then bootless toil must recompense itself [row ; With its own sweat. Now, he's secure, Nor dreams we stand before your puissance, Rinsing your holy begging in our eyes, To make petition clear. 2 Queen. Now you may take him, Drunk with his victory. 1 3 Queen. And his army full Of bread and sloth. 1 Thts. Ariesius, that best know'st How to draw out, fit to this enterprise The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business ; forth and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we despatch This grand act of our We, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock ! 1 Queen. Dowagers, take hands ! Let us be widows to our woes ! Delay Commends us to a famishing hope. All. Farewell ! 2 Queen. We come unseasonably ; but when could grief Cull forth, as unpanged judgment can, fitt'st time For best solicitation ? Thes. Why, good ladies, This is a service whereto I am going, Greater than any war ; l it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope. 1 Queen. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected, when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moonlight corslet thee. Oh, when Her twinning 3 cherries shall their sweetness fall 4 Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings, or blubbered 5 queens ? what care For what thou feel'st not, what thou feel'st being able To make Mars spurn his drum ? Oh, if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in't will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shall remember nothing more than what That banquet bids thee to. Hip. Though much I like 8 You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor ; yet I think Did I not, by the abstaining of my joy, Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit, That craves a present medicine, I should pluck All ladies' scandal on me : therefore, sir, As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or seeing 1 '' for aye their vigor dumb, prorogue 1 See the speech in Hamlet, where Hamlet, forbearing tc slay the king at his prayers, proposes to take him " when h is drunk," &c., as his father had been taken " when full o bread," &c. 2 War. The early copies, was. 3 Other copies read twining. Twinned, is the prope word. * Fall an active verb. 6 Weeping. 6 In former editions, " Though much unlike," &c. She ad dresses Theseus, and means to say, though it pleases her, hi passion, and though it makes her sorry to have such painful visit to him, yet she is compelled to join with th suitors, even to the delay of her own happiness. As it for merly read, the sense was wanting. 1 " Sentencing for aye," ia the language of former cop ies. This business we are going about, and hang four shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend 'o do these poor queens service ! All Queens. Oh, help now ! ur cause cries for your knee. [To EMILIA. End. If you grant not ly sister her petition, in that force, iVith that celerity and nature, which he makes it in, from henceforth I'll not dare 'o ask you anything, nor be so hardy 2ver to take a husband. Thes. Pray stand up ! am entreating of myself to do That which you kneel to have me. Perithous, pead on the bride ! Get you and pray the gods 'or success and return ; omit not anything n the pretended celebration. Queens, bllow your soldier, as before. Hence you, And at the banks of Aulis meet us with The forces yon can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number, for a business More bigger looked ! Since that our theme is haste, stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip. weet, keep it as my token ! Set you forward ; ?or I will see you gone. f Exeunt toward the Temple. 'are well, my beauteous sister ! Perithous. Jeep the feast full ; bate not an hour on 't ! Per. Sir, I'll follow you at heels ; the feast's solemnity Shall want 8 till your return. Thes. Cousin, I charge you Budge not from Athens ; we shall be returning Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you, Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all. 1 Queen. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o' the world. 2 Queen. And earn'st a deity equal with Mars. 3 Queen. If not above him ; for, Thou, being but mortal, mak'st affections bend To. godlike honors ; they themselves, some say, Groan under such a mastery. Thes. As we are men, Thus should we do ; being sensually subdued, We lose our humane title. Good cheer, ladies ! [Flourish. Now turn we toward your comforts. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter PALAMOH and ARCITE. Arc. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood, And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in The crimes of nature ; let us leave the city, Thebes, and the temptings in't, before we further Sully our gloss of youth ! And here to keep in abstinence wcre^ shame As in incontinence : for not to swim In the aid of the current, were almost to sink ; At least to frustrate striving ; and to follow The common stream, 'twould bring us to an eddy Where we should turn or drown ; if labored 10 through, Our gain but life and weakness. 8 Query: wait? 9 " We shame," in former copies. 10 " Labor through," ia the old reading. 18 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Pal. Your advice Is cried up with examples. What strange ruins, Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes ! Scars, and bare weeds, The gain o' the martialist, who did propound To his bold ends, honor and golden ingots, Which, though he won, he had not ; and now flurted 1 By peace, for whom he fought, who then shall offer To Mars's so-scorned altar ? I do bleed When such I meet, and wish great Juno would Resume her ancient fit of jealousy, To get the soldier work ; that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart, now hard, and harsher Than strife or war could be. Are. Are you not out ? Meet you no ruin but the soldier in The cranks and turns of Thebes ? You did begin As if you met decays of many kinds : Perceive you none that do arouse your pity, But th' unconsidered soldier ? Pal. Yes ; I pity Decays where'er I find them ; but such most, That, sweating in an honorable toil, Are paid with ice to cool 'em. Arc. 'Tis not this I did begin to speak of; this is virtue Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes, How dangerous, if we will keep our honors, ft is for our residing ; where every evil Hath a good color ; where every seeming good's A certain evil ; where not to be even jump 3 As they are here, were to be strangers, and Such things to be mere monsters. Pal. It is in our power, Unless' we fear that apes can tutor us to Be masters of our manners. What need I Affect another's gait, which is not catching Where there is faith? or to be fond upon Another's way of speech, when, by mine own, I may be reasonably conceived, saved too, Speaking it truly ? Why am I bound, By any generous bond, to follow him Follows his tailor haply so long, until The followed make pursuit .' Or, let me know, Why mine own barber is unblessed with him ; My poor chin too, for 'tis not scissored just To such a favorite's glass ? What canon's there That does command my rapier from my hip, To dangle 't in my hand ; or to go tiptoe . Before the street be foul ? Either I am The fore-horse in the team, or I am none That draw i' the sequent trace ! These poor slight sores Need not a plantain ; that which rips my bosom Almost to the heart's Arc. Our uncle Creon. Pal. He ! A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes Make Heaven unfeared, and villany assured, Beyond its power there's nothing ; almost puts 3 1 Flurt to snap the fingers derisively. We may read flouted. * Jump just exactly. 3 This passage is ordinarily printed : " A most unbounded tyrant, whose sucfesset Make Heaven unfeared, and villany assured, Beyond its power ; there's nothing almost puts," e home alon. ^ Convent for convene, assemble. SCENE V. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their Kings, in a funeral solemnity, t(C. Ums and odors bring away, Vapors, sighs, darken the day ! Our dole more deadly looks than dying ! Balms, and gums, and heavy cheers, Sacred vials filled with tears, And clamors through the wild air flying : Come, all sad and solemn shows, That are quick-eyed Pleasure's foes ! We convent naught else but woes. We convent, &c. 3 Queen. This funeral path brings to your house- hold's grave : 4 Joy seize on you again ! Peace sleep with him ! 2 Queen. And this to yours ! J Queen. Yours this way ! Heavens lend A thousand differing ways to one sure end ! 3 Queen. This world's a city, full of straying streets ; And death's the market-place, where each one meets. Exeunt severally. ACT II. SCENE I. Enter GAOLER and WOOER. Gaoler. I may depart 2 with little while I live , Something I may cast to you, not much : Alas ! The prison I keep, although it be for great ones, They seldom come. Before one salmon, you Shall take a number of minnows. I'm given out To be better lined than 't can appear to me Report is a true speaker. I would I were. Really, that I am delivered to be. Marry [but] what I have be't what it will I will assure upon my daughter at The day o' my death. Wooer. Sir, I demand no more Than your own offer ; and I will estate Your daughter in what I've promised. Gaoler. Well ! We'll talk more of this when the solemnity Is past : but have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tender my consent. Wooer. I have, sir ; here she comes. Enter DAUGHTER. Gaoler. Your friend and I Have chanced to name you here on the old business ; But no more of that now ! Soon as the court-hurry Is over, we will make an end of it. I' the meantime look to the two prisoners, Tenderly ; I can tell you they are princes. Daughter. These strewings for their chamber. It is pity They are in prison, and [yet] 'twere pity that They should be out. I do think they've patience * Houtehnld"s grave. So the quarto. The ordinary read- ing is household graves. Each kins had one crave.* * So Mr. Knight ; and yet the " household graves" were those of the family. The"p' r al seems to me the more an- tique and the more IceriHmate readinff. It affords that free- dom from the literal which poetry most prefers. 5 Depart with port with. ACT II. SCENE II. 21 To make adversity ashamed. The prison, Itself, is proud of them ; and they have all The world in their chamber. Gaoler. They are famed to be A pair of absolute men. Daughter. By my troth I think [That] Fame but stammers them. They stand a Above the reach of report. [grees 1 Gaoler. I have heard them Reported, in the battle, to have been The only doers. Daughter. Ay, 2 mostjikely, For they are noble sufferers. I marvel how They would have looked, had they been victors, that With such a constant nobleness 3 enforce. A freedom out of bondage, making [of] misery Their mirth, and [of] affliction [but] a toy To jest at. Gaoler. Do they so ? Daughter. It seems to me, They've no more sense of their captivity, Than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, Look merrily, discourse of many things, But nothing of their own straits 4 and disaster; Yet. sometimes, a divided sigh, martyred, As 'twere in the deliverance, will break From one of them ; when t' other, presently, Gives it so sweet 5 rebuke, that I could wish Myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least, A sigher to be comforted. Wooer. I ne'er saw 'em. Gaoler. The duke himself comes private 6 in the And so did they ; [but] what the reason of it, [night, I knnw not. Look [you] yonder [where] they are ! That's Arcite [that] looks out. Enter PALAMON and ARCITE above. Daughter. No, sir, that's Palamon : Arcite's the lower of the twain. You may Perceive a part of him. Gaoler. Go to, leave 6 pointing ! They'd not make us their object. Out of 7 sight. Daughter. It is a holiday to look on them ! Lord, Lord ! the difference of men.s [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter PALAMON and ARCITE, in prison* Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? Arc. How do you, sir ! Pal Why, strong enough to laugh at misery, 1 Greet Seward reads " grief" and Mr. Knight follows him. Green, or grese, means steps or stairs, and may mean decrrees. Either of these makes sense of the passage, which gri'f does not. 2 Previous editions read " nay." The sense of the speech requires the alteration. 3 Previous copies read, " nobility." < Former copies read, " restraints." 6 " ?o sweet n rebuke." elsewhere. 6 " Privately," in Knight and Scward's edition. J O^ySffSSf 1 } ^ese omissions, which do not affect the sense, are demanded by the verse. The whole ecene which Mr. Knight prints as prose is in the usual dra- matic blank verse, and is so printed by Mr. ?eward. I have thrown in, here and there, a particle or preposition, where the measure seemed to require it 9 The position of Palamon and Arcite in the prison, with the power of observing what passes in the garden when Emilia enters, implies a double action which requires the employment of the secondary stage. See Othello, Act v. And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners t fear for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it ; And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? Where are our friends and kindred ? Never more Must we behold those comforts ; never [more] sec The hardy youths strive for the games of honor, Hung with the painted favors of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst 'em. And, as an east wind, leave 'em all behind us Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Out-strip the people's praises, win the garlands, Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. Oh, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honor, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses, Like proud seas under us ! Our good swords now, (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us. These hands shall never draw them out like lightning, To blast whole armies more ! Arc. No, Palamon, These hopes are prisoners with us : here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither, Like a too timely spring. Here age must find us, And, which is heaviest. Palamon unmarried. The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Laden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks ! no issue know us ; No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, Remember what your fathers were, and conquer ! The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishment, And, in their songs, curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world ; We shall know nothing here, but one another; Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes ; The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it ; Summer shall come, and with her .all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here ! Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite ! To our Theban hounds, That shook the aged forest with their echoes, No more now must we halloo ; no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steeled darts ! All valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two, here shall perish ; we shall die, (Which is the curse of honor !) lazily, 10 Children of grief and ignorance. Arc. Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere 11 blessings, 10 Mr. Knight, following the old copy, has " lastly" a word without significance in this connexion. I follow the reading of Mr. Seward. Sloth, laziness, and not death, is here meant by " the curse of honor." 11 Mere absolute. So Mr. Knight. " Mere" is certainly used by the old writers in the sense of absolute ; but I half incline to think that the proper word is new, which might well be converted into " mere" by the printer. More would answer better than mere. 22 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison. Pal. Certainly, Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twinned together : 'tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together, Will never sink ; they must not say they could j 1 A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. Arc Shall we make worthy uses of this place, That all men hate so much ? Pal. How, gentle cousin ? Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, To keep us from corruption of worse men ! We are young, and yet desire the ways of honor, That liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might, like women, Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another ; We are one another's wife, ever begetting [ance ; New births of love ; we are father, friends, acquaint- We are, in one another, families ; I am your heir, and you are mine ; this place Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us ; here, with a little patience, We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; The hand of war hurt none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Crave- our acquaintance. I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, ( >r prayers to the gods : a thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us. Pal. You have made me (I thank you, Cousin Arcite !) almost wanton With my captivity : what a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 'Tis like a beast, methinks ! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content ; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills' of men to vanity, I see through now ; and am sufficient [bold] To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. What had we been, old in the court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones ! Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died as they do, ill old men unwept, And had their epitaphs, the people's curses ! Shall I say more ? Arc. I would hear you still. Pal. You shall. Is there record of any two that loved Better than we do, Arcite ? 1 This line is usually divided thus " they must not : say they could" but the meaning is, they must not admit to themselves that they can sink, lest they do so, since to de- spair is to die sleeping, willingly. t Crave is the word of the early copies. M. Mason pro- poses to read cleave that is, separate the acquaintance of the two friends. We receive the passage as the envy which characterizes ill men may crave that we also should become acquainted with that passion. Are. Sure there can not. Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship Should ever leave us. Arc. Till our deaths it can not ; Enter EMILIA and her Servant, t'n the garden btlov. And after death our spirits shall be led To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir ! Emi. This garden has a world of pleasures in't. What flower is this ? Serv. 'Tis called Narcissus, madam. Emi. That was a fair boy, certain, but a fool To love himself; were there not maids enough ? Arc. (above). Pray, forward! 3 Pal. Yes. Emi. Or were they all hard-hearted ? Serv. They could not be to one so fair. Emi. Thou wouldst not ? Serv. I think I should not, madam. Emi. That's a good wench ! But take heed to your kindness though ! Serv. Why, madam ? Emi. Men are mad things. Arc. (above). Will you go forward, cousin? 4 Emi. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench ? Serv. Yes. Emi. I'll have a gown full of them, and of these ; This is a pretty color: will't not do Rarely upon a skirt, wench ? Serv. Dainty, madam. Arc. Cousin ! How do you, sir ? Why, Pala mot! Pal. Never 'till now was I in prison, Arcite. Arc. Why, what's the matter, man ? Pal. Behold, and wonder ! By Heaven, she is a goddess ! Arc. (sees Emilia). Ha ! Pal. Do reverence ! She is a goddess, Arcite ! Emi. Of all flowers, Methinks a rose is best. Serv. Why, gentle madam ! Emi. It is the very emblem of a maid : For when the west wind courts her gentily, How modestly she blows, and paints the sun With her chaste blushes ! When the north comes near her, Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briars. Serv. Yet, good madam. Sometimes her modesty will blow so far She falls for it : a maid, If she have any honor, would be loath To take example by her. Emi. Thou art wanton. Arc. She's wondrous fair ! Pal. She's all the beauty extant Emi. The sun grows high ; let's walk in ! Keep these flowers ; We'll see how near art can come near 5 their colors. I'm wondrous merry-hearted ; 1 could laugk now. 3 That is " speak on" respecting a former entreaty. 4 Palamon has been silent in watching Emilia. 6 We might read " compare" in this place, instead of come near. " How near art can come near." is such an awkward ness as might well justify the substitute. ACT II. SCENE II. 23 Serv. I could lie down, I'm sure. Emi. And take one with you ? Serr. That's as we bargain, madam. Emi. Well agreei then. [Exit with Serv. Pal. What think you of this beauty ? Arc. 'Tis a rare one. Pal. Is't but a rare one ? Arc. Yes, a matchless beauty. Pal. Might not a man well lose himself, and love her? Arc. I can not tell what you have done ; I have! Beshrew mine eyes for it ! Now I feel my shackles. Pal. You love her, then ? Arc. Who would not? Pal. And desire her ? Arc. Before my liberty. Pal. I saw her first. Arc. That's nothing. Pal. But it shall be. Arc. I saw her too. Pal. Yes ; but you must not love her. Arc. I will not, as you do ; to worship her, As she is heavenly, and a blessed goddess : I love her as a woman, to enjoy her ; So both may love. Pal. You shall not love at all. Arc. Not love at all ? who shall deny me? Pal. I that first saw her ; I that took possession First, with mine eye, of all those beauties in her Revealed [un]to mankind ! If thou lovest her, Or entertainest a hope to blast my wishes, Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood, And all the ties between us, I disclaim, If thou once think upon her ! Arc. Yes, I love her ; And if the lives of all my name lay on it, I must do so. I love her with my soul ! If that will lose you, farewell, Palamon ! I say again, I love ; loving her, maintain I am as worthy and as free a lover, And have as just a title to her beauty, A s any Palamon, or any living, That is a man's son. Pal. Have I called thee friend ? Arc. Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved thus ? Let me deal coldly 2 with you ! am not I [me Part of your blood, part of your soul ? you've told That I was Palamon, and you Arcite. Pal. Yes. Arc. Am I not liable to those affections, [fer * Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suf- Pal. You may be. Arc. Why then would you deal so cunningly, So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman, To love alone ? Speak truly ; do you think me Unworthy of her sight ? Pal. No ; but unjust If thou pursue that sight. Arc. Because another First sees the enemy, shall I stand still, And let mine honor down, and never charge? Pal. Yes, if he be but one. 1 Or, " we'll agree" that is, to take as we bargain. * Coolly, calmly, aa a reasoning being ; or it may be, boldly. Arc. But say that one Had rather combat me ? Pal. Let that one say so, And use thy freedom ! else, if thou pursuest her, Be as that cursed man that hates his country, A branded villain ! Arc. You are mad. Pal. I must be, Till thou art worthy. Arcite, it concerns me ; And, in this madness, if I hazard thee And take thy life, I deal but truly. Arc. Fie, sir ! You play the child extremely. I will love her, I must, I ought to do so, and I dare ; And all this, justly. Pal. Oh, that now, that now, Thy false self, and thy friend, had but this fortune, To be one hour at liberty, and grasp Our good swords in our hands ! I'd quickly teach thee What 'twere to filch affection from another ! Thou'rt baser in it than a cutpurse ! But put Thy head but once out of this window more, And, as I have a soul, I'll nail thy life to't ! Arc. Thou darest not, fool ; thou canst not ; thou art feeble ! Put my head out ? I'll throw my body out, And leap the garden, when I see her next, Enter GAOLER. And pitch 3 between her arms, to anger thee. Pal. No more ; the keeper's coming : I shall live To knock thy brains out with my shackles. Arc. Do. Gaoler. By your leave, gentlemen. Pal. Now, honest keeper ? Gaoler. Lord Arcite, you must presently to the The cause I know not yet. [duke : Arc. I am ready, keeper. Gaoler. Prince Palamon. I must awhile bereave you Of your fair cousin's company. [Exit with ARCITE. Pal. And me too, Even when you please, of life ! Why is he sent for? It may be, he shall marry her : he's goodly ; And like enough the duke hath taken notice Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood ! Why should a friend be treacherous ? If that Get him a wife so noble and so fair, Let honest men ne'er love, again. Once more I would but see this fair one Blessed garden, [som And fruit, and flowers more blessed, that still bios- As her bright eyes shine on ye ! 'Would I were, ^or all the fortune of my life hereafter, Yon little tree, yon blooming apricot ! How I would spread, and fling my wanton arms In at her window ! I would bring her fruit ! Fit for the gods to feed on. Youth and pleasure, Still, as she tasted, should be doubled on her; And, if she be not heavenly, I would make her So near the gods in nature, they should fear her ; And then I'm sure she'd love me. Enter GAOLER. How now, keeper ! Where's Arcite? Gaoler. Banished. Prince Perithous 3 QU.I Perch} THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Obtained his liberty ; but never more, Upon his oath and life, must he set foot Upon this kingdom. Pal. He's a blessed man ! He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms The bold young men, that, when he bids them charge, Fall on like fire. Arcite shall have a fortune, 1 If he dare make himself a worthy lover, Yet in the field to strike a battle for her ; And if he lose her then, he's a cold coward : How bravely may he bear himself to win her, If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways ! Were I at liberty, I would do things Of such a virtuous greatness, that this lady, This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her, And seek to ravish me. Gaoler. My lord, for you I have this charge too. Pal. To discharge my life ? Gaoler. No ; but from this place to remove your The windows are too open. [lordship ; Pal. Devils take them, That are so envious to me ! Prithee kill me ! Gaoler. And hang for't afterward ! Pal. By this good light, Had I a sword, I'd kill thee. Gaoler. Why, my lord? Pal. Thou bringest such pelting scurvy news con- tinually, Thou art not worthy life ! I will not go. Gaoler. Indeed you must, my lord. Pal. May I see the garden ? Gaoler. No. Pal. Then I'm resolved I will not go. Gaoler. I must Constrain you then ! and, for you're dangerous, I'll clap more irons on you. Pal. Do, good keeper, And I will shake 'em so, you shall not sleep j I'll make you a new morris ! Must I go ? Gaoler. There is no remedy. Pal. Farewell, kind window ! May rude wind never hurt thee ! Oh, my lady, If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was, Dream how I suffer ! Come, now bury me. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter ARCITE. Arc. Banished the kingdom ! 'Tis a benefit, A mercy I must thank them for ; but banished The free enjoying of that face I die for, Oh, 'twas a studied punishment, a death Beyond imagination ! Such a vengeance, That, were I old and wicked, all my sins Could never pluck upon me. Palamon, Thou hast the start now ; thou shall stay and see Her bright eyes break each morning 'gainst thy win And let in life unto thee ; thou shall feed [dow Upon the sweetness of a noble beauty, That nature ne'er exceeded, nor ne'er shall. Good gods, what happiness has Palamon ! Twenty to one he '11 come to speak to her ; And, if she be as gentle as she's fair, I know she's his. He has a tongue will tame 1 Fortune a chance. 'empests, and make the wild rocks wanton. ome what can come, the worst is [only] death will not leave this kingdom : know my own is but a heap of ruins, nd no redress there ! If I go, he has her. am resolved : another shape shall make me, 'r end my fortunes ; either way, I'm happy : '11 see her, and be near her, or no more. Inter four Country People ; one uith a garland before them. 1 Coun. My masters, I'll be there, that's certain 2 Coun. And I'll be there. 3 Coun. And I. 4 Coun. Why then, have with ye, boys ! 'tis but 3 chiding ; ..et the plough play to-day ! I'll tickle't out )f the jades' tails to-morrow ! 1 Coun. I am sure To have my wife as jealous as a turkey: But that's all one ; I'll go through, let her mumble. 3 Coun. Do we all hold against the maying ? 2 4 Coun. Hold ! what should ail us ? 3 Coun. Areas will be there. 2 Coun. And Sennois, And Rycas ; and three better lads ne'er danced Jnder green tree. Ye know what wenches. Ha ! Jut will the dainty domine, the schoolmaster, Jeep touch, do you think ? for he does all, ye know. 3 Coun. He'll eat a hornbook, ere he fail : Go to ! The matter is too far driven between 3im and the tanner's daughter, to let slip now ; And she must see the duke, and she must dance too. 4 Coun. Shall we be lusty ? 2 Coun. All the boys in Athens, Blow wind i'the breech on us ! ... (Sing*) And here I'll be And there I'll be, For our town .... And here again, And there again. Ha, boys ! Heigh for the weavers. 1 Coun. This must be done i' the woods. 4 Coun. Oh, pardon me ! 2 Cown. By any means ; our thing of learning says Where he himself will edify the duke [so ; Most parlously in our behalfs : he's excellent I' the woods. Bring him to the plains, His learning makes no cry. 3 Cown. We'll see the sports ; Then every man to his tackle ; and, Companions, let's rehearse by any means, Before the ladies see us ; and do't sweetly, And God knows what may come on't ! 4 Coun. Content : The sports once ended, we'll perform. Away, boys : And hold ! Arc. By your leaves, honest friends ! I pray you, Whither go you ? 4 Coun. Whither ? why, what a question's that ! 5 When we open Beaumont and Fletcher's works, we en- counter grossnesses entirely of a different nature from those which occur in Shakspeare. They are the result of impure thoughts, not the accidental reflection of loose manners. They are meant to be corrupting, We have four lines here conceived in this spirit, and we omit them without hesita- tion. No one has thought that these comic scenes were written by Shakspeare. ACT II. SCENE V. 25 Arc. Yes, 'tis a question, To me, that know not. 3 Coun. To the games, my friend. 2 Coun. Where were you bred, you know it not ? Arc. Not far, sir. Are there such games to-day ? 1 Coun. Yes, marry are there j And such as you ne'er saw : the duke himself Will be in person there. Arc. What pastimes are they ? 2 Coun. Wrestling and running. 'Tis a pretty fel- low. 3 Coun. Thou wilt not go along ? Arc. Not, yet, sir. 4 Coun. Well, sir, Take your own time. Come, boys ! 1 Coun. My mind misgives me, This fellow hath a vengeance trick o' the hip ; Mark, how his body's made for't ! 2 Coun. I'll be hanged though If he dare venture ; hang him ; he, plum-porridge ! He wrestle ? He roast eggs. Come, let's be gone, lads ! [Exeunt Countrymen. Arc. This is an offered opportunity I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled ; The best men called it excellent ; and run, Swifter the wind upon a field of corn (Curling the wealthy ears) ne'er flew I 1 I'll venture, And in some poor disguise be there : who knows Whether my brows may not be girt with garlands, And happiness prefer me to a place Where I may ever dwell in sight of her ? [Exit. SCENE IV. Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER. Laugh. Why should I love this gentleman. 'Tis He never will affect me. I am base ; [odds My father the mean keeper of his prison, And he a prince : to marry him is hopeless, To be his whore is witless. Out upon 't ! What pushes are we wenches driven to, When fifteen once has found us ! First, I saw him ; I, seeing, thought he was a goodly man. He has as much to please a woman in him, (If he please to bestow it so) as ever These eyes yet looked on : next, I pitied him ; And so would any young wench, o'my conscience, That ever dreamed, or vowed her maidenhead To a young handsome man : then, I loved him, Extremely loved him, infinitely loved him ! And yet he had a cousin, fair as he too ; But in my heart was Palamon, and there, Lord what a coil he keeps ! [Onlys] to hear him Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is ! And yet his songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken 1 The ordinary reading is : "And run. Swifter the wind upon a field of corn (Curling the wealthy ears) ne'er flew." The original has than, which has been altered to the. By changing ne'er to e'er we obtain a better construction.* * And with Mr. Knight's permission, I have ventured to re- store the reading of the for than, with a new punctuation, pre- ferring, though with great deference, the present construc- tion to his own. 2 " Only," is here an interpolation, to render the line com- plete and musical. In Seward's edition, he interpolates " to sit," thus " To sit and hear," &c. Was never gentleman : when I come in, To bring him water in a morning, first He bows his noble body, then salutes me : " Fair gentle maid, good morrow ! may thy goodness Get thee a happy husband !" Once he kissed ms ; I loved my lips the better ten days after : 'Would he would do so everyday ! He grieves much, And me as much to see his misery : What should I do to make him know I love him ? For I would fain enjoy him : say I ventured To set him free ? what says the law then ? Thus much for law, or kindred ! I will do it, And this night or to-morrow. He shall love me ! [Exit. SCENE V. A short flourish of corncts } and shouts within. Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, EMILIA, and ARCITE, with a garland, fyc. Thes. You have done worthily. I have not seen, Since Hercules, a man of tougher sinews : Whate'er you are, you run the best and wrestle, That these times can allow. Arc. I am proud to please you. Thes. What country bred you ? Arc. This ; but far off, prince. Thes. Are you a gentleman ? Arc. My father said so j And to those gentle uses gave me life. Thes. Are you his heir ? Arc. His youngest, sir. Thes. Your father Sure is a happy sire then. What prove you ? Arc. A little of all noble qualities : I could have kept a hawk, and well have halloo'd To a deep cry of dogs. I dare not praise My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me Would say it was my best piece ; last, and greatest, I would be thought a soldier. Thes. You are perfect. Per. Upon my soul, a proper man ! Emi. He is so. Per. How do you like him, lady? Hip. I admire him : I have not seen so young a man so noble (If he say true) of his sort. Emi. Believe [me^] His mother was a wondrous handsome woman ! His face, methinks, goes that way. Hip. But his body, And fiery mind, illustrate a brave father. Per. Mark how his virtue, like a hidden sun, Breaks through his baser garments. Hip. He's well got, sure Thes. What made you seek this place, sir ? Arc. Noble Theseus, To purchase name, and do my ablest service To such a well-found wonder as thy worth ; For only in thy court, of all the world, Dwells fair-eyed Honor. Per. All his words are worthy. Thes. Sir, we are much indebted to your travel, 3 Former copies simply say, " believe." I add the word, "me," as equally necessary to the rhythm and the idiom. " His face goes that way," means, he looks like his mother he has a feminine aspect. 26 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Nor shall you lose your wish. Perithous, Dispose of this fair gentleman. Per. Thanks, Theseus ! Whate'er you are, you're mine, and I shall give you To a most noble service ; to this lady This bright young virgin : pray observe her goodness: You've honored her fair birthday with your virtues, \nd, as your due, you're hers ; kiss her fair hand, sir. Arc. Sir, you're a noble giver. Dearest beauty, Thus let me seal my vowed faith ! When your ser- vant (Your most unworthy creature) but offends you, Command him die, he shall. Emi. That were too cruel. If you deserve well, sir, I shall soon see't : You're mine, and somewhat better than your rank I '11 use you. Per. I'll see you furnished : and because you say You are a horseman, I must needs entreat you This afternoon to ride ; but 't is a rough one. Arc. I like him better, prince ; I shall not then Freeze in my saddle. Thta. Sweet, you must be ready ; And you, Emilia ; and you, friend ; and all ; To-morrow, by the sun, to do observance To flowery May, in Dian's wood. Wait well, sir, Upon your mistress ! Emily, I hope He shall not go afoot. Emi. That were a shame, sir, While I have horses. Take your choice ; and what You want at any time, let me but know it : If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you You'll find a loving mistress. Arc. If I do not, Let me find that 1 my father ever hated, Disgrace and blows ! Thes. Go, lead the way ; you've won it ; It shall be so : you shall receive all dues Fit for the honor you have won ; 'twere wrong else. Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a servant, That if I were a woman, would be master ; But you are wise. [Flourish. Emi. 1 hope too wise for that, sir. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER. Daugh. Let all the dukes and all the devils roar, He is at liberty ! I've ventured for him ; And out I've brought him to a little wood A mile hence. I have sent him, where a cedar, Higher than all the rest, spreads like a plane Fast by a brook ; and there he shall keep close, Till I provide him files and food ; for yet His iron bracelets are not off. Oh, Love, What a stout-hearted child thou art ! My father Durst better have endured cold iron than done it. I love him beyond love, and beyond reason, Or wit or safety ! I have made him know it. I care not ; I am desperate. If the law Find me, and then condemn me for't, some wenches, Some honest-hearted maids, will sing my dirge, 1 There is something quite obscure in this passage. I should prefer to substitute "forget," for "find that" To forget that his father's lessons always taught a hatred of dis- grace and blows, would be necessary to one whose conduct la supposed to deserve them. KNIGHT. And tell to memory my death was noble, Dying almost a martyr. That way he takes, I purpose, is my way too : sure, he can not Be so unmanly as to leave me here ! If he do, maids will not so easily Trust men again. And yet he has not thanked me For what I've done ; no, not so much as kissed me ; And that, methinks, is not so well ; nor scarcely Could I persuade him to become a freeman, He made such scruples of the wrong he did To me and to my father. Yet, I hope, When he considers more, this love of mine Will take more root within him : let him do What he will with me, so he but use me kindly ! For use me so he shall, or I'll proclaim him, And to his face, no man. I'll presently Provide him necessaries, and pack my clothes up, And where there is a path of ground I'll venture, So he be with me ! By him, like a shadow, I'll ever dwell. Within this hour the hubbub Will be all o'er the prison. I am then Kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father ! Get many more such prisoners, and such daughters, And shortly you may keep yourself. Now to him ! [Exit. ACT III. SCENE I. Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hal- looing, as people a-maying. Enter AKCITE. Arc. The duke has lost Hippolyta ; each took A several land. This is a solemn rite They owe bloomed May, and the Athenians pay it To the heart of ceremony. Oh, queen ! Emilia, fresher than [the] May, [and] sweeter Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all Th' enamelled knacks o' the mead or garden ! yea, We challenge, too, the bank of any nymph, That makes the stream seem flowers ; thou, oh jewel Of the wood, of the world, hast likewise blessed a place With thy sole presence. In thy rumination That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between, And chop 1 on some cold thought ! Thrice blessed chance, To drop on such a mistress, expectation Most guiltless of 't 3 Tell me, oh, lady Fortune, (Next after Emily my sovereign), how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her, and this beauteous mom (The prim'sl of all the year) presents me with A brace of horses ; two such steeds might well Be by a pair of kings backed, in a field That their crowns' titles tried. Alas, alas, Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner ! thou So little dream'st upon my fortune, that Thou think'st thyself the happier thing, to be So near Emilia. Me, thou deem'st at Thebes, And therein wretched, although free : but if 1 Chop, on a sudden, to meet by chance. Still the passage is obscure. Why a cold thought, unless it is meant that aa she ruminates coldly and indifferently, her heart is still ac- cessible to a new passion t ACT III. SCENE II. 27 Thou knew'st my mistress breathed on me, and that I eared her language, lived in her eye, oh, coz, What passion would enclose thee ! Enter PALAMON as out of a bush, with his shackles ; bends his fist at ARCITE. Pal. Traitor kinsman ! Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs Of prisonment were off me, and this hand But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one, I, and the justice of my love, would make thee A confessed traitor ! Oh, thou most perfidious That ever gently looked ! The void'st of honor That e'er bore gentle token ! Falsest cousin That ever blood made kin ! Call'st thou her thine ? I'll prove it in my shackles, with these hands Void of appointment, 1 that thou liest, and art A very thief in love, a chaffy lord, Not 2 worth the name of villain ! Had I a sword, And these house-clogs away Arc, Dear cousin Palamon Pal. Cozener Arcite, give me language such As thou hast showed me feat ! Arc. Not finding, in The circuit of my breast, any gross stuff To form me like your blazon, holds me to This gentleness of answer. 'Tis your passion That thus mistakes ; the which, to you being enemy, Can not to me be kind. Honor and honesty I cherish, and depend on, howsoe'er You skip them in me ; and, with them, fair coz, I'll maintain my proceedings. Pray be pleased To show in generous terms' your griefs, since that Vour question's with your equal, who professes To clear his own way, with the mind and sword Of a true gentleman. Pal. That thou durst, Arcite ! Arc. My coz, my coz, you have been well adver- tised How much I dare. You've seen me use my sword Against th' advice of fear. Sure, of another You would not hear me doubted, but your silence Should break out, though i' the sanctuary. Pal. Sir, I've seen you move in such a place, which well Might justify your manhood ; you were called A good knight and a bold : but the whole week's not If any day it rain ! Their valiant temper [fair, Men lose, when they incline to treachery ; And then they fight like compelled bears, would fly Were they not tied. Are. Kinsman, you might as well Speak this, and act it in your glass, as to His ear, which now disdains you ! Pal. Come up to me ! Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword (Though it be rusty), and the charity Of one meal lend me ; come before me then, A good sword in thy hand, and do but say That Emily is thine, I will forgive The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life, If then thou carry't ; and, brave souls in shades, That have died many, which will seek of me Some news from earth, they shall get none but this, That thou art brave and noble. 1 Without preparation of armor or weapons. 3 Other editions read " nor." Arc. Be content ; Again betake you to your hawthorn-house ! With counsel of the night, I will be here With wholesome viands ; these impediments Will I file off ; you shall have garments, and Perfumes to kill the smell o' the prison ; after, When you shall stretch yourself, and say but, 'Arcite, I am in plight !' there shall be at your choice Both sword and armor. Pal. Oh, you heavens, dare any So noble, bear a guilty business ? None But only Arcite ; therefore none but Arcite, In this kind, is so bold. Arc. Sweet Palamon Pal. I do embrace you, and your offer : for Your offer do't ; ay, only, sir : your person, Without hypocrisy, I may not wish More than my sword's edge on't. [Wind horns of cornets. Arc. You hear the horns : Enter your musit, 3 lest this match between us Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand : farewell ? I'll bring you every needful thing : I pray you Take comfort, and be strong ! Pal. Pray hold your promise And do the deed with a bent brow ! most certain You love me not : be rough with me, and pour This oil out of your language : by this air, 1 could for each word give a cuff ! my stomach Not reconciled by reason. Arc. Plainly spoken ! Yet pardon me hard language : when I spur My horse, I chide him not ; content and anger [ Wind horns. In me have bnt one face. Hark, sir ! they call The scattered to the banquet : you must guess I have an office there. Pal. Sir, your attendance Can not please Heaven ; and I know your office Unjustly is achieved. Arc. I've a good title, I am persuaded : this question, sick between ns, By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor, That, to your sword, you will bequeath this plea, And talk of it no more. Pal. But this one word : Yon are going now to gaze upon my mistress ; For, note you, mine she is Arc. Nay, then Pal. Nay, pray you ! You talk of feeding me to breed me strength : You are going now to look upon a sun That strengthens what it looks on ; there you have A vantage o'er me ; but enjoy it till I may enforce my remedy. Farewell ! [Exeunt SCENE II. Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER. Dattgh. He has mistook the brake 4 1 meant ; is gone After his fancy. 'Tis now well-nigh morning; 3 The original has, "enter your music." Seward reads " muse quick," explaining mat to be " the muse of a hare." Weber adopts muse, but omits quick. We substitute musit, which has the same meaning. * The original has beake. M. Mason suggested brake.* * Mr. Seward has it beck. " Brook" is probably the proper word. She has previously said : " I have sent him," &c, " Fast by a brook." THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. No matter ! Would it were perpetual night, And darkness lord o' the world ! Hark ! 'tis a wolf: In me hath grief slain fear, and, but for one thing, I care for nothing ; and that's Palamon. I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so He had this file. What if I hallooed for him ? I can not halloo : if I whooped, what then ? If he not answered, I should call a wolf, And do him but -that service. I have heard [be Strange howls this live-long night ; why may't not They have made prey of him ? He has no weapons ; He cannot run ; the jingling of his gyves Might call fell things to listen, who have in them A sense to know a man unarmed, and can Smell where resistance is. I'll set it down He's torn to pieces ; they howled many together, And then they fed on him : so much for that ! Be bold to ring the bell ; how stand I then ? All's chared 1 when he is gone. No, no, I lie ; My father's to be hanged for his escape ; Myself to beg, if I prized life so much As to deny my act ; but that I would not, Should I try death by dozens ! I am moped : Food took I none these two days ; only sipped Some water. Two nights have not closed mine eyes, Save when my lids scowered off their brine ; alas, Dissolve, my life ! Let not my sense unsettle, Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself! Oh, state of nature, fail together in me, [now ? Since thy best props are warped ! So ! which way The best way is the next way to a grave : Each errant step beside is torment. Lo ! The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech-owl Calls in the dawn ! All offices are done, Save what I fail in : but the point is this, An end, and that is all ! [Exit. SCENE III. Enter ARCITE, with mtat, trine, and files. Are. I should be near the place. Ho, Cousin Pala- mon ! Enter PALAMOIT. Pat. Arcite? Arc. The same : I've brought you food and files. Come forth, and fear not ; here's no Theseus. Pal. Nor none so honest, Arcite. Arc. That's no matter ; We'll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage ; You shall not die thus beastly ; here, sir, drink ! I know you're faint ; then I'll talk further with you. Pal. Arcite, thou might'st now poison me. Arc. I might ; But I must fear you first. Sit down ; and, good now, No more of these vain parleys ! Let us not, Having our ancient reputation with us, Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health ! Pal. Do Arc. Pray sit down then ; and let me entreat you, By all the honesty and honor in you, I Alfs chared. Weber says that this means "my task ia done," chare being used in the sense of a task. Chare is a turn- a job of work. We doubt the explanation * * Why not " all's cleared t" The sentence which follows seems to imply some such signification : " No, no " she savs. " 1 lie ; my father's to be hanged," &c. No mention of this woman ! 'Twill disturb us ; We shall have time enough. Pal. Well, sir, I'll pledge you. Arc. Drink a good hearty draught ! it breeds good blood, man. Do not you feel it thaw you ? Pal. Stay; I'll tell you After a draught or two more. Arc . Spare it not ; The duke has more. Eat now. Pal. Yes. Arc. I am glad You have so good a stomach. Pal- I am gladder I have so good meal to't. Arc. Is't not mad lodging Here, in the wild wood, cousin ; Pal. Yes, for them That have wild consciences. Arc. How tastes your victuals ? Your hunger needs no sauce, I see. Pal. Not much : But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin. What is this ? Arc. Venison. Pal. 'Tis a lusty meat. Give me more wine ; here, Arcite, to the wenches We have known in our days? The lord-steward's Do you remember her ? [daughter ; Arc. After you, coz. Pal. She loved a black-haired man. Arc. She did so : well, sir ? Pal. And I have heard some call him Arcite ; and Arc. Out with it, faith ! Pal. She met him in an arbor : What did she there, coz ? Play o' the virginals ? Arc. Something she did, sir. Pal. Made her groan a month for't ; Or two, or three, or ten. Arc. The marshal's sister Had her share too, as I remember, cousin, Else there be tales abroad : you'll pledge her ? Pal. Yes. Arc. A pretty brown wench 'tis ! There was a time When young men went a-hunting, and a wood, And a broad beech ; and thereby hangs a tale. Heigh-ho ! [Sighs. Pal. For Emily, upon my life ! Fool, Away with this strained mirth J I say again, That sigh was breathed for Emily : base cousin, Darest thou break first ? Arc. You're wide. [honest ! Pal. By Heaven and earth, there's nothing in thee Arc. Then I'll leave you : You are a beast now. Pal. As thou mak'st me, traitor. Arc. There's all things needful ; files, and shirts and perfumes : I'll come again some two hours hence, and bring That that shall quiet all. Pal. A sword and armor ? Arc. Fear me not, you are now too foul : farewell ! Get off your trinkets ; you shall want naught. Pal. Sirrah Arc. I'll hear no more ! [Exit. Pal. If he keep touch, he dies for't ! [Exit. ACT III. SCENE V. SCENE IV. Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER, mad. Daugh. I'm very cold, and all the stars are out too, The little stars, and all that look like aglets : The sun has seen my folly. Palamon ! Alas, no ; he's in heaven ! Where am I now ? Vender's the sea, and there's a ship ; how't tumbles ! And there's a rock lies watching under water ; Now, now, it beats upon it ! now, now, now ! There's a leak sprung, a sound one ; how they cry ! Upon her before the wind, 1 you'll lose all else ! Up-with a course or two, and tack about, boys ! Good night, good night; you're gone! I'm very hungry : Would I could find a fine frog ! he would tell me News from all parts o' the world ; then would I make A carrack of a cockle-shell, and sail By east and northeast to the king of pigmies, For he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father, Twenty to one, is trussed up in a trice To-morrow morning ; I'll say never a word. SONG. For I'll cut my green coat a foot above my knee ; And I'll clip my yellow locks an inch below mine e'e Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny. He's buy me a white cut, forth for to ride, And I'll go and seek him, through the world that is BO wide. Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny. Oh, for a prick now. like a nightingale, To put my breast against ! 3 I shall sleep like a top else. [Exit. SCENE V. Enter GERROLV, four Countrymen, (andthe Bavian 5 ), two or three Wenches, with a Taborer. Ger. Fie, fie ! What tediosity and disensanity Is here among ye ! Have my rudiments Been labored so long with ye, milked unto 4 ye, And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye, And do ye still cry "where," and " how," and "where- fore ?" Ye most coarse frieze capacities, ye jape 5 judgments, Have I said " thus let be," and " there let be," And " then let be," and no man understand me ? 1 So the original. There have been several attempts to render this proper nautical language. Weber reads, " spoom her before the wind."* * " Put her before the wind," is just as likely to be the reading. Mr. Sympson recommends, " Up with her 'fore the wind ;" and Mr. Theobald, " Spoon her before," &c. The choice is with the reader. 2 The nightingale is fabled to sing most sweetly when thus Butferine from the thorn. 3 Fletcher uses this term for a character in the morris- dance.* * The Bavian, according to Nares, is ababoon or monkey, but not a regular character in the old morris-dance. His office here is to bark, to tumble, play antics of all sorts, and exhibit an enormous length of tail, with a due regard to decency. * Quere : " Milked into ye" ? 5 Jape. The original has jave. Seward reads sleave. As no one can explain jave, and sleave, the sleave of silk, is almost meaningless, we substitute jape, belonging to a buffoon, &japer.* * The orialnal is " jabe." This may be only a misprint for "have." " Ye have judgments," spoken ironically. Proh Deum, medius fidius ; ye are all dunces ! For why ? here stand I ; here the duke comes ; there are you, Close in the thicket ; the duke appears, I meet him, And unto him I utter learned things, And many figures ; he hears, and nods, and hums, And then cries " rare !" and I go forward ; at length I fling my cap up ; mark there ! then do you, As once did Meleager and the boar, Break comely out before him, like true lovers , Cast yourselves in a body decently, And sweetly, by a figure, trace, and turn, boys ! 1 Coun. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerrold, 2 Coun. Draw up the company. Where's the la- borer ? 3 Coun. Why, Timothy ! Tab. Here, my mad boys ; have at ye ! Ger. But, I say, where's the women ? 4 Coun. Here's Friz and Maudlin 2 Coun. And little Luce, with the white legs, and bouncing Barbary. 1 Coun. And freckled Nell, that never failed her master. Ger. Where be your ribands, maids ? Swim with your bodies, And carry it sweetly, and deliverly ; 6 And now and then a favor, and a frisk ! Nell. Let us alone, sir. Ger. Where's the rest o' the music ? 3 Coun. Dispersed as you commanded. Ger. Couple then/ And see what's wanting. Where's the Bavian ? My friend, carry your tail without offence Or scandal to the ladies ; and be sure You tumble with audacity, and manhood ! And when you bark, do it with judgment. Bars. Yes, sir. Ger. Quo usque tandem ? Here's a woman wanting. 4 Coun. We may go whistle ; all the fat's i' the fire! Ger. We have, As learned authors utter, washed a tile ; We have been/ofrms, and labored vainly. 2 Coun. This is that scornful piece, that scurvy hilding, That gave her promise she would faithfully Be here, the sempster's daughter, Cicely ! The next gloves that I give her shall be dog's skin ! Nay, an she fail me once You can tell, Areas, She swore, by wine and bread, she would not break. Ger. An eel and woman, A learned poet says, unless by the tail And with thy teeth thou hold, will either 8 fail. In manners ; this was false position. 1 Coun. A fire ill 9 take her ! does she flinch now ? 3 Coun. What Shall we determine, sir? Ger. Nothing ; Our business is become a nullity. Yea, and a woful, and a piteous nullity ! [if, 4 Coun. Now, when the credit of our town lay on We might read, " deliver ye" i. e. ( speak what you have to say. 7 Or, " them." 8 " Ever" would seem to be the word. 8 Mr. Seward reads " feril," or " ferule" take her a not in- appropriate notion of punishment on the part of a peda- gogue. 30 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Now to be frampal ! Now to wet the nettle ; l t Go thy ways: I'll remember thee, I'll fit thee ! Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER. Daugh. The George alow came from the south, From the coast of Barbaree-a. And there he met with brave' gallants of war, " By one, by two, by three-a. Well hailed, well hailed, you jolly gallants I And whither now are you bound-a T Oh, let me have your company Till I* come to the Sound-a ! There was three fools, fell out about an howlet : The one said 'twas an owl, The other he said nay, The third he said it was a hawk, And her bells were cut away. 3 Coun. There is a dainty mad woman, master, Comes i' the nick ; as mad as a March hare ! If we can get her dance, we're made again : I warrant her, she'll do the rarest gambols ! 1 Coun. A mad woman ? We are made, boys ! Ger. And are you mad, good woman ? Daugh. I would be sorry else ; Give me your hand. Ger. ' Why? Daugh. I can tell your fortune : You are a fool. Tell ten : I've pozed him. Buz ! Friend, you must eat no white bread ; if you do. Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho ? I know you ; you're a tinker : sirrah tinker, Stop no more holes, but what you should ! 3 Ger. Diiboni! A tinker, damsel? Daugh. Or a conjurer : Raise me a devil now, and let him play Quipassa, o' the bells and bones ! Ger. Go, take her, And fluently persuade her to a peace. Atque opus, exegi, quod nee Jovia ira, nee ignis Strike up, and lead her in ! 2 Coun. Come, lass, let's trip it ! Daugh. I'll lead. [ Wind horns. 3 Coun. Do, do. Ger. Persuasively, and cunningly ; away, boys ! [Exeunt all but GEREOLD. I hear the horns : give me some meditation, And mark your cue. Pallas inspire me ! Enter THESEUS, PERITHOUS, HIPPOLTTA, EMILIA, ARCITE, and Train. Thes. This way the stag took. Ger. Stay, and edify ! i I have altered a single word in this sentence, where to avoid a vulgarism, Mr. Knight omits it altogether. 9 / is omitted in the original. Weber reads tee. 3 It is not incumbent on an editor to make sense of the speeches of a mad woman, the author himself being seldom inclined to do so; still there is a necessity for a certain economy even in nonsense, and a degree of method must needs be found in most cases of dramatic madness. I am inclined to think that the stuff here spoken by the daughter should be distributed in parts among some of her compan- ions ; and would read the passage thus : Daugh. I can tell jour fortune : You are a fooL Ger. Tell ten. [Tell't then.] Dough. Fve pozed him. Ger. Buz. Dough. Friend, you must eat no white bread; If you do ; &c. Thes. What have we here ? Per. Some country-sport, upon my life, sir. Thes. Well, sir, go forward : we will edify. Ladies, sit down ! we'll stay it. Ger. Thou doughty duke, all hail ! all hail, sweet ladies ! Thes. This is a cold beginning. Ger. If you but favor, our country pastime made is We are a few of those collected here, That ruder tongues distinguish villager ; And to say verity, and not to fable, We are a merry rout, or else a rabble, Or company, or by a figure, chorus, That 'fore thy dignity will dance a morris. And I that am the rectifier of all, By title Pedagogus, that let fall The birch upon the breeches of the small ones, And humble with a ferula the tall ones, Do here present this machine, or this frame : And, dainty duke, whose doughty dismal fame From Dis to Dedalus, from post to pillar, Is blown abroad : help me, thy poor well- wilier, And with thy twinkling eyes, look right and straight Upon this mighty morr ; of mickle weight, /* now comes in, which, being glued together, Makes morris, and the cause that we came hither. The body of our sport, of no small study, I first appear, though rude, and raw, and muddy, To speak before thy noble grace, this tenor : At whose great feet I offer up my penner.* The next, the lord of May, and lady bright, The chambermaid, and servingman. by night, That seek out silent hanging : then, mine host, And his fat spouse, that welcome to their 6 cost The galled traveller, and with a beck'ning Inform the tapster to inflame the reck'ning : Then the beast-eating clown, and next the foo]. The Bavian, with long tail, and eke long tool ; Cum multis aliis, that make a dance : Say " ay," and all shall presently advance. Thes. Ay, ay, by any jneans, dear domine ! Per. Produce. Ger. Intratefilii! Come forth, and foot it. Enter Countrymen, $c. They dance. Ladies, if we have been merry, And have pleased ye with a derry, And a deny, and a down, Say the schoolmaster's no clown. Duke, if we have pleased thee too, And have done as good boys should do, Give us but a tree or twain For a Maypole, and again, Ere another year run out, We'll make thee laugh, and all this rout. Thes. Take twenty, domine. How does my sweei- heart? Hip. Never so pleased, sir. Emi. 'Twas an excellent dance ; And, for a preface, I never heard a better. Thes. Schoolmaster, I thank you. One see them all rewarded. < Penntr case for holding pens. 6 1 should prefer to read : " Welcome to hit coet, The galled traveller," Sue. ACT IIL SCENE VI. Per. And here's something to paint your pole withal. Thes. Now to our sports again ! Ger. May the stag thou huntest stand long, And thy dogs be swift and strong ! May they kill him without letts, And the ladies eat's dowsets ! Come, we're all made ! [Wind horns. Dii Deceque omnes ! Ye have danced rarely, wenches. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Enter PALAMON from t he bush. Pal. About this hour my cousin gave his faith To visit me again, and with him bring Two swords, and two good armors ; if he fail, He's neither man, nor soldier. When he left me, I did not think a week could have restored My lost strength to me ; I was grown so low [cite, And crest-fallen with my wants. I thank thee, Ar- Thou'rt yet a fair foe ; and I feel myself, With this refreshing, able once again To out-dure 1 danger. To delay it longer [i n o> Would make the world think, when it comes to hear- That I lay fatting, like a swine, to fight, And not a soldier : therefore, this blessed morning Shall be the last ; and that sword he refuses, If it but hold, I kill him with : 'tis justice : So, Love and Fortune for me ! Oh, good morrow ! Enter AECITE, with armors and swords. Arc. Good morrow, noble kinsman ! Pal. I have put you To too much pains, sir. Arc. That too much, fair cousin, Is but a debt to honor, and my duty. [you Pal. 'Would you were so in all, sir ! I could wish As kind a kinsman, as you force me find A beneficial foe ; that my embraces Might thank you, not my blows. Arc. I shall think either, Well done, a noble recompense. Pal. Then I shall quit you. Arc. Defy me in these fair terms, and you show More than a mistress to me : no more anger, As you love anything that's honorable ! We are not bred to talk, man ; when we're armed, And both upon our guards, then let our fury, Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us ! And then to whom the birthright of this beauty Truly pertains (without upbraidings, scorns, Despisings of our persons, and such poutings, Fitter for girls and schoolboys) will be seen, [sir ? And quickly, yours or mine. Will't please you arm, Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet, [in, And furnished 2 with your old strength, I'll stay, cous- And every day discourse you into health. As I am spared. Your person I am friends with, And I could wish I had not said I loved her, Though I had died ; but, loving such a lady, And justifying my love, I must not fly from't. Pal. Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy, That no man but thy cousin's fit to kill thee : I'm well, and lusty ; choose your arms ! 1 Here I should certainly prefer to read, " outdare." t Should we not rather read, "unfurnished" for "and furnished" ? 3 Arc. Choose you, sir Pal. Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou do it To make me spare thee ? Arc. If you think so, cousin, You are deceived ; for, as I am a soldier, I'll not spare you ! Pal. That's well said ! Arc. You will find :. Pal. Then, as I am an honest man, and love With all the justice of affection, I'll pay thee soundly ! This I'll take. Arc. That's mine thei I'll arm you first. Pal. Do. Pray tell me, cousin, Where gott'st thou this good armor ? Arc. 'Tis the duke's And, to say true, I stole it. Do I pinch you ? Pal. No. Arc. Is't not too heavy ? Pal. I've worn a lighter , But I shall make it serve. Arc. I'll buckle't close. Pal. By any 3 means. Arc. You care not for a grand-guard?* Pal. No, no ; we'll use no horses. I perceive Fou would fain be at that fight. Arc. I'm indifferent. Pal. Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the buckle Through, far enough ! Arc. I warrant you. Pal. My casque now ! Arc. Will you fight bare-armed ? Pal. We shall be the nimbler. Arc. But use your gauntlets though : those are o' Prithee take mine, good cousin ! [the least ; Pal. Thank you, Arcite ' How do I look ? am I fallen much away ? Arc. Faith, very little ; Love has used you kindly. Pal. I'll warrant thee I'll strike home. Arc. Do, and spare not ' I'll give you cause, sweet cousin. Pal. Now to you, sir ! Methinks this armor's very like that, Arcite, Thou wor'st that day the three kings fell, but lighter. Arc. That was a very good one ; and that day, I well remember, you outdid me, cousin ; I never saw such valor when you charged Upon the left wing of the enemy ; I spurred hard to come up, and, under me, I had a right good horse. Pal. You had, indeed ; A bright-bay, I remember. Arc. Yes. But all Was vainly labored in me ; you outwent me, Nor could my wishes reach you : yet a little I did by imitation. Pal. More by virtue ; You're modest, cousin. Arc. When I saw you charge first Methought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder Break from the troop. Pal. But still, before that, flew The lightning of your valor. Stay a little ! Is not this piece too strait ? S " Any," for " all." < Grand-guard armor for equestrian*. 32 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Arc. Nj, no; 'tis well. Pal. I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword ; A bruise would be disn :nor. Arc. Now I'm perfect. Pal. Stand off, then ! Arc. Take my sword ! I hold it better. 1 Pal. I thank you, no ; [you] keep't ; your life lies Here's one, if it but hold ; I ask no more [on't : For all my hopes. My cause and honor guard me ! [They bow several unys ; then advance and stand. Arc. And me, my love ! Is there aught else to say ? Pal. This only, and no more : thou art mine aunt's And that blood we desire to shed is mutual ; [son, In me, thine, and in th?e mine : my sword Is in my hand, and if thou killest me The gods and I forgive thee ! If there be A place prepared for those that sleep in honor, I wish his weary soul that falls may win it ! Fight bravely, cousin ; give me thy noble hand ! Arc. Here, Palamon ! This hand shall never more Come near thee with such friendship. Pal. I commend thee. Arc. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward ; For none but such dare die in these just trials. Once more, farewell, my cousin ! Pal. Farewell, Arcite ! [Fight. [Horns ictthin they stand. Arc. Lo, cousin, lo ! our folly has undone us ! Pal. Why? Arc. This is the duke, a-hunting, as I told you ; If we be found, we're wretched ! Oh, retire, For honor's sake and safety ; presently Into your bush again, sir ! We shall find Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin, If you be seen you perish instantly, For breaking prison ; and I. if you reveal me, For my contempt : then all the world will scorn us, And say we had a noble difference, But base disposers of it. Pal. No, no, cousin ; I will no more be hidden, nor put off This great adventure to a second trial ! I know your cunning, and I know your cause. He that faints now, shame take him ! Put thyself Upon thy present guard Arc. You are not mad ? Pal. Or I will make th' advantage of this hour Mine own ; and what to come shall threaten me, I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin, I love Emilia ! and in that I'll bury Thee, and all crosses else ! Arc. Then come what can come ; 2 Thou shall know, Palamon, I dare as well Die, as discourse, or sleep : only this fears me, The law will have the honor of our ends. Have at thy life ! Pal. Look to thine own well, Arcite ! [Fight again. Horns. Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, PERITHOUS, and Train. Thes. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors Are you, that, 'gainst the tenor of my laws, 1 That is, " I consider it the best" l I would omit the " come" at the close of this line, as in- jurious to the verge, and not necessary to the sense. Are making battle, thus, like knights appointed, Without my leave, and officers of arms ? By Castor, both shall die ! Pal. Hold thy word, Theseus We're certainly both traitors, both despisers Of thee, and of thy goodness : I am Palamon, That can not love thee ; he that broke thy prison ; Think well what that deserves ! and this is Arcite ; A bolder traitor never trod thy ground, A falser ne'er seemed friend : this is the man Was begged 3 and banished ; this is he contemns thee And what thou darestdo ; and, in disguise,* Against thy 5 known edict, follows thy sister, That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia, (Whose servant, if there be a right in seeing, And first bequeathing of the soul to, justly I am ;) and, which is more, dares think her his ! This treachery, like a most trusty lover, I called him now to answer. If thou be'est, As thou art spoken, great and virtuous, The true decider of all injuries, Say, " Fight again !" and thou shall see me, Theseus, Do such a justice, thou thyself wilt envy. Then take my life ! I'll woo thee to't. Per- Oh, Heaven, What more than man is this ! Thes. I've sworn. Arc. We seek not Thy breath of mercy, Theseus ! 'Tis to me A thing as soon to die, as thee to say it, And no more moved. Where this man calls me traitor, Let me say thus much : if loves be treason, In service of so excellent a beauty, As I love most, and in that faith will perish ; As I have brought my life here to confirm it ; As I have served her truest, worthiest ; As I dare kill this cousin, that denies it ; So let me be most traitor, and you please me. For scorning thy edict, duke, ask that lady Why she is fair, and why her eyes command me Stay here to love her ; and if she say " traitor," I am a villain fit to lie unburied. Pal. Thou shall have pity of us both, oh, Theseus, If unto neither thou show mercy ; stop, As thou art just, thy noble ear against us ; As thou art valiant, for thy cousin's soul, Whose twelve strong labors crown his memory, Let's die together at one instanl, duke ! Only a liltle let him fall before me, Thai I may tell my soul he shall not have her. Thes. I grant your wish ; for, to say irue, your cousin Has ten times more offended ; for I gave him More mercy than you found, sir ; your offences Being no more than his. None here speak for ihem . For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever. Hip. Alas, the pity ! now or never, sister ; Speak, not to be denied : that face of yours Will bear the curses else of after-ages, For these losl cousins ! 3 He was admitted to mercy at the instance of Princ* Perithous. 4 Previous copies read "in thit disguise." 6 In former editions, " this known edict" 6 According to former copies, " if in lore." ACT III. SCENE VI. 33 Emi. In my face, dear sister, I find no anger to them, nor no ruin ; The misadventure of their own eyes kills them : Yet, that I will be woman, and have pity, My knees shall grow to the ground but I'll get mercy. Help me, dear sister ! in a deed so virtuous, The powers of all women will be with us. Most royal brother Hip. Sir, by our tie of marriage Emi. By your own spotless honor Hip. By that faith, That fair hand, and that honest "heart you gave me Emi. By that you would have pity in another, By your own virtues infinite Hip. By valor By all the chaste nights I have ever pleased you Thes. These are strange conjurings ! Per. Nay, then I'll in too : By all our friendship, sir ; by all our dangers ; By all you love most, wars, and this sweet lady Emi. By that you would have trembled to deny, A blushing maid Hip. By your own eyes ; by strength, In which you swore I went beyond all women, Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus Per.. To crown all this, by your most noble soul, Which can not want due mercy ! I beg first. Hip. Next hear my prayers ! Emi. Last, let me entreat, sir ! Per. For mercy ! Hip. Mercy ! Emi. Mercy on these princes ! Thes. You make my faith reel : say I felt Compassion to them both, how would you place it ? Emi. Upon their lives ; but with their banishments. Thes. You're a right woman, sister ; you have But want the understanding where to use it. [pity, If you desire their lives, invent a way Safer than banishment : can these two live, And have the agony of love about them, And not kill one another ? Every day They'll fight about you ; hourly bring your honor In public question with their swords : be wise then, And here forget them ! it concerns your credit, And my oath equally : I have said, they die ! Better they fall by the law than one another. Bow not my honor. Emi. Oh, my noble brother, That oath was rashly made, and in your anger ; Your reason will not hold it : if such vows Stand for express will, all the world must perish. Beside, I have another oath 'gainst yours, Of more authority ; I'm sure more love ; Not made in passion neither, but good heed. Thes. What is it, sister ? Per. Urge it home, brave lady ! Emi. That you would ne'er deny me anything Fil for my modest suit, and your free granting : I tie you to your word now ; if you fail in't, Think how you maim your honor ; (For now I'm set a-begging, sir, I'm deaf To all but your compassion !) how their lives Might breed the ruin of my name's opinion J 1 Shall anything that loves me perish for me ? 1 We adopt a suggestion of M. Mason. The original has, * name, opinion." Opinion is used in the sense of reputa- tion. That were a cruel wisdom ! do men prune The straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms, Because they may be rotten? Oh, duke Theseus, The goodly mothers that have groaned for these, And all the longing maids that ever loved, If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty, And, in their funeral songs for these two cousins, Despise my cruelty, and cry woe-worth me, Till I am nothing but the scorn of women : For Heaven's sake save their lives, and banish them .' Thes. On what conditions ? Emi. Swear them never more To make me their contention, or to know me, To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be, Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers To one another. Pal. I '11 be cut to pieces Before I take this oath ! Forget I love her? Oh, all ye gods, despise me then ! Thy banishment I not mislike, so we may fairly carry Our swords, and cause along ; else, never trifle But take our lives, duke ! I must love, and will ; And for that love, must and dare kill this cousin, On any piece the earth has ! Thes. Will you, Arcite, Take these conditions ? Pal. He's a villain then ! Per. These are men ! Arc. No, never, duke ; 'tis worse to me than beg- To take my life so basely. Though I think [ging, I never shall enjoy her, yet I'll preserve The honor of affection, and, dying* for her, Make death a devil ! Thes. What may be done ? for now I feel compas- sion. Per. Let it not fall again, sir ! Thes. Say, Emilia, If one of them were dead, as one must, are you Content to take the other to your husband ? They can not both enjoy you. They are princes As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble As ever Fame yet spoke of. Look upon them, And if you can love, end this difference ! I give consent ! are you content, too, princes ? Both. With all our souls. Thes. He that she refuses Must die then. Both. Any death thou canst invent, duke. Pal. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favor, And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes. Arc. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me, And soldiers sing my epitaph. Thes. Make choice then ! Emi. I can not, sir ; they're both too excellent : For me, a hair shall never fall of these men. Hip. What will become of them ? Thes. Thus I ordain it : And, by mine honor, once again it stands, Or both shall die ! You shall both to your country : And each, within this month, accompanied With three fair knights, appear again in this place, In which I'll plant a pyramid : and whether,* Before us that are here, can force his cousin s All other editions read, and die for her" the grammar and sense, seem equally to require the alteration. 3 " When either," which might be abridged, and written thus " Whe'ther." 34 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar, He shall enjoy her ; the other lose his bead, And all his friends : nor shall he grudge to fall, Nor think he dies with interest in this lady : Will this content ye ? Pal. Yes. Here, Cousin Arcite, I'm friends again till that hour. Arc. I embrace you. Thes. Are you content, sister ? Emi. Yes : I must, sir ; Else both miscarry. Thes. Come, shake hands again then ; And take heed, as you're gentlemen, this quarrel Sleep till the hour prefixed, and hold your course ! Pal. We dare not fail thee, Theseus. Thes. Come, I'll give ye Now 1 usage like to princes, and to friends. When ye return, who wins, I'll settle here ; Who loses, yet I'll weep upon his bier. [Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. Jjnter GAOLER and a Friend. Gaoler. Hear you no more ? Was nothing said of Concerning the escape of Palamon ? [me Good sir, remember ! 1 Friend. Nothing that I heard ; For I came home before the business Was fully ended : yet, I might perceive Ere I departed, a great likelihood Of both their pardons ; for Hippolyta, And fair-eyed Emily, upon their knees, Begged with such handsome pity, that the duke, Methought, stood staggering whether he should fol- His rash oath, or the sweet compassion [low Of those two ladies ; and, to second them, That truly noble prince, Perithous Half his own heart set in too, that I hope All shall be well : neither heard I one question Of your name, or his 'scape. Enter Second Friend. Gaoler. Pray Heaven, it hold'so ! 2 Friend. Be of good comfort, man ! I bring you Good news. [news, Gaoler. They're welcome. 2 Friend. Palamon has cleared you, And got your pardon, and discovered how And by whose means he 'scaped, which was your daughter's, Whose pardon is procured too ; and the prisoner (Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness) Has given a sum of money to her marriage, A large one, I'll assure you. Gaol. You're a good man, And ever bring good news. 1 Friend. How was it ended ? 2 Friend. Why, as it should be ; they that never begged But they prevailed, had their suits fairly granted. The prisoners have their lives. 1 I Drefer to read u nev> usage like," &c. 1 Friend. I knew 'twould be so 2 Friend. But there be new conditions, which you'L hear of At better time. Gaoler. I hope they're good. 2 Friend. They're honorable ; How good they'll prove, I know not. Enter WOOER. 1 Friend. 'Twill be known Wooer. Alas, sir, Where's your daughter ? Gaoler. Why do you ask ? Wooer. Oh, sir, when did you see her? 2 Friend. How he looks ! Gaoler. This morning. Wooer. Was she well ? was she in health, sir ? When* did she sleep ? 1 Friend. These are strange questions. Gaoler. I do not think she was very well ; for, now You make me mind her, but this very day I asked her questions, and she answered me So far from what she was, so childishly, So sillily, as if she were a fool, An innocent ! and I was very angry. But what of her, sir ? Wooer. Nothing but my pity ; But you must know it, and as good by me As by another that less loves her. Gaoler. Well, sir? 1 Friend. Not right ? 2 Friend. Not well ? Wooer. No, sir ; not well : 'Tis too true, she is mad. 1 Friend. It can not be. Wooer. Believe, you'll find it so. Gaoler. I half suspected What you have told me ; the gods comfort her ! Either this was her love to Palamon, Or fear of my miscarrying, on his 'scape, Or both. Wooer. 'Tis likely. Gaoler. But why all this haste, sir ? Wooer. I'll tell you quickly. As I late was ang- In the great lake that lies behind the palace, [ling From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges, As patiently I was attending sport, I heard a voice, a shrill one ; and, attentive, I gave my ear ; when I might well perceive 'Twas one that sung, and, by the smallness of it, A boy or woman. I then left my angle To his own skill ; came near, but yet perceived not Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds Had so encompassed it : I laid me down And listened to the words she sung ; for then, Through a small glade cut by the fishermen, I saw it was your daughter. Gaoler. Pray go on, sir ! Wooer. She sung much, but no sense j only I heard Repeat this often : " Palamon is gone, [her Is gone to th' wood to gather mulberries j I '11 find him out to morrow." 1 Friend. Pretty soul ! Wooer. " His shackles will betray him, he'll be taken ; a We might read with quite as much propriety " Whtrt did she sleep." ACT IV. SCENE II. 35 And what shall I do then ? I'll bring a bevy, A. hundred black-eyed maids that love as I do, With chaplets on their heads, of daffodillies, With cherry lips, and cheeks of damask roses, And all we'll dance an antic 'fore the duke, And beg his pardon." Then she talked of you, sir ; That you must lose your head to-morrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome : then she sung Nothing but " Willow, willow, willow ;" and between Ever was, " Palamon, fair Palamon !" Arid " Palamon was a tall young man !" The place Was knee-deep where she sat ; her careless tresses, A wreath of bulrush rounded ; 'bout her stuck Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colors ; That she, methought appeared like the fair nymph That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropped down from heaven ! Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke The prettiest posies ; " Thus our true love's tied ;" " This you may loose, not me ;" and many a one : And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed, And with the same breath smiled, and kissed her hand. 2 Friend. Alas, what pity 'tis ! Wooer. I made in to her ; She saw me, and straight sought the flood. I saved And set her safe to land ; when, presently, [her, She slipped away, and to the city made, With such a cry, and swiftness, that, believe me, She left me far behind her. Three, or four, I saw from far off cross her ; one of them I knew to be your brother ; where she stayed, And fell, scarce to be got away. I left them with her,i Enter BROTHER, DAUGHTER, and Others. And hither came to tell you. Here they are ! Daugh. " May you never more enjoy the light," &c. Is not this a fine song ? Broth. Oh, a very fine one ! Daugh. I can sing twenty more. Broth. I think you can. Daugh. Yes, truly can I ; I can sing the Broom, And Bonny Robin. Are not you a tailor ? Broth. Yes. Daugh. Where's my wedding-gown ? Broth. I'll bring it to-morrow. Daugh. Do, very rearly ; 2 I must be abroad else, To call the maids, and pay the minstrels ; For I must lose my maidenhead by cocklight ; 'Twill never thrive else. [Sings. " Oh, fair, oh, sweet," &c. Broth. You must e'en take it patiently. Gaoler. >Tis true. Daugh. Good e'en, good men ! Pray did you ever Of one young Palamon ? [hear Gaoler. Yes, wench, we know him. Daugh. Is't not a fine young gentleman ? 1 This scene is a very obvious imitation of the story of Ophelia, though with a less touching termination. But though quite creditable to Fletcher, as an imitation of Shakspeare, the fact that it is an imitation should be conclusive that Shakspeare had no hand in it. 2 Rearly early. Gay, in his " Shepherd's Week," uses rear as a provincial word, in this sense. The original has rarely. Gaoler. Tis love ! Broth. By no means cross her ; she is then dis- Far worse than now she shows. [tempered 1 Friend. Yes, he's a fine man. Daugh. Oh, is he so ? You have a sister ? 1 Friend. Yes. Daugh. But she shall never have him ; tell her so ; For a trick that I know, you had best look to her, For if she see him once, she's gone ; she's done, And undone in an hour. All the young maids Of our town are in love with him ; but I laugh at 'em, And let 'em all alone ; is't not a wise course ? 1 Friend. Yes.s Daugh. They come from all parts of the dukedom I'll warrant you. [to him : Gaoler. She's lost, [she's] past all cure ! Broth. Heaven forbid, man ! Daugh. Come hither; you're a wise man. 1 Friend. Does she know him ? 2 Friend. No ; would she did ! Daugh. You're master of a ship ? Gaoler. Yes. Daugh. Where's your compass ? Gaoler. Here. Daugh. ^ Set it to the north ; And now direct your course to the wood, where Pal- Lies longing for me ; for the tackling [amon Let me alone : come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly ! All. Owgh, owgh, owgh ! 'tis up, the wind is fair, Top [with] the bowline ; out with the mainsail ! Where is your whistle, master? Broth. Let's get her in. Gaoler. Up to the top, boy. Broth. Where's the pilot ? 1 Friend. Here. Daugh. What kenn'st thou ? 2 Friend. A fair wood. Daugh. Bear for it, master j tack about ! [ Sings. " When Cynthia with her borrowed light," &c. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter EMILIA, with two pictures. End. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open And bleed to death for my sake else : I'll choose, And.end their strife ; two such young handsome men Shall never fall for me : their weeping mothers, Following the dead-cold ashes of their sons, Shall never curse my cruelty. Good Heaven, What a sweet face has Arcite ! If wise Natuie, With all her best endowments, all those beauties She sows into the births of noble bodies, Were here a mortal woman, and had in her The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless She would run mad for this man. What an eye ! Of what a fiery sparkle, and quick sweetness, Has this young prince ! Here Love himself sits Just such another wanton Ganymede [smiling. Set Jove afire, and [soon] enforced the god 3 We omit some lines here, for the same reason as vre have previously stated. The tendency of Fletcher is to de- stroy his own high merits by a wanton indulgence in pru- riency. He loses nothing by occasional omissions ; not, however, regulated by over-fastidiousness. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Snatch up the goodly boy, and set him by him A shining constellation ! What a brow, Of what a spacious majesty, he carries ; Arched like the great-eyed Juno's, but far sweeter ; Smoother than Pelops' shoulder ! Fame and Honor, Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings and sing To all the under-world, the loves and fights Of gods and such men near 'em. Palamon Is but his foil ; to him, a mere dull shadow ; He's swarth and meager, of an eye as heavy As if he'd lost his mother ; a still temper, No stirring in him, no alacrity ; Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile. Yet these that we count errors, may become him: Narcissus was a sad boy, but a heavenly. Ob, who can find the bent of woman's fancy? I am a fool my reason is lost in me ! I have no choice, and 1 have lied so lewdly, That women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon, Palamon ! Thou'rt alone, And only, beautiful ; and these thine eyes, These the bright lamps of beauty, that command And threaten love ; and what young maid dare cross What a bold gravity, and yet inviting, ['em? Has this brown, manly face ! Oh, Love, this only From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite ! Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gipsy, And this the noble body. I am sotted, Utterly lost ! My virgin faith has fled me, For if my brother but e'en now had asked me Whe'ther I loved, I had run mad for Arcite ; Now, if my sister, more for Palamon. [er ; Stand both together ! Now, come, ask me, broth- Alas, I know not ! Ask me now, sweet sister ; I may 1 go look ! What a mere child is fancy, That, having two fair gawds of equal sweetness, Can not distinguish, but must cry for both ! Enter a Gentleman. How now, sir ? Gent. From the noble duke, your brother, Madam, I bring you news : the knights are come ! Emi. To end the quarrel ? Gent. Yes. Emi. Would I might end first ! What sins have I committed, chaste Diana, That my unspotted youth must now be soiled With blood of princes ? and my chastity Be made the altar, where the lives of lovers (Two greater and two better never yet Made mothers' joy) must be the sacrifice To my unhappy beauty ? Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERiTHOus,and Attend- ants. Thes. Bring them in, Quickly, by any means ! I long to see them. Your two contending lovers are returned, And with them their fair knights : now, my fair sister, You must love one of them. Emi. I had rather both, So neither for my sake should fall untimely. Enter Messenger. This. Who saw them ? 1 Qu.t ilutt? Per. I, awhile. Gent. And I. Thes. From whence come you, sir ? Mess. From the knights. Thes. Pray speak, You that have seen them, what they are. Mess. I will, sir_ And truly what I think : six braver spirits [side,) Than these they've brought (if we judge by the out- I never saw, nor read of. He that stands In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming Should be a stout man, by his face a prince ; His very looks so say him ; his complexion Nearer a brown than black ; stern, and yet noble, Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers ; The circles of his eyes show fair 2 ' within him, And, as a heated lion, so he looks ; His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining Like raven's wings ; his shoulders broad and strong ; Armed long and round : and on his thigh a sword Hung by a curious baldrick. when he frowns To seal his will with ; better, o' my conscience, Was never soldier's friend. Thes. Thou hast well described him. Per. Yet, a great deal short, Methinks of him that's first with Palamon. Thes. Pray speak him, friend. Per. I guess he is a prince too, And, if it may be, greater ; for his show Has all the ornament of honor in't. He's somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of. But of a face far sweeter ; his complexion Is (as a ripe grape) ruddy ; he has felt, Without doubt, what he fights for, and so, apter To make this cause his own ; in's face appears All the fair hopes of what he undertakes ; And when he's angry, then a settled valor (Not tainted with extremes) runs through his body, And guides his arm to brave things ; fear he can not ; He shows no such soft temper ; his head's yellow, Hard-haired and curled, thick twined, like ivy tops, Not to undo with thunder ; in his face The livery of the warlike maid appears, Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blessed him ; And in his rolling eyes sits Victory, As if she ever meant to crown 3 his valor ; His nose stands high, a character of honor, His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies. Emi. Must these men die too ? Per. W T hen he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a trumpet ; all his lineaments Are as a man would wish them, strong and clean ; He wears a well-steeled axe, the staff of gold ; His age some five-and-twenty. Mess. There's another. A little man. but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any ; fairer promises In such a body yet I never looked on. Per. Oh, he that's freckle-faced ? Mess. The same, my lord : Are they not sweet ones ? Per. Yes, they're well. Mess. Methiiks, t Fair. So the originals. The modern reading is far implying deep-seated eyes. Fair may be received in the sense of clear. 3 Crown the original has correct. ACT IV. SCENE III. 37 Being so few, and well-disposed, they show Great, and fine art in Nature. He's white-haired, Not wanton-white, but such a manly color Next to an auburn ; tough, and nimble set, Which shows an active soul ; his arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews ; to the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, Which speaks him prone to labor, never fainting Under the weight of arms ; stout-hearted ; still ; But, when he stirs, a tiger ; he's gray-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers ; sharp To. spy advantages, and, where he finds 'em, He's swift to make 'em his ; he does no wrongs, Nor takes none ; he's round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover ; when he frowns, a soldier ; About his head he wears the winner's oak, And in it stuck the favor of his lady ; His age, some six-and- thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff, embossed with silver. Thes. Are they all thus ? Per. They're all the sons of honor. Thes. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see them ! Lady, you shall see men fight now. Hip. I wish it, But not the cause, my lord : they would show [fight] Bravely, about the titles of two kingdoms. 'Tis pity love should be so tyrannous. Oh, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not, till they weep blood, wench ! It must be. Thes. You've steeled 'em with your beauty. Hon- ored friend, To you I give the field ; pray order it, Fitting the persons that must use it ! Per. Yes, sir. Thes. Come, I'll go visit them: I can not stay Their fame has fired me so till they appear j Good friend, be royal ! Per. There shall want no bravery. Emi. Poor wench, go weep ; for whosoever wins, Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter GAOLER, WOOEH, and DOCTOR. Doctor. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon than at other some, is it not ? Gaoler. She is continually in a harmless distemper; sleeps little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking ; dreaming of another world, and a better ; and what broken piece of matter soe'er she's about, i the name Palamon lards it. That she farces every business withal, fits it to every question. Enter DAUGHTER. Look, where she comes ! you shall perceive her be- havior. Daugh. I have forgot it quite ; the burden on't was " down-a-down-a ;" and penned by no worse man than Giraldo, Kmilia's schoolmaster: he's as fantas- tical too, as ever he may go upon's legs ; for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with ^Eneas. Doctor. What stuff's here ? poor sou] ! Ga >ler. Even thus all day long. Laugh. Now for this charm that I told you of; you mi'st bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry : then if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits (as there's a sight now) , we maids that have our livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there, and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with Proserpine; then will I make Palamon a nosegay ; then let him mark me then ! Doctor. How prettily she's amiss ! note her a little further ! Daugh. Faith, I'll tell you ; sometime we go to barley-break, we of the blessed ; alas, 'tis a sore life they have i' the other place ! If one be mad, or hang, or drown themselves, thither they go ; Jupiter bless us ! Doctor. How she continues this fancy ! 'Tis not an engrafted madness, but a most thick and profound melancholy. Daugh. To hear there a proud lady, and a proud city-wife, howl together ! I were a beast, an I'd call it good sport I 1 [Sing*. " I will be true, my stars, my fute," &c. [Exit DAUGHTER. Gaoler. What think you of her, sir ? Doctor. I think she has a perturbed mind, which I can not minister to. Gaoler. Alas, what then ? Doctor. Understand you she ever affected any man ere she beheld Palamon ? Gaoler. I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed her liking on this gentleman, my friend. Wooer. I did think so too ; and would account I had a great pennyworth on't, to give half my state, that both she and I at this present stood unfeignedly on the same terms. Doctor. That intemperate surfeit of her eye hath distempered the other senses ; they may return, and settle again to execute their preordained faculties ; but they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must do : confine her to a pl;ice where the light may rather seem to steal in, than be permitted. Take upon you (young sir, her friend) the name of Palamon ; say you come to eat with her, and to com- mune of love ; this will catch her attention, for this i We have again been compelled to employ the praninq;- knife. Our edition i.s for general readers, as well as for critical students. The essential difference between Shak- speare and Fletcher makes it necessary to adopt a different course with reference to the two writers. It is not a false reverence for Phakspeare that calls upon an editor to leave his text unchanged ; hut a just discrimination between the quality of what is offensive in him and in other writers of his a sensation supposed in the speaker. I need not proceed to contrast this with Beaumont, and Fletcher "* * I see no reason to disturb the opinions or depart from the rule which Mr. Knight has prescribed for himself, in the exclusion of offensive passages. Certainly, the fancy of the gaoler's daughter is not that of Ophelia ; and there can be no better illustration of the author's inferiority as an artist, tlinn in the sudden change in her character, from the strong- willed and somewhat coarse rustic, to the creature of such delicate sensibilities as he here endeavors to describe her. It was an atter-thought to make her resemble Ophelia. In the first scenes she is totally unlike indeed, a very good con- trast, were it our cue to seek one. 33 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. her mind beats upon ; other objects, that are inserted 'tween her mind and eye, become the pranks and frisk ings of her madness ; sing to her such green songs of love, as she says Palamon hath sung in prison ; come to her, stuck in as sweet flowers as the season is mis- tress of, and thereto make an addition of some other compounded odors, which are grateful to the sense : all this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet, and every good thing ; desire to eat with her, carve for her, drink to her, and still intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance in- to her favor ; learn what maids have been her com- panions and play-heers ; l and let them repair to her with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with to- kens, as if they suggested for him : it is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep, and reduce what are now out of square in her, into their former law and regimen : 1 have seen it approved, how many times 1 Know not ; but to make the number more, I have great hope in this. I will, between the passages of this project, come in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution ; and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. Enter THESEUS, PERITHOUS, HIPPOLYTA, and At- tendants. Tfies. Now let them enter, and before the gods Tender their holy prayers ! Let the temples Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars In hallowed clouds commend their swelling incense To those above us ! Let no due be wanting ! f Flourish of cornets. They have a noble work in hand, will honor The very powers that love them. Enter PALAMON, AECITE, and their Knights. Per. Sir, they enter. ' Thes. You valiant and strong-hearted enemies, You royal germane foes, that this day come To blow that nearness out that flames between ye, Lay by your anger for an hour, and, dove-like, Before the holy altars of your helpers, The all-feared gods bow down your stubborn bodies ! Your ire is more than mortal ; so your help be ! And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice ! I'll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye I part my wishes. Per. Honor crown the worthiest ! [Exeunt THES. and Train. Pal. The glass is running now that can not finish Till one of us expire : think you but thus ; That were there aught in me which strove to show Mine enemy in this business, wer't one eye Against another, arm oppressed by arm, I would destroy the offender ; coz, I would, Though parcel of myself .'Then from this gather How I should tender you ! 1 Play hten playfellow*. Arc. I am in labor To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred Out of my memory ; and, i' the self-same place, To seat something I would confound : so hoist we The sails that must these vessels port* even where The heavenly Limiter pleases ! Pal. You speak well : Before I turn, let me embrace thee. cousir ! This I shall never do again. Arc. One farewell ! Pal. Why, let it be so : farewell, coz ! Arc. Farewell, sir . [Exeunt PAL. and his Knights. Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices, True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you Expels the seeds of fear, and th' apprehension, Which still is further off it, go with me Before the god of our profession ! There Require of him the hearts of lions, and The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too ! Yea, the speed also ! to go on, I mean, Else wish we to be snails : you know my prize Must be dragged out of blood ! force and great feat Must put my garland on, where she will stick The queen of flowers ; our intercession then Must be to him that makes the camp a cestron 3 Brimmed 4 with the blood of men ; give me your aid, And bend your spirits toward him ! [Theykr.eel. Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turned Green Neptune into purple ;* [whose approach] 6 Comets prewam ; whose havoc in vast field Unearthed skulls proclaim ; whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres' foison ; who dost pluck With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds The masoned turrets ; that both mak'st and break's! The stony girths of cities ; me, thy pupil, Young'st follower of thy drum, instruct this day With military skill, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o'the day ! Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure ! [Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armor, wiM a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise, and bow to the altar. Oh, great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood The earth when it is sick, and curest the world Of the plurisy 7 of people ; I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly. Let us go ! [Exeunt. 9 Seward reads "part," a reading that seems more obvious without being quite eo certain. The port at which these vessels must arrive, would seem to be necessarily indicated by the reference to the heavenly " Limiter" it is to th limit of the voyage that he alludes. 3 Ceston I suppose to be the proper word i. e., " a stud- ded girdle" a not inappropriate figure descriptive of the ring, or circle of spectators assembled to behold the fight. * Some of the old copies read "primed" for "brimmed." 6 " Making the green one red." 6 The words in brackets are not in the original copies, but were added by Seward. As something is evidently wanting, the addition is judicious. ^ Plurisy used by the old poets for fulness.* * And yet, as to let blood was to cure pleurisy, the invo- cation to Mars, for this object, might have no soft of refer- ence to the world's repletion. Mars was the great bleeder. ACT V. SCENE I. 39 Enter PALAMON and his Knights, with the former ob- servance. Pal. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be To-day extinct : our argument is love, Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives Victory too : then blend your spirits with mine, You, whose free nobleness do make my cause Your personal hazard ! To the goddess Venus Commend we our proceeding, and implore Her power unto our party ! [Here they kneel. Ha7., sovereign queen of secrets ! who hast power To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage, To weep unto 1 a girl ; that hast the might Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars's drum, And turn th' alarm to whispers ; that canst make A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him Before Apollo ; that mayst force the king To be his subjects' vassal, and induce Stale gravity to dance ; the polled 2 bachelor (Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires, Have skipped thy flame) at seventy thou canst catch, And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat, Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou Add'st flames, hotter than his ; the heavenly fires Did scorch his mortal son, thine him ; the huntress, All moist and cold, some say, began to throw Her bow away, and sigh ; take to thy grace Me thy vowed soldier ! who do bear thy yoke As 'twere a wreath of roses, yet it is Heavier than lead itself, stings more than nettles : I've never been foul-mouthed against thy law ; Ne'er revealed secret, for I knew none ; would not Had I kenned all that were. I never practised Upon man's wife, nor would the libels read Of liberal wits ; I never at great feasts Sought to betray a beauty, but have blushed At simpering sirs that did. I have been harsh To large confessors, and have hotly asked them If they had mothers? I had one, a woman, And women 'twere they wronged. I knew a man Of eighty winters (this I told them), who A lass of fourteen brided ; 'twas thy power To put life into dust ; the aged cramp Had screwed his square foot round ; The gout had knit his fingers into knots, Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life, In him, seemed torture ; this anatomy Had, by his young fair pheer, a boy, and I Believed it was his, for she swore it was, And who would not believe her ? Brief, I am To those that prate, and have done, no companion ; To those that boast, and have not, a defier ; To those that would, and can not, a rejoicer ;' Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices The foulest way, nor names concealments in 1 Theobald reads " intn" instead of " unto," which I think the far preferable reading. To weep unto a girl seems scarcely to convey the intended idea. 2 Thus the old copy, but that the bachelor should be polleii, is a matter of course. Perhaps we should read, the ' buld bachelor," or the "poll-bald" bachelor. Either reading will meet the wants of the sense. s I leave this passage as I find it, but would suggest the reading as follows, by which, changing the word " defier" The boldest language : such a one I am [not 4 ] And vow that lover never yet made sigh Truer than I. Oh, then, most soft sweet goddess, Give me the victory of this question, which Is true love's merit, 8 and bless me with a sign Of thy great pleasure ! [Here music is heard, doves are seen to flutter ; they fall again upon their faces, then on their knees. Oh, thou that from eleven to ninety reign'st In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this [whole] world, And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks For this fair token, which being laid unto Mine innocent true heart, arms, in assurance, [ They bow. My body to this business. Let us rise And bow before the goddess ! Time comes on. [Exeunt, [Still music of records. Enter EMILIA in white, her hair about her shoulders, a wheaten wreath ; one in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers ; one before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odors, which being set upon the altar, her Maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it ; then they courtesy and kneel. Emi. Oh, sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative, [queen, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wind-fanned snow, who, to thy female knights, Allow'st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their order's robe ; I here, thy priest, Am humbled 'fore thine altar. Oh, vouchsafe, With that thy rare green^ eye, which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin ! And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear (Which ne'er heard scurril term, into whose port Ne'er entered wanton sound) to my petition, Seasoned with holy fear ! This is my last Of vestal office ; I'm bride-habited, But maiden-hearted ; a husband I've appointed, But do not know him ; out of two I should Choose one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election of mine eyes. Were I to lose one (they are equal precious) , I could doom neither ; that which perished should Go to't unsentenced : therefore, most modest queen, He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me, And has the truest title in't, let him into " desire," it appears to me we compass and supply all its deficiencies : " Brief I am, To those that prate and have done ;* no companion To those that boast, and have not a desire ; To those that would and can not, a rejoicer ;"t &c. * That ia, to those that prate only, and do no more than prate. t That is, doing for them what they desire to have done, and can not do for themselves. The prayer is to Venus. The difficulty is in saying those things it might be grateful to hear, yet which decency would not suffer to be spoken except ambiguously. * The sense seems to demand the negative in this place. 5 " Meed," perhaps. 6 A green eye for Diana is something of a novelty. For "rare green," Seward reads "rare sheen," which does not greatly help the matter. Why not " rare seen" which ap- plied to chastity would be proper enough 1 But is it not possible that " virgin" has, by the rare faculty which typea nave of perversion, been converted into those two strangely misplaced words. 40 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant The file and quality I hold, I may Continue in thy band ! [H*re the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose-tree, having one rose upon it. See what our general of ebbs and flows Out from the bowels of her holy altar With sacred act advances ! But one rose ? If well inspired, this battle shall confound Both these brave knights, and I a virgin flower Must grow alone unplucked. [Here is heard a sudden tunng of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree. The flower is fall'n, the tree descends ! Oh, mistress, Thou here discharges! me ; I shall be gathered ; I think so ; but I know not thine 1 own will : Unclasp thy mystery ! I hope she's pleased ; Her signs were gracious. [They courtesy, and exeunt. SCENE II. Enter DOCTOR, GAOLER, and WOOEH (in habit of PALAMON). Doctor. Has this advice I told you Done any good upon her ? Wooer. Oh. very much : The maids that kept her company, Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon ; Within this half-hour she came smiling to me, And asked me what I'd eat, and when I'd kiss her: I told her presently, and kissed her twice. Doctor. 'Twas well done ! twenty times had been far better ; For there the cure lies mainly. Wooer. Then she told me She'd watch with me to-night, for well she knew What hour my fit would take me. Doctor. Let her do so. Wooer. She'd have me sing. Doctor. You did so ? Wooer. No. Doctor. 'Twas very ill done, then : You should observe her every way. Wooer. Alas ! I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way. Doctor. That's all one, if you [only] make a noise : Pray bring her in, and let's see how she is. Gaoler. I will, and tell her Palamon stays for her. [Exit. Doctor. How old is she ? Wooer. She's eighteen. Doctor. She may be ; But that's all one, 'tis nothing to our purpose. 3 jfe Enter GAOLER, DAUGHTER, and MAID. mm Gaoler. Come ; your love Palamon stays for you, And has done this long hour, to visit you. [child ; Daugh. I thank him for his gentle patience ; He's a kind gentleman, and I'm much bound to him. Did you ne'er see the horse he gave me ? Gaoler. Yes. 1 Query : mine ? 9 Mr. Knight has taken large liberties in lopping off por- tions of this scene, on the score of its obscenities. It is for- tunate that the portions thus exscinded, are as dull as they we vicious. We lose nothing. Daugh. How do you like him? Gaoler. He's a very fair one. Daugh. You never saw him dance ? Gaoler. No. Daugh. I have often : He dances very finely, very come[li]ly ; And, for a jig, come cut and long tail to him ! He turns you like a top. Gaoler. That's fine indeed. Daugh. He'll dance the morris twenty miles an hour, And that will founder the best hobby-horse (If I have any skill) in all the parish : And gallops to the tune of " Light o'love-." What think you of this horse ? Gaoler. Having these virtues, I think he might be brought to play at tennis. Daugh. Alas, that's nothing. Gaoler. Can he write and read too ? Daugh. A very fair hand ; and casts himself the accounts Of all his hay and provender : that ostler Must rise betime that cozens him. You know The chestnut mare the duke has ? Gaoler. Very well. Daugh. She's horribly in love with him, poor But he is like his master, coy and scornful, [beast ; Gaoler. What do wry has she ? Daugh. Some two hundred bottles And twenty strike of oats : but he'll ne'er have her ; He lisps in's neighing, able to entice A miller's mare ; he'll be the death of her. Doctor. What stuff she utters ! Gaoler. Make courtesy ; here your love comes ! Wooer. Pretty soul, How do you ? That's a fine maid ! there's a court- esy ! Daugh. Yours to command i' the way of honesty. How far is't now to the end o' the world, my mas- ters? Doctor. Why, a day's journey, wench. Daugh. Will you go with me ? Wooer. What shall we do there, wench ? Daugh. Why, play at stool-ball, What is there else to do ? Wooer. I am content, If we shall keep our wedding there. Daugh. 'Tis true ; For there I will assure you we shall find Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture To marry us, for here they're nice and foolish ; Besides, my father must be hanged to-morrow, And that would be a blot i' the business. Are not you Palamon ? Wooer. Do you not know me ? Daugh. Yes ; but you care not for me : I have nothing But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks. Wooer. That's all one ; I will have you. Daugh. Will you surely ? 3 Wooer. Why do you rub my kiss off? Daugh. 'Tis a sweet one 3 Here again occurs one of Mr. Knight's omissions, of which he says nothing indecencies truly, but of the very sort that we find in Hamlet, and scarcely worse. I should not scruple to restore this matter were it at all necessary to the spirit of the scene. ACT V. SCENE III. 41 And will perfume me finely 'gainst the wedding. Is not this your cousin Arcite ? Doctor. Yes, sweetheart ; And I am glad my cousin Palamon Has made so fair a choice. Daugh. Do you think he'll have me ? Doctor. Yes, without doubt. Daugh. Do you think so too ? Gaoler. Yes. Daugh. We shall have many children. Lord, how you're grown ! i.Iy Palamon I hope will grow, too, finely, Now he's at liberty ; alas, poor chicken, He was kept down with hard meat, and ill-lodging, But I will kiss him up again. Enter a Messenger. Mess. What do you here ? You'll lose the noblest sight that e'er was seen. Gaoler. Are they i' the field ? Mess. They are : You bear a charge there too. Gaoler. I'll away straight, * I must even leave you here/ Doctor. Nay, we'll go with you j T will not lose the fight. Gaoler. How did you like her ? Doctor. I'll warrant you within these three or four days I'll make her right again. You must not from her, But still preserve her in this way. Wooer. I will. Doctor. Let's get her in. Wooer. Come, sweet, we'll go to dinner j And then we'll play at cards. 1 Daugh. And shall we kiss top ? Wooer. An hundred times. 2 [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, PERITHOUS, and Attendants. Emi. I'll no step further. Per. Will you lose this sight ? Emi. I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly, Than this decision : every blow that falls Threats a brave life ; each stroke laments The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like A bell, than blade : I will stay here : It is enough my hearing shall be punished With what shall happen ('gainst the which there is No deafing) , but to hear, not taint mine eye With dread sights it may shun. Per. Sir, my good lord, Your sister will no further. Thes. Oh, she must : She shall see deeds of honor in their kind, Which sometime 3 show well-pencilled : Nature now two previous instances. * These are two of Mr. Knight's excluded lines, and are only objected to as they are supposed to lead to worse. 3 Seward reads for " sometime show," " Tune will show." Perhaps the addition of the letter "*" to sometime, will answer the purpose. The duke means to say she will see in reality those deeds of honor which she has only seen in pictures. Shall make and act the story, the belief Both sealed with eye and ear. You must be present ; You are the victor's meed, the price and garland To crown the question's title. Emi. Pardon me ; If I were there, I'd wink. Thes. You must be there ; This trial is as 'twere i' the night, and you The only star to shine. Emi. I am extinct ; There is but envy in that light, which shows The one the other. Darkness, which ever was The dam of Horror, who does stand accursed Of many mortal millions, may, even now, By casting her black mantle over both,' That neither could find [th'J other, get herself Some part of a good name ; and many a murder Set off whereto she's guilty. Hip. You must go. Emi. In faith, I will not. Thes. Why, the knights must kindle Their valor at your eye. Know, of this war You are the treasure, and must needs be by To give the service pay. Emi. Sir, pardon me ; The title of a kingdom may be tried Out of itself. Thes. Well, well, then, at your pleasure ! Those that remain with you could wish their office To any of their enemies. Hip. Farewell, sister ! I'm like to know your husband 'fore yourself, By some small start of time : he whom the gods Do of the two know best, I pray them, he Be made your lot ! [Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, &c Emi. Arcite is gently visaged : yet his eye Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon In a soft sheath ; mercy and manly courage Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon Has a most menacing aspect ; his brow Is graved, and seems to bury what it frowns on ; Yet sometimes 'tis not so, but alters to The quality of his thoughts ; long time his eye Will dwell upon his object ; melancholy Becomes him nobly ; so does Arcite's mirth ; But Palamon's sadness is a kind of mirth, So mingled, as if mirth did make him sad, And sadness, merry ; those dark 4 humors that Stick misbecomingly on others, in him 5 Live in fair dwelling. [Cornets. Trumpets sound as to a charge. Hark, how yon spurs to spirit do incite The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me ; And yet may Palamon wound Arcite, to The spoiling of his figure. Oh, what pity ! Enough for such a chance .' If I were by, I might do hurt ; for they would glance their eyes Toward my seat, and, in that motion, might Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence, Which craved that very time ; it is much better [Cornets. Cry uithin, A Palamon ! 4 Other copies read " darker humors." 6 Mr. Seward first writes " on him," and is followed in this reading by Mr. Knight I can not doubt that we should say " in him." They are merely grafts on others, in bun they are native. It is " in him," that they " live in fair dwelling." 42 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. I am not there ; oh, better never bora Than minister to such harm ! What is the chance ? Enter a Servant. Sere. The cry's a Palamon. Emi. Then he has won. 'Twas ever likely : He looked all grace and success, and he is Doubtless the prim'st of men. I prithee run, And tell me how it goes. [Shout and cornets ; cry, A Palamon ! Sere. Still Palamon. Emi. Run and inquire. Poor servant, thou hast lost! Upon my right side still I wore thy picture, Palamon's on the left : why so, I know not ; I had no end in't else ; chance would have it so. [Another cry and shout within, and cornets. On the sinister side the heart lies : Palamon Had the best-boding chance. This burst of clamor Is sure the end o' the combat. Enter Servant. Sere. They said that Palamon had Arcite's body Within an inch o' the pyramid ; that the cry Was general, a Palamon ; but, anon, The assistants made a brave redemption, and The two bold tillers at this instant are Hand to hand at it. Emi. Were they metamorphosed Both into one ! Oh, why? There were no woman Worth so composed a man ! Their single share, Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives The prejudice of disparity, value's shortness, [Comets. Cry within, Arcite, Arcite ! To any lady breathing.* More exulting ! Palamon still ! Sere. Nay, now the sound is Arcite. Emi. I prithee lay attention to the cry ; [Cornets. A great shout and cry, Arcite, victory ! Set both thine ears to the business. Sere. The cry is Arcite, and victory ! Hark ! Arcite, victory ! The combat's consummation is proclaimed By the wind-instruments. Emi. Half-sights saw- That Arcite was no babe ! God's 'lid, his richness And costliness of spirit looked through him ! could No more be hid in him than fire in flax, Than humble banks can go to law with waters, That drift winds force to raging. I did think Good Palamon would miscarry ; yet I knew not Why I did think so : our reasons are not prophets, When oft our fancies are. They're coming off: Alas, poor Palamon ! [Cornets. w Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, ARCITE as Victor, Attendants, &c. Thes. Lo, where our sister is in expectation, Yet quaking and unsettled. Fairest Emilia, 1 This passage is very obscure. The first expression is that of a wish that the two should be resolved into one. But the speaker instantly checks herself exclaiming, " Why should I wish so, when there were no woman worth so com- posed a man !" The single shade of nobleness peculiar to each, subjects all, however, to the prejudice of disparity, and makes their value fall short of the wonderful standard of excellence which such men might reasonably desire and assert The gods, by their divine arbitrament, Have given you this knight : he is a good one As ever struck at head. Give me your hands ! Receive her, you ; you him ; be plighted with A love that grows as you decay ! Arc. Emilia, To buy you I have lost what's dearest to me, Save what is bought ; and yet I purchase cheaply, As I do rate your value. Thes. Oh, loved sister, He speaks now of as brave a knight as e'er Did spur a noble steed ; surely the gods Would have him die a bachelor, lest his race Should show i' the world too godlike ! His behavior So charmed me, that methought Alcides was To him a sow* of lead : if I could praise Each part of him to the all I've spoke, your Arcite Did not lose by't ; for he that was thus good, Encountered yet his better. I have heard Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o' the night With their contentious throats ; now one the higher, Anon the other ; then again the first, And*by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense Could not be judge between them : so it fared Good space between these kinsmen ; till heavens did Make hardly one the winner. Wear the garland With joy that you have won ! For the subdued, Give them our present justice, since I know Their lives but pinch them ; let it here be done. The scene's not for our seeing : go we hence, Right joyful, with some sorrow ! Arm your prize : 3 I know you will not lose her. Hippolyta, I see one eye of yours conceives a tear, The which it will deliver. [Flourish. Emi. Is this winning ? Oh, all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy ? But that your wills have said it must be so, And charge me live to comfort, thus unfriended, This miserable prince, that cuts away A life more worthy from him than all women, I should and would die too. Hip. Infinite pity, That four such eyes should be so fixed on one, That two must needs be blind for't ! Thes. So it is. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter PALAMON and his Knights pinioned, GAOLER, Executioner, and Guard. Pal. There's many a man alive that hath out- lived The love o' the people ; yea, i' the self-same state Stands many a father with his child : some comfort We have by so considering ; we expire, And not without men's pity ; to live still, Have their good wishes ; we prevent The loathsome misery of age ; beguile The gout and rheum, that in lag hours attend For gray approachers ; we come tow'rd the gods * "Pig" of lead would be better understood by the mod eras, unless we told them that in the old English the word " sow" was sometimes used to signify " head." The mean- ing is that Alcides was " leaden-headed to him." 3 Arm your prize offer your arm to the lady you have won. ACT V. SCENE IV. Young, and unwappened, 1 not halting under crimes Many and stale ; that sure shall please the gods Sooner than such, to give us nectar with them, For we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsmen, Whose lives (for this poor comfort) are laid down, You've sold them too, too cheap. 1 Knight. What ending could be Of more content ? O'er us the victors have Fortune, whose title is as momentary As to us death is certain ; a grain of honor They tot o'erweigh us. 2 Knight. Let us bid farewell ; And with our patience anger tott'ring fortune, Who, at her certain'st, reels ! 3 Knight. Come ; who begins ? Pal. Even he that led you to this banquet shall Taste to you all. Ah-ha, my friend, my friend ! Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once ; You'll see't done now for ever. Pray, how does she ? I heard she was not well , her kind of ill Gave me some sorrow. Gaoler. Sir, she's well restored, And to be married shortly. Pal. By my short life, I am most glad on't ! 'tis the latest thing I shall be glad of; prithee tell her so ; Commend me to her, and to piece her portion Tender her this. 1 Knight. Nay. let's be offerers all ! 2 Knight. Is it a maid? Pal. Verily, I think so ; A right good creature, more to me deserving Than I can 'quite or speak of ! All Knights. Commend us to her. [Give their purses. Gaoler. The gods requite you all, And make her thankful ! Pal. Adieu ! and let my life be now as short As my leave-taking. [Lies on the block. 1 Knight. Lead, courageous cousin ! 2 Knight. We'll follow cheerfully. [A great noise within, crying, Run, save, hold ! Enter in haste a Messenger. Mess. Hold, hold ! oh, hold, hold, hold !* Enter PEHITHOUS in haste. Per. Hold, hoa ! it is a cursed haste you made, If you have done so quickly. Noble Palamon, The gods will show their glory in a life That thou art yet to lead. Pal. Can that be,' When Venus I've said is false ? How do things fare ? Per. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear That are most dearly sweet and bitter ! Pal. What Hath waked us from our dream ? 1 Unwappened. The originals have unwappered. Without knowing exactly the meaning of the word wappened, we would receive the epithet here as the opposite to that in Ti- mon " That makes the wappened widow wed again."* * Wappened, according to Stevens, from wap, futuo. Wop- ping is quaking ; i. e., " We come before the gods, young and without fear." But, after all, the word may be "un- weaponed." t Two of these monosyllables may be omitted with per- fect propriety, and to the improvement of the rhythm. Per. List then ! Your cousin, Mounted upon a steed that Emily Did first bestow on him a black one, owning Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say Weakens his price, and many will not buy His goodness with this note which superstition Here finds allowance : on this horse is Arcite, Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins' Did rather tell than trample ; for the horse Would make his length a mile, ift pleased his rider To put pride in him : as he thus went, counting The flinty pavement, dancing as 'twere to music His own hoofs made (for, as they say, from iron Came music's origin), what envious flint, Cold as old Saturn, and, like him, possessed With fire malevolent, darted a spark Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made, I comment not ; the hot horse, hot as fire, Took toy at this, and fell to what disorder His power could give his will ; bounds, comes on end, Forgets school-doing, being therein trained, And of kind manege ; pig-like* he whines At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather Than any jot obeys ; seeks all foul means Of boisterous and rough jadery, to dis-seat His lord that kept it bravely : When naught served, When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor dif- fering plunges Dis-root his rider whence he grew, but that He kept him 'tween his legs ; on his hind hoofs, On end, he stands, That Arcite's legs being higher than his head, Seemed with strange art to hang : his victor's wreath Even- then fell off his head ; and, presently, Backward the jade comes o'er, and his full poise Becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living ; But such a vessel 'tis, that floats but for The surge that next approaches. He much desires To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears ! Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, ARCITE, in a chair. Pal. Oh, miserable end of our alliance ! The gods are mighty ! Arcite, if thy heart, Thy worthy manly heart, be yet unbroken, Give me thy last words ! I am Palamon, One that yet loves thee dying. Arc. Take Emilia, And with her all the world's joy. Reach thy hand ; Farewell ! I've told my last hour. I was false, Yet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin ! One kiss from fair Emilia ! It is done : Take her. I die ! [Dies. Pal. Thy brave soul seek Elysium ! Emi. I'll close thine eyes, prince ; blessed souls be with thee ! Thou art a right good man ; and while I live This day I give to tears. Pal. And I to honor. Thes. In this place first you fought ; even very here I sundered you : acknowledge to the gods Our thanks that you are living. His part is played, and, though it were too short, 3 Calkins hoofs. * The image is a very vulgar one, and the line lacks a syl- lable. " Pigmy-like" might be the more appropriate read- ing. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. He did it well : your day is lengthened, and The blissful dew of heaven does arrose you ; The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar And given you your love ; our master Mars Has vouched his oracle, and to Arcite gave The grace of the contention : so the deities Have shown due justice. Bear this hence ! Pal. Oh, cousin, That we should things desire, which do cost us The loss of our desire ! That naught could buy Dear love, but loss of dear love ! Thes. Never fortune Did play a subtler game : the conquered triumphs, The victor has the loss ; yet, in the passage, The gods have been most equal. Palamon, Your kinsman, hath confessed the right o' the lady Did lie in you ; for you first saw her. and Even then proclaimed your fancy. He restored her, As your stolen jewel, and desired your spirit To send him hence forgiven : the gods my justice Take from my hand, and they themselves become The executioners. Lead your lady off; And call your lovers 1 from the stage of death. Whom I adopt my friends ! A day or two Let us look sadly, and give grace unto The funeral of Arcite ; in whose end The visages of bridegrooms we'll put on, And smile with Palamon ; for whom an hour, But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry, As glad of Arcite ; and am now as glad, As for him sorry. Oh, you heavenly charmers, What things you make of us ! For what we lack We laugh, for what we have are sorry ; still Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful For that which is, and with you leave disputes That are above our question ! Let's go off, And bear us like the time ! [Flourish. Exeunt. 1 Lovers companions, friends.* * So Mr. Knight ; and yet, if written " followers," the sense and measure would be equally improved . TEE END OF THE TWO NOBLE KHfSXEN. INTRODUCTION TO THE LONDON PRODIGAL. THIS comedy was first published in 1605, with the following title : " The London Prodigall : as it was plaide by the King's Majestie's Servants : By William Shakspeare. London : Printed by T. C., for Nathan- iel Butler." T. C. was Thomas Creede, and Nathan- iel Butler was the bookseller, who, three years after- ward, published King Lear. " Concerning the origin of this play, having been ever ascribed to Shakspeare, I have not been able to form any probable hypothesis." This is the language of Malone. He adds : " One knows not which most to admire, the impudence of the printer, in affixing our great poet's name to a comedy publicly at his own theatre, of which it is very improbable that he should have written a line, or Shakspeare's negligence of fame, in suffering such a piece to be imputed to him, without taking the least notice of it." Reasoning according to all common modes, one would be apt to admit this latter fact as conclusive of the authorship. It is certainly an argument, to which the mere dispari- ty between this performance and those which the com- mentators have chosen to adopt exclusively as Shak- peare's, will afford an insufficient obstacle. Schlegel says : " If we are not mistaken, Lessing pronounced this piece to be Shakspeare's, and wished to bring it on the German stage j" and Lessing was one of the soundest of German critics. Tieck, another German, also assigns this comedy to Shakspeare. Hazlitt says : " If Shakspeare's at all, it must be among the sins of his youth." Mr. Knight, while analyzing the plot and materiel, and comparing these with the un- questionable performances of Shakspeare, rejects the play altogether. Without urging a single word on this subject, we content ourselves with saying that its crudities are equally great as a work of thought and as a work of art. It exhibits a very immature condition of mind on the part of the writer. The invention, the verse, and the philosophy, are equally humble. It was probably the work of a youth perhaps a boy and that boy might have been Shakspeare. We know nothing more utterly absurd than this habit of test- ing the authorship of a work by its intrinsic merits; applying the standards formed in the maturer exhibi- tions of a great genius, to the crude and feeble per- formances of his beginning. But we have dwelt up- on these generalities already. The comedy is not wholly devoid of merit The 46 INTRODUCTION. ingenuity of the father, in finding excuses for the son's profligacy, is exemplary. The very reckless- ness and utter profligacy of the son himself, howev- er faulty as a conception of character, has yet a re- deeming something in his desperate hardihood. It would seem, too, that the excessive overdrawing of this character was the result of a too great anxiety to bring out that of the weak woman, his wife ; whom our author probably sought to make another " Pa- tient Grissil." The scenes in which she appears, and the devotion which she shows, which finally works the miracle in his reformation, are not wanting in force and spirit. Mr. Knight says, harshly : " If Shakspeare had chosen such a plot, in which the sudden repentance of the offender was to compensate for the miseries he had inflicted, he would have made the prodigal retain some sense of honor, some remorse amid his recklessness something that would have given the assurance that his contrition was not hypocrisy. We have little doubt that the low moral tone of the writer's own mind produced the low morality of the plot and its catastrophe. We see in this play that confusion of principles of which the stage was too long the faithful mirror. In Shak- speare, the partition which separates levity and guilt is never broken down ; thoughtlessness and dishonor are not treated with equal indulgence. This is quite argument enough to prove that Shakspeare could not have written this comedy, nor rendered the least assistance in its composition. If it exhibited any traces of his wit or his poetry, we should still reject it upon this sole ground." And if we argued the case with reference only to Shakspeare, as the mature master-mind of ages, rather than with regard to the boy who was just beginning his apprenticeship, we should say exactly the same thing. But this would be very idle. These old plays, if Shakspeare's, are from his "prentice ban' ;" and, with all deference to the commentator, we are inclined to think that the " prentice han' " of a very superior and original ge- nius is much more rude and awkward, for various good reasons, than that of a merely talented person. But we profess to determine nothing in regard to the au- thorship of the drama before us only to suggest, that the reasons which render other editors most confident, are, as we think, of no sort of value in this discussiou. THE LONDON PRODIGAL. PERSONS REPRESENTED. FLOWERDALE, senior, a merchant. MATTHEW FLOWERDALE, A** son. FLOWERDALE, junior, brother to the merchant. Sir LAIJNCEI.OT SPURCOCK. Sir ARTHUR GREENSHIELD, a military \ ^ n ; ore u ^ ff icer > [ Luce. OLIVER, a Devonshire Clothier, J WEATHERCOCK, a parasite to Sir Launcelot Spurcock. CIVET, in love with Frances. A Citizen. DAFFODIL, ARTICHOKE, DICK and RALPH, two cheating gamesters. RUFFIAN, a pander. ' servants to Sir Launcelot Spurcock. IELIA, \ RANGES, > daughters to Sir Launcelot Spurcock. UCE, ) DELIA, F LUCE Citizen's wife. Sheriff's officers ; Lieutenant and Soldiers ; Drawers and other Attendants. SCENE, LONDON, and the parts adjacent. ACT I. SCENE I. London. A room in FLOWERDALE, jun- ior's, house. Enter FLOWERDALE, senior, and FLOWERDALE, junior. Flow., sen. Brother, from Venice, being thus dis- guised, I come to prove the humors of my son. How hath he borne himself since my departure, I leaving you his patron and his guide ? Flow.,jun. Faith, brother, so as you will grieve to And I almost ashamed to report it. [hear, Flow., sen. Why, how is't, brother? What ! doth he spend beyond The allowance that I left him ? Flow., jun. How ! beyond that ! [Ay] and far more. Why, your exhibition's nothing. He hath spent that and since hath borrowed ; protested with oaths ; alleged kindred to wring money from me ; [entreat- ing] " by the love I bore his father, by the fortunes [that] might fall upon himself to furnish his wants. That done, I have since had his bond, his friend and friend's bond. Although I know, that [what] he spends is yours, yet it grieves me to see the unbridled wildness that reigns over him. 1 Flow., sen. Brother, what is the manner of his life ? How is the name of his offences ? If they do not Altogether, relish of damnation, His youth may privilege his wantonness. I myself ran an unbridled course till thirty ; nay, al- most till forty : well ! you" see how I am ! For vice once looked into with the eyes of discretion, and well balanced with the weights of reason, the course past seems so abominable, that the landlord of him- self, which is the heart of his body, 2 will rather en- tomb himself in the earth, or seek a new tenant to re- main in him p which once settled, how much better are they that in their youth have known all these vices, and left them, than those that know little, and in their age run into them? Believe me, brother, they that die most virtuous, have in their youth lived most vicious ; and none knows the danger of the fire more than he that falls into it. But say, how is the course of his life ? let's hear his particulars. Flow., jun. Why, I'll tell you, brother: he is a continual swearer, and a breaker of his oaths ; which is bad. Flow., sen. I grant, indeed, to swear is bad, but in not 4 keeping those oaths is better. For who will set by a bad thing ? Nay, by my faith, I hold this rather a virtue than a vice ! Well, I pray, proceed. Flow., jun. He's a mighty brawler, and comes com- monly by the worst. Flow., sen. By my faith, this is none of the worst neither ; for if he brawl and be beaten for it, it will in time make him shun it ; for what brings man or child more to virtue than correction ? What reigns over him else ? Flow., jun. He is a great drinker, and one that will forget himself. Flow., sen. Oh! best of all! [since] vice should be forgotten. Let him drink on, so he drink not [in] churches. Nay, an this be the worst, I hold it rather a happiness in him than any iniquity. Hath he any more attendants ? 1 Much of this is in a clumsy sort of rhythm, and may have been written originally in verse. The employment of an occasional particle here and there, and the dropping of a syllable, would easily convert it into rhythm again. 2 That is, the heart of his body is the body's landlord, or ruler, the master of the tenement. 3 That is, in shame and despair, either commit suicide, or change his character, change his heart, and become another sort of man. * The old copies read, " not in." 48 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Flow., jun. Brother, he is one that will borrow of any man. Flow., sen. Why, see you, 1 so doth the sea ; it bor- rows of all the small currents in the world, to increase himself. Flow.,jun. Ay, but the sea pays it again, and so will never your son. Flow., sen. No more would the sea neither, if it were dry as my son. Flow., jun. Then, brother, I see, You rather like these vices in your son, Than any way condemn them. Flow., sen. Nay, mistake me not, brother, For though I slur them over now as things [But] slight and nothing, his crimes being in the bud, 'Twould gall my heart they ever should 2 reign in him. M. Flow, [knocking within]. Ho! who's within; Ho! Flow., jun. That's your son ; he's come To borrow more money. Flow., sen. For (Sod's sake give it out [That] I am dead. See how he'll take it ! Say I've brought you news from his father. I have here drawn A formal will, as it were from myself, Which I'll deliver him. Flow., jun. Go to, brother ; no more ; I will. M. Flow, [within]. Uncle ! where are you, uncle? Flow., jun. [aloud]. Let my cousin 3 in there. Flow., sen. [hastily, and in undertones] . I am a sail- or come from Venice, and my name is Christopher. Enter MATTHEW FLOWERDALE. Flow. By the Lord, in truth, uncle Uncle. In truth would a-served, cousin, without the Lord. Flow. By your leave, uncle, the Lord is the Lord of truth. A couple of rascals at the gate, set upon me for my purse. Uncle. You never come, but you bring a brawl in your mouth. Flow. By my truth, uncle, you must needs lend me .en pound. Uncle. Give my cousin some small beer here. Flow. Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest; now, by ~this light, I should ride to Croydon fair, to meet Sir Launcelot Spurcock ; I should have his daughter Luce ; and, for scurvy ten pound, a man shall lose nine hundred threescore and odd pounds, and a daily friend beside ; by this hand, uncle, 'tis true. Uncle. Why, anything is true for aught I know. Flow. To see now ! why you shall have my bond, uncle; or Tom White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's, as good rapier and dagger men, as any [that] be in England ; let's be damned if we do not pay you ; the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for ten pound. A pox of ten pound. Uncle. Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you. Flow. Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall : If one thing were but true, I would not greatly care ; I should not need ten pound ; but when a man can not be believed, there's it. 1 Old copy reads " you see." Previous editions, " should ever." s Nephew. Cousin formerly was used in the sense of Jdnsman. Uncle. Why, what is it, cousin? Flow. Marry this, uncle, can you tell me if the Kate and Hugh 4 be come home or no ? Uncle. Ay, marry, is't. Flow. By God ! I thank you for that news. What, is't in the pool, can you tell? Uncle. It is ; what of that? Flow. What ? why then I have six pieces of vel- vet sent me I'll give you a piece, uncle : for thus said the letter, a piece of ash-color, a three piled black, a color de roy ; 5 a crimson, a sad green, and a purple : yes i'faith. Uncle. From whom should you receive this ? Flow. From whom ? Why, from my father ! With commendations to you, uncle ; and thus he writes : " I know," saith he, " thouhast much troubled thy kind uncle, whom, God willing, at my return, I will see amply satisfied." Amply, I remember, was the very word ; so God help me ! Uncle. Have you the letter here ? Flow. Yes, I have the letter here ; here is the let- ter: no yes, no, let me see ! what breeches wore I on Saturday : let me see : o'Tuesday, my calamanco ; o'Wednesday, my peach color satin ; o'Thursday, my velure ; 6 o'Friday, my calamanco again ; o'Saturday let me see, o' Saturday for in those breeches I wore o'Saturday is the letter : O, my riding breeches, un- cle ; those that you thought had been velvet in those very breeches is the letter. Uncle. When should it be dated ? Flow. Marry, decimo tertio Septembris no, no, decimo tertio Octobris ; ay, Octobris ; so it is. Uncle. Decimo tertio Octobris : and here I receive a letter that your father died in June : how say you, Kester ? [To FLOW., senior, as CHRISTOPHER. Father. Yes, truly, sir, your father is dead, these hands of mine holp to wind him. Flow. Dead? Father. Ay, sir, dead. Flow. 'Sblood, how should my father come dead ? Fath. I' faith, sir, according to the old proverb, The child was born, and cried. Became a man, fell sick, and died. Uncle. Nay, cousin, do not take't so heavily. Flow. Nay, I can not weep you extempore : marry, some two or three days hence, I shall weep without any stuitance. But I hope he died in good memory. FatK. Very well, sir, and set down everything in good order ; and the Katharine and Hugh you talk of, I came over in ; and I saw all the bills of lading ; and the velvet that you talk of, there is no such aboard. Flow. By God ! I assure you, then, there is knavery abroad. Father. I'll be sworn of that: there's knavery abroad, although there were never a piece of velvet in Venice. Flow. I hope he died in good estate. Father. To the report of the world he did, and made his will, of which I am the unworthy bearer. Flow. His will, have you his will ? Father. Yes, sir. and in the presence of your uncle, I was willed to deliver it. [Delivers the will. Uncle. I hope, cousin, now God hath blessed you with wealth, you will not be unmindful of me. 4 Written in the old folio, Katern Hue. 8 Royal-color something between purple and crimson. 6 Velure is velvet French, velours. ACT I. SCENE I. 49 Flow. I'll do reason, uncle ; yet, i'faith, I take the denial of this ten pound very hardly. Uncle. Nay, I denied you not. Flow. By God, you denied me directly. Uncle. I'll be judged by this good fellow. Father. Not directly, sir. Flow. Why, he said he would lend me none, and that had wont to be a direct denial, if the old phrase hold. Well, uncle, come ; we'll fall to the legacies. [reads.] In the name of God, Amen. Item, I bequeath to my brother, Flowerdale, three hundred pounds, to pay such trivial debts as I owe in London. Item, To my son, Matthew Flowerdale, I bequeath two bale of false dice, videlicit, high men and low men, fulloms, stop-cater-traies, 1 and other bones of function. Flow. 'Sblood, what doth he mean by this ? Uncle. Proceed, cousin. Flow, [read*] . These precepts I leave him ; let him borrow of his oath for of his word nobody will trust him. Let him by no means marry an honest woman ; for the other will keep herself. Let him steal as much as he can ; that a guilty conscience may bring him to his destinate repentance. I think he means hanging ! An this were his last will and tes- tament, the devil stood laughing at his bed's feet while he made it. 'Sblood, what doth he think to fob off his posterity with paradoxes. Fath. This he made, sir, with his own hands. Flow. Ay, well ; nay come, good uncle, let me have this ten pound ; imagine you have lost it ; or were robbed of it ; or misreckoned yourself so much : any way, to make it come easily off, good uncle. Uncle. Not a penny. Fath. I'faith, lend it him, sir ; I myself have an estate in the city worth twenty pound ; all that I'll engage for him ; he saith it concerns him in a mar- riage. Flow. Ay, marry doth it ; this is a fellow of some sense, this: come, good uncle. Uncle. Will you give your word for it, Kester ? Fath. I will, sir, willingly. Uncle. Well, cousin, come to me some hour hence, you shall have it ready. Flow. Shall I not fail ? Uncle. You shall not ; come or send. Flow. Nay, I'll come myself. Fath. By my troth, would I were your worship's man. Flow. What ? wouldst thou serve ? Fath. Very willingly, sir. Flow. Well, I'll tell thee what thou shall do ; thou say'st thou hast twenty pound ; go into Burchin lane, and put thyself into clothes ; thou shalt ride with me to Croyden fair. Fath. I thank you, sir ; I will attend you. Flow. Well, uncle, you will not fail me an hour hence. Uncle. I will not, cousin. Flow. What's thy name ? Kester ? Fath. Ay, sir. Flow. Well, provide thyself: uncle, farewell till anon. [Exit FLOWERDALE. Uncle. Brother, how do you like your son ? i Quatre-trois. Fath. I'failh, brother, as a mad, unbridled colt, Or as a hawk, that never stooped to lure : The one must be tamed with an iron bit, The other must be watched, or still she's wild. 8 Such is my son, a while let him be so ; For counsel still is folly's deadly foe. I'll serve his youth, for youth must have his course, For being restrained, it makes him ten times worse : His pride, his riot, all that may be named, Time may recall, and all his madness tamed. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT, Master WEATHERCOCK, DAF- FODIL, ARTICHOKE, LUCE, and FRANCES. Launce. Sirrah, Artichoke, get you home before ; And, as you proved yourself a calf in buying, Drive home your fellow calves that you have bought. Art. Yes, forsooth ; shall not my fellow Daffodil go along with me ? Launce. No, sir, no ; I must have one to wait on me. Art. Daffodil, farewell, good fellow Daffodil. You may see, mistress, I'm set up by the halves, Instead of waiting on you, I'm sent to drive home calves. Launce. 'Faith, Frank, I must turn away this Daffo- He's grown a very foolish, saucy fellow. [dil ; Frances. Indeed ! la ! father, he was so since I had him: Before, he was wise enough for a foolish 3 serving-man. Weath. But what say you to me, Sir Launcelot ? Launce. Oh ! About my daughters ; well, I will go forward ; Here's two of them, God save them : but the third, 0, she's a stranger in her course of life : She hath refused you, Master Weathercock. Weath. Ay, by the rood, Sir Launcelot, that she hath ; But had she tried me, she'd have found a man Of me, indeed. Launce. Nay, be not angry, sir, at her denial, She hath refused seven of the worshipful'st And worthiest housekeepers this day hi Kent ; Indeed, she will not marry, I suppose. Weath. The more fool she ! Launce. What ! is it folly to love charily ?* Weath. No, mistake me not, Sir Launcelot ; but 'Tis an old proverb, and you know it well, That women dying maids, lead apes in hell. Launce. That is a foolish proverb and a false. Weath. B'the mass, I think't be, and therefore let it go : [ces ? But who shall marry [then] with Mistress Fran- Frances. By my troth, they are talking of marrying me, sister. Luce. Peace, let them talk : Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk. Daff. Sententious 5 still, sweet mistress, You have a wit, an 'twere your alabaster.6 2 Or as a hawk, must be watched or still she's wild. See the Taming of a Shrew, last ed., vol. iii, p. 486. Steevens. 3 Queret "fool's?" 4 One of the editions before me reads " charity," another "chastity ;" I should prefer " charily," that is, cautiously. 6 One of the copies before me reads " sentesses," another " sentences." " Sententious" renders the line at once more significant and musical. 6 The meaning is obscure. ' You have a wit if it were your alabaster !" that is, fair as alabaster, and as brittle. Something of this sort was probably intended. Hence the rebuke which follows. 50 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Luce. Faith, and thy tongue trips trench-more. 1 Launce. No, of my knighthood, not a suitor yet: Alas ! God help her, silly girl, a fool, a very fool : But there's the other black brows, a shrewd girl, Sh'ath wit at will, and suitors two or three : Sir Arthur Greenshield one, a gallant knight, A valiant soldier, but his power but poor. Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire lad, A wary fellow, marry, full of wit, And rich, by the rood ; but there's a third, all air, Light as a feather, changing as the wind ; Young Flowerdale. Weath. O, he, sir, he is A desperate Dick indeed. Bar him your house. Launce. Fie, sir, not so ; he's of good parentage. Weath. By my say and so he is, a proper man. Launce. Ay, proper enough, had he good qualities. Weath. Ay, marry, there's the point, Sir Launcelot : For there's an old saying : Be he rich, or be he poor, Be he high, or be he low : Be he born in barn or hall, 'Tis manners make the man and all. Launce. You are in the right, [good] Master Weath- ercock. Enter Monsieur CIVET. Civet. Soul ! I think I am sure crossed, or witched with an owl ! I have hunted them, inn after inn, booth after booth, yet can not find them ; ha, yonder they are ; that's she ; I hope to God 'tis she ; nay, I know 'tis she now, for she treads her shoe a little awry. Launce. Where is this inn ? we are past it, Daffo- dil.. Daff. The good sign is here, sir, but the black gate is before. Civet. Save you, sir. I pray, may I borrow a piece of a word with you ? Daff. No pieces, sir. Civet. Why, then, the whole. I pray, sir, what may yonder gentlewomen be? Daff. They may be ladies, sir, if the destinies and mortality work. Civet. What's her name, sir ? Daff. Mistress Frances Spurcock, Sir Launcelot Spurcock's daughter. Civet. Is she a maid, sir ? Daff. You may ask Pluto, and Dame Proserpine that ; 1 would be loath to be riddled, sir. Civ~et. Is she married, I mean, sir? Daff. The fates know not yet what shoemaker shall make her wedding-shoes. Civet. I pray where inn you, sir? I would be very glad to bestow the wine of* that gentlewoman. Daff. At the George, sir. Civet. God save you, sir. Daff. I pray your name, sir ? Civet. My name is Master Civet, sir. Daff. A sweet name ; God be with you, good Mas- ter Civet. [Exit CIVET. LattHce. Ha ! we have spied you, stout St. George ? For all Your dragon, y'had best sell us good wine 1 Trench-more was a boisterous sort of dance to a lively tune, in triple time, a Quere: Upon? That needs no ivy-bush. We'll not sit by it, As you do on your horse. This room shall serve. Drawer. . . . Enter Drawer. Let me have sack for us old men ; For these [young] girls and knaves, small wines are A pint of sack, no more ! [best. Drawer. A quart of sack in the Three Tuns. [Exit. Launce. A pint ! Draw but a pint. Daffodil Call [you] for wine to make yourselves 3 drink. Enter young FLOWERDALE. M. Flow. How now ! Fie ! sit ye in the open room ! Now, good Sir Launcelot, and my kind friend Worshipful Master Weathercock ; what at ? Your pint ! a quart, for shame ! Launce. Nay, roysterer, by your leave, we will away. M. Flow. Come, give us some music [first]; we will go dance ; Be gone, Sir Launcelot ! what ! and fair day too. Luce* 'Twere foully done to dance within the fair M. Flow. Nay, if you say so, fairest of all fairs Then I'll not dance ! A pox upon my tailor, He hath spoiled me a peach-color satin suit, Cut upon cloth of silver ; 5 but, if ever The rascal serve me such another trick, I'll give him leave, i'faith, to put me in The calendar of fools ; and you, Sir Launcelot, You, Master Weathercock, my goldsmith too, On t'other side [of you] . I bespoke thee, Luce, A carcanet of gold,e and thought thou shouldst Have had it for the fairing. And [yet] the rogue Puts me in 'rearages for orient pearl ; But thou shall have't by Sunday night, wench. Enter Drawer. Drawer. Sir, here is one that hath sent you a bottle of Rhenish wine, brewed with rose water.? Flow. To me ? Drawer. No, sir, to the knight ; And desires his more acquaintance. Launce. To me ? What's he that proves so kind ? Daff. I have a trick To know his name, sir j he hath a month's mind, here, To Mistress Frances ; his name's Master Civet. 3 Quere : your fellows ? * This line in two of the copies before me, is ascribed to Sir LaunccJot, but it evidently belongs to one of the damsels, Luce or Frances. I think it due to the former. 6 " Cut upon cloth of silver" that is, with cloth of silver placed under all the cuts, openings, or slashes, in it. " Cloth of gold and cuts," is mentioned in "Much Ado about Noth- ing," last ed., vol. ii, p. 322. Steevent. 6 A carcanet was an ornament for the neck formerly worn. Malone. See note on the " Comedy of Errors," last ed., vol. ii, p. 192. Stecvtns. 1 It was anciently a custom at taverns to send flagons of wine from one room to another, either as a token of friend- ship or by way of proposal to form an acquaintance. An amusing anecdote of Ben Jonson and the witty Bishop Cor- bet, has been preserved by which this custom may happily be illustrated. Hearing that Corbet was in the next room, Jonson calls for a quart of raw wine and sends it by the tapster, saying : " Sirrah, take this to the gentleman in the next chamber, with my love, and tell him I sacrifice my ser- vice to him." " FriendL" says Corbet, " tell the gentleman I thank him for his love ; but tell him from me, that he is mis- taken in his learning, for that such sacrifices are burnt offer- ings always. ACT II. SCENE I. 51 Jounce. Call him in, Daffodil. Flow, O, I know him, sir ; He is a fool, but reasonable rich ; His father's one of these leasemongers, these Cornmongers, moneymongers, but he never had The wit to be a whoremonger. Enter Master CIVET. Launce, I promise you, sir, You are at too much charge. [To CIVET. Civet. 1 he charge is small, sir ! I thank God, My father left me wherewithal. If t please you I've a great mind to this gentlewoman here I' the way of marriage. Launce. I thank you, sir ; Please you to come to Lewsham, my poor house ; You shall be kindly welcome. I knew your father. He was a wary husband. To pay here, drawer? Drawer. All's paid, sir ; this gentleman hath paid all. Launce. I'faith, you do us wrong ; But we shall live to make amends ere long. Master Flowerdale, is that your man ? M. Flow. Yes, faith ; a good old knave. Launce. Nay, then, I think, You will turn wise, now you take such a servant. Come : you'll ride with's to Lewsham ? Let's away, 'Tis scarce two hours to the end of day. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. A Road in Kent, near the house of Sir LAUNCELOT SFURCOCK. Enter Sir ARTHUR GREENSHIELD, OLIVER, Lieuten- ant, Soldiers, and Recruits. Arth. Lieutenant, lead your soldiers to the ships, There let them have their coats ; at their arrival They shall have pay : farewell ; look to your charge. Sol. Ay ; we are now sent away, and can not so much as speak with our friends. OIL No man what e'er you used a zutch a fashion, thick you can not take your leave of your vreens. Arth. Fellow, no more ; lieutenant, lead them off. Sol. Well, if I have not my pay and my clothes, I'll venture a running away, though I hang for't. Arth. Away, sirrah, charm your tongue. 1 [Exeunt Soldiers. OH. Be you a presser, sir ? Arth. I am a commander, sir. under the king. OH. Sfoot, man. an you be never such a commander, I shud a-spoke with my vreens before I shud a-gone ; so I shud. Arth. Content yourself, man ; my authority Will stretch to press so good a man as you. Oli. Press me ? I defy ye, press scoundrels, and thy messels' 2 : press me, chee scorns thee, i'faith : for, seest thee, here's a worshipful knight [who] knows, cham not to be pressed by thee. 1 So in King Henry " Charm thy riotous tongue" in Othello, " Go to ; charm your tongue." The phrase was com- mon to the old dramatists. 2 Messel is a leper, but the sense here is, messmates as- sociates parties to thy mess. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT, WEATHERCOCK, young FLOW ERDALE, old FLOWERDALE, LUCE, and FRANCES. Launce. Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsham, wel- come, by my troth. What's the matter, man, [tc Oli- ver} why are you vexed ? Oli. Why, man, he would press me. Launce. O, fie, Sir Arthur, press him ? He is a man of reckoning. Weath. That he is, Sir Arthur, hath the nobles, The golden ruddocks 3 he. Arth. The fitter for the wars : and 1 were he not In favor with your worships, he should see That I have power to press so good as he. Oli. Chill stand to the trial, so chill. Flow. Ay, marry shall he ; press cloth and kar- sy, 4 White-pot and drowsen broth : 4 tut, tut, he can not. Oli. Well, sir, though you see [he] vlouten cloth and karsy, chee a zeen zutch a karsy coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket, as thick as one you wear. Flow. Well-fed vlittan vlattan 5 Oli. Ay, and well-fed cockney, and bot-bell too : 6 what doest think cham aveard of thy zilken coat? no vear vor thee. Launce. Nay, come ; no more ; be all lovers and friends. Weath. Ay, 'tis best so, good Master Oliver. Flow. Is your name Master Oliver, I pray you ? Oli. What tit and be tit, an it grieve you. Flow. No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have a foolish plot out of Master Oliver to work upon. Oli. Work thy plots upon me ; stand aside ; work thy foolish plots upon me ; chill so use thee, thou wert never so used since thy dam bound thy head j* work upon me ? Flow. Let him come, let him come. Oli. Zirrah, zirrah, if it were not for shame, chee would a given thee zutch a whister-poop under the ear, chee would have made thee a vanged another at my feet. Stand aside, let me loose ; cham all of a vlaming firebrand ; stand aside. F low. Well, I forbear you for your friends' sake. Oli. A vig for all my vreens ; dost thou tell me of my vreens ? Launce. No more, good Master Oliver ; no more, Sir Arthur. And maiden, here, in the sight Of all your suitors, every man of worth, I'll tell you whom I fainest would prefer To the hard bargain of your marriage-bed. Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen ? Arth. Ay, sir, 'tis best. Launce. Then, sir, first to you, I do confess you a most gallant knight, A worthy soldier, and an honest man ; But honesty maintains not a French-hood ; Goes very seldom in a chain of gold ; Keeps a small train of servants ; hath few friends. And, for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale, 3 The golden ruddoch is the red-breast A cant name for gold pieces. 4 ' Cloth and kersey," Devonshire manufactures ; white pot, a favorite dish in Devonshire ; drowsen broth, a common drink tor servants herbs boiled up hi the grounds of beer. 6 Flowerdale ridicules the man of Kent for his pronunci- ation of the / as v. 6 He retorts upon the Londoner. 52 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. I will not judge ; God can work miracles, But he were better make a hundred new, Than thee a thrifty and an honest one. Weath. Believe me, he hath hit you there ; he hath touched you to the quick, that he hath. Flow Woodcock o' my side j Why, Master Weathercock, You know I am honest, howsoever trifles Weath. Now, by my troth, I know no otherwise. Oh ! your old mother was a danie indeed : Heaven hath her soul, and my wife's too, I trust : And your good father, honest gentleman, He's gone a journey as I hear, far hence. Flow. Ay, God be praised, he is far enough ; He's gone a pilgrimage lo Paradise, And left me to cut capers against care ; Luce, look on me, that am as light as air. Luce. I'faith. I like not shadows, bubbles, breath, I hate a " light o' love," as I hate death. Launce. Girl, hold thee there : look on this De'n- shire lad : Fat, fair, and lovely, both in purse and person. OIL Well, sir, cham as the Lord hath made me, you know me well ivin, cha have threescore pack of karsay at Blackem Hall, 1 and chief credit beside, and my fortunes may be so good as another's, zo it may. Luce. 'Tis you I love, whatever others say. Artk. Thanks, fairest. Flow'. What, wouldst thou have me quarrel with him ? Folk. Do but say he shall hear from you. Launce. Yet, gentlemen, hows'ever I prefer This De'nshire suitor, I'll enforce no love ; My daughter shall have liberty to choose Whom she likes best : in your lovesuits proceed ; Not all of you, but only one. must speed. IVeath. You have said well: indeed, right well. Enter ARTICHOKE. Arti. Mistress, here's one would speak with you ; my fellow Daffodil haih him in the cellar already ; he knows him ; he met him at Croydon fair. Launce. Oh, I remember ; a little man. Arti. Ay, a very little man. Launce. And yet a proper man. Arti. A very proper, very little man. Lnunce. His name is Monsieur Civet. Arti. The same, sir. Launce. Come, gentlemen, if other suitors come, My foolish daughter will be fitted too : But my saint Delia, no man dare to move. [Exeunt all but younq FLOWERDALE and OLIVER, and old FLOWERDALE. Flow. Hark you, sir, a word. OIL What han you say to me now ? Flow. Ye shall hear from me, and that very shortly. OIL Is that all ? vare thee well : chee vere thee not a vig. [Exit OLIVER. Flow. What if he should come now ?* I am fairly dressed. Faih. I do not mean that you shall meet with him, But presently we'll go and draw a will : Where we will set down land we never saw, And we will have it of so large a sum, *od knows, very seldom saw the war: That haunt your taverns and your ordinaries, Your alehouses sometimes, for all alike To uphold the brutish humor of their minds, Being marked down, for the bondmen of despair : Their mirth begins in wine, but ends in blood, Their drink is clear, but their conceits are mud. Luce. Yet these [they tell us] are great gentlemen ; Arth. No soldiers; they are wretched slaves, [my Luce], Whose desperate lives doth bring them timeless graves. Luce. Both for yourself, and for your form of life, If I may choose, I'll be a soldier's wife. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT and OLIVER. 0/t. And tyt trust to it, so then. Launce. Assure yourself, You shall be married with all speed we may : One day shall serve for Frances and for Luce. OH. Why che would vain know the time, for pro- viding wedding raiments. Launce. Why no more but this ; first get your as- surance made, Tom.hing my daughter's jointure ; that despatched, We will, in two days, make provision. 0/t. Why, man. chilhave the writings made by to- morrow. Launce. To-morrow be it then ; let's meet at the King's Head in Fish street. Oli. No, fie man, no ; let's meet at the Rose at 1 " Wrath." perhaps. Temple Bar ; that will be nearer your counsellor and mine. Launce. At the Rose be it then, the hour be nine, He that comes last forfeits a pint of wine. Oli. A pint is no payment, Let it be a whole quart, or nothing. Enter ARTICHOKE. Arti. Master, here is a man would speak with Master Oliver ; he comes from young Master Flower- dale. Oli. Why chil speak with him, chil speak with him. iMunce. Nay, [good] son Oliver, I'll surely see What ['tis] young Flowerdale hath sent to you. Pray God it be no quarrel. Oli. Why, man, if he quarrel with me, chil give him his hands full. Enter FLOWERDALE, senior. Path. God save you, good Sir Launcelot. Launce. Welcome, honest friend. Path. To you and yours my master wishcth health, But unto you, sir, this, and this, he sends : There is the length, sir, of his rapier ; And in that paper shall you' know his mind. Oli. Here, chil meet him, my friend, chil meet him. Launce. Meet him ? you shall not meet the ruf- fian, fie ! OK. An I do not meet him, chil give you leave to call Me Cut. Where is't, sirrah ? where is't ? where is't? Path. The letter showeth both the time and place, And, if you be a man, then keep your word. Launce. Sir, he shall not keep his word, he shall not meet. Path. Why let him choose ; he'll be the better For a base rascal, and reputed so. [known Oli. Zirrah, zirrah : and 'twere not an old fellow, and sent after an errand, chid give thee something, but chud be no money : But hold thee, for I see thou art somewhat testern ; hold thee ; there's vorty shil- lings ; bring thy master a veeld, chil give thee vorty more ; look thou bring him, chil maul him, tell him ; chil mar his dancing tressels ; chil use him, he was ne'er so used since his dam bound his head ; chil mar him for capering any more, chy vore thee. Path. You seem a man, sir, stout and resolute, And I will so report, whale'er befall. Launce. An it fall out ill, assure thy master this, I'll make him fly the land, or use him worse. Path. My master, sir, deserves not this of you, And that you'll shortly find. Launce. Thy master is an unthrift, you a knave, And I'll attach you first, next clap him up ; Or have him bound unto his good behavior. Oli. I wood you were a sprite if you do him any harm for this: an you do ! chil ne'er see you, nor any of yours, while chil have eyes open : what, do you think, chil be abasselled up and down the town for a messel, 1 and a scoundrel ? no chy vore you : zirrah, chil come ; zay no more ; chil come ; tell him I defy him. Path. Well, sir. [Exit. Launce. Now. gentle son, let me know the place. OK. No, chy vore you. 1 Messel, a leper. He probalily means to say that ha would be evaded, as if leprous, for his cowardice; 54 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Launce. Let me [but] see the note. Oil. Nay, c-hil watch you for zutch a trick. But if chee meet him, zo ; if not, zo ; chil make him know me, or chil know why I shall not j chil vare the worse. Launce. What ! will you then neglect my daugh- ter's love ? Vrnture your slate and hers, for a loose brawl? OIL Why, man, chil not kill him, marry chil veze 1 him too. and again ; and zo, God be with you, vather- What, man, we shall meet to-morrow. [Exit. Launce. Who would have thought he had been so desperate ? Come forth, niy honest servant, Artichoke. Enter ARTICHOKE. Arti. Now, what's the matter ? some brawl toward, I warrant you. Launce. Go get me thy sword bright scoured, thy bucUer mended ; Oh ! for that kn^ive, that villain Daffodil : He would have done good service. But to thee. Arti. Ay, tliis is the tricks of all you gentlemen, when you stand in need of a good fellow. O for that Daffodil, O, where is he ? but if you be angry, and it be but for the wagging of a straw, then out o' doors with the knave ; turn the coat over his ears. This is the humor of you all. Launce. Oh ! for that knave, that lusty Daffodil. Arti. Why there 'tis, now : our year's wages and our vails will scarce pay for broken swords and buck- ler< that we use in our quarrels. But I'll not fight if Daffodil be o' 't other side ; that's flat. Launce. 'Tis no such matter, man, get weapons And be at London ere the break of day: [ready, Watch near the lodging of the De'nshire youth, But be unseen : and as he goeth out, As he will go, and early, without doubt Arti. What, would you have me draw upon him, As he goes in the street ? Launce. Not for a world, man ; Into the fields. For to the field he goes, There to meet the desperate Flowerdale : Take thou the part of Oliver my son, For he shall be my son, and marry Luce : Do'st understand me, knave ? Arti. Ay, sir. I do understand you, but my young mistress might be better provided in matching with my fellow Daffodil. Launce. No more ; [thy fellow] Daffodil's a knave, A most notorious knave. [Exit ARTICHOKE. Enter WEATHERCOCK. Master Weathercock, you come in happy time ; The desperate Flowerdale hath writ a challenge : And who think you must answer it but [he], The Devonshire man, my son Oliver? Weath. Marry, I'm sorry for it, good Sir Launcelot, But if you'll be ruled by me, we'll stay their fury. Launce. As how, I pray? Weath. Marry, I'll tell you, by promising young Flowerdale the red-lipped Luce. Launce. I'll rather follow her unto her grave. > Pheeze or feaze him. To take the twist asunder So in the " Taming of the Shrew" " 111 pheeze you. i'faith." Weath. Ay, Sir Launcelot, I would have thought so But you and I have been deceived in him. [too. Come read this will, or deed, or what you call it, I know not : come, your spectacles, I pray. Launce. Nay, I thank God, I see [itj very well. Weath. Marry, God bless your eyes, mine have Almost this thirty years. [been dim Launce. Ha, what is this ? what is this * \Reads .] Weath. Nay, there is true love indeed ; He gave it to me bnt this very morn, And bade me keep't unseen from any one, Good youth, to see how men may be deceived. Launce. Passion of me ! What a wretch am I To hate this loving youth ! He hath made me, together with my Luce, He loves so dear, executors of all His wealth. Weath. All, all, good man, he hath given you all. Launce. Three ships, now in the straits, and home- ward bound, Two lordships of two hundred pound a year : The one in Wales, th' other in Glostershire : Debts and accounts are thirty thousand pound, Plate, money, jewels, sixteen thousand more, Two houses furnished well in Coleman street : Besides whate'er his uncle leaves to him, Being of great domains and wealth at Peckham. Weath. How like you this, good knight ? How like you this ? Launce. I have done him wrong ; but now I'll make amends. The De'nshire man shall whistle for a wife ; He marry Luce ! Luce shall be Flowerdale's. Weath. Why that is friendly said, let s ride to Lon- And straight prevent their match, by promising [don Your daughter to that lovely ( loving-] lad. Launce. We'll ride to London: or, it shall not need ; We'll cross to Deptford strand, and take a boat. Where be these knaves ? what, Artichoke ; what, fop ! Enter ARTICHOKE. Arti. Here be the very knaves, but not the merry knaves. Launce. Here, take my cloak: I'll have a walk to Deptford. Arti. Sir, we have been scouring of our swords and bucklers for your defence. Launce. Defence me no defence : let your swords I'll have no fighting. Ay, let blows alone ! [rust ; Bid Delia see all things in readiness Against the wedding. We'll have two at once ; That will save charges, Master Weathercock. Arti. We'll do it, sir. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. -4- A walk before the House of Si Enter CIVET, FRANCES, and DELIA. Civ. By my troth this is good luck ; I thank God for this. In good sooth I have even my heart'* de- sire : sister Delia, now I may boldly call you so, for your father hath frank and freely given me his daughter Frank. ACT III. SCENE II. 55 Frances. Ay, by my troth, Tom ; thou hast my good will too, for, I thank God, I longed for a hus- band, and would I might never stir, for one whose name was Tom. Del. Why, sister, now you have your wish. Civ. You say very true, sister Delia, and I pr'ythee call me nothing but fom : and I'll call thee sweet- heart, and Frank: will it not do well, sister Delia? Del. It will do very well with both of you. Frances. But Tom, must I go as I do now when I am married ? Civ . No, Frank, I'll have thee go like a citizen In a guarded gown, and a French hood. 1 Frances. By my troth, that will be excellent indeed. Del. Brother, maintain your wife to your estate, Apparel you yourself like to your father: And let her go like to your ancient mother. He, sparing, got his wealth, left it to you. Brother, take heed, for pride bids thrift adieu. Civ. So as my father and my mother went ! That's a jest indeed ; why, she went in A fringed gown, a single ruff, and white cap. And my father in a mocado 2 coat, A pair of red satin sleeves, and a canvass back. Del. And yet his wealth was full as much as yours. Civ. My estate, my estate, I thank God, is forty pound a year, in good leases and tenements ; besides twenty mark a year at Cuckolds'-Haven ; and that conies to us all by inheritance. Del. That may indeed, 'tis very fitly 'plied. I know not how it comes, but so't falls out That those whose fathers have died wondrous rich, And took no pleasure but to gather wealth, Thinking of little [but] that they leave behind For them, they hope, will be of their like mind. But it (alls out contrary; forty years sparing, Is scarce three seven years spending ; never caring What will ensue. When all their coin is gone, And all too late, then thrift is thought upon : Ot't have I heard, that pride and riot kist, And then repentance cries For had I wist. Civ. You say well, sister Delia, you say well : but I mean to live within my bounds : for, look you, I have set down my rest thus far, but to maintain my wife in her French hood, and her coach, keep a cou- ple of geldings, and a brace of greyhounds ; and this is all I'll do. Del. And you'll do this with forty pound a year? Civ. Ay, and a better penny, sister. Frances. Sister, you forget that at [the] Cuckold's- Haven. Civ. By my troth well remembered, Frank, I'll give thee that to buy thee pins. Del. Keep you the rest for points. Alas the day ! Fools shall have wealth, though all the world say nay : Come, brother, will you in? dinner stays for us. Civ. Ay, good sister, with all my heart. Frances. Ay, by my troth, Tom, for I have a good stomach. Civ. And I the like, sweet Frank ; no, sister, do not I'll go beyond my bounds. [think Del. God grant you may not. [Exeunt. 1 Guards or facings. So in Henry IV. we have " velvet guards and Sunday citizens." 2 A woollen stuff in imitation of velvet Mock velvet. It is frequently mentioned in the old plays. So in the " Dev- il's Charter,"" 1607 " Varlet of velvet, old heart of durance, muccado villain !" SCENE II. London. The Street before young FLOW. ERDALE'S House. Enter young FLOWERDALE and his Father, u-ith foils in their hands. Flow. Sirrah, Kit, tarry thou there ; I have spied Sir Launcelot and old Weathercock coming this way ; they are hard at hand ; I will by no means be spoken withal. Path. I'll warrant you ; go, get you in. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT and WEATHERCOCK. Launce. Now, my honest friend, thou dost belong to Master Flowerdale ? F ath. I do, sir. Launce. Is he within, my good fellow ? Fath. No, sir, he is not within. Launce. I pr'ythee if he be within, let me speak with him. Fath. Sir, to tell you true, my master is within, but indeed would not be spoke withal: there be some terms that stand upon his reputation, therefore he will not admit any conference till he hath shook them off. Launce. I pr'ythee tell him his very good friend Sir Launcelot Spurcock entreats to speak with him. Fath. By my troth, sir, if you come to take up the matter between my master and the Devonshire man, you do but beguile your hopes, and lose your labor. Launce. Honest friend, I have not any such thing to him ; I come to speak with him about other matters. Fath. For my master, sir, hath set down his reso- lution, either to redeem his honor, or leave his life behind him. Launce. My friend, I do not know any quarrel touching thy master or any other person ; my busi- ness is of a different nature to him, and I pr'ythee so tell him. Fath. For howsoever the Devonshire man is, My master's mind is bloody : that's a round O, 3 And therefore, sir, entreaties are but vain. Launce. I have no such thing to him, I tell thee once again. Fath. I will then so signify to him. [Exit Father. Launce. A sirrah ! I see this matter's hotly carried. But I will labor to dissuade him from it. Enter MATTHEW FLOWERDALE and his Father. Good morrow, Master Flowerdale. Flow. Good morrow, good Sir Launcelot ; Master Weathercock, good morrow ; by my troth, gentlemen, I have been reading over Nick Machiavel ; I find him good to be known, not to be followed : A pestilent humane fellow ! I have made Certain annotations on him such as they be ! And how is't, Sir Launcelot ? ha ? how is't? A mad world, men can not live quiet in it. Launce. Master Flowerdale, I do understand there is some jar between the Devonshire man and you. Fath. They, sir ? they are good friends as can be. Flow. Who ? Master Oliver and I ? as good friends as can be. Launce. It is a kind of safety in you to deny it, and a generous silence, which too few are endued withal : but, sir, such a thing I hear, and I could wish it oth- erwise. 3 A round truth. 56 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Flow. No such thing, Sir Launcelot ; o' my reputa- tion, as I am an honest man. Launce. Now, then, I do believe you, if you do Engage your reputation there is none. Flow. Nay, I do not engage my reputation there is not. You shall not bind me to any condition of hardness j But if there be anything between us, then there is ; If there be not, then there is not : be, or be not, all's one. Launce. I do perceive by this, that there is some- thing between you, and I am very sorry for it. Flow. You may be deceived, Sir Launcelot ; the Italian Hath a pretty saying, Questo I have forgot it too, 'Tis out of my head [now], but, in my translation, Ift hold, thus : Thou hast a friend, keep him ; if a foe, trip him. Launce. Come, I do see by this there is somewhat between you, And. before God, I could wish it otherwise. Flow. Well, what is between us can hardly be al- Sir Launcelot, I am to ride forth to-morrow, [tered : That way which I must ride, no man must deny me The sun ; I would not by any particular man, Be denied common and general passage. If any one Saith, Flowerdale, thou passest not this way: My answer is, I must either on or return ; But return is not my word ; I must on : If I can not then make my way, nature Hath done the last for me, and there's the fine. Launce. Master Flowerdale, every man hath one And two ears. Nature in her building, [tongue, Is a most curious workmaster. Flow. That is as much as to say, a man should hear More than he should speak. Launce. You say true, and indeed I have heard more, Than at this time I will speak. Flow. You say well. Launce. Slanders are more common than truths, Flowerdale ; but proof is the rule for both. [Master Flow. You say true. What-do-you-call-him, Hath't there in his third canton I 1 Launce. I have heard you have been wild : I have believed it. Flow. 'Twas fit, 'twas necessary. Jounce. But I have seen somewhat of late in you, That hath confirmed in me an opinion of Goodness toward you. Flow. Faith, sir, I'm sure I never did you harm: Some good I've done, either to you or yours, I'm sure you know not, neither is't my will you should. Launce. Ay, your, will, sir. Flow. Ay, my will, sir : 'sfoot, do you know aught By God, an you do, sir, I am abused. [of my will? Launce. Go, Mr. Flowerdale, what I know, I know: And know you thus much out of my knowledge, That I [do] truly love you. For my daughter, She's yours. And if you like a marriage better Than a brawl, all quirks of reputation set Aside, go with me presently : and where You should fight bloody battle, you'll be married To a [most] lovely lady. Flow. Nay but, Sir Launcelot ? 1 Canto is probably the word. Steevens suggests that young Flowerdale means to refer to the third canto of the Faery Queen, in which Abessaslanders the Lady Una. Launce. If you will not embrace my offer, yet Assure yourself thus much, I will have order To hinder your encounter. Flow. Nay, but hear roe, Sir Launcelot. Launce. Nay, stand not you upon putative honor 'Tis merely unsound, unprofitable, and idle. Your business is to wed my daughter, therefore Give me word, I'll go and provide the maid ; Your present resolution, either now Or never. Flow. Will you so put me to it ? Launce. Ay, before God, you either take me now, Or take me never. Else what I thought should be Our match, shall be our parting, so, fare you well, For ever. Flow. Stay : fall out what may, My love is above all : I will come. Launce. I [will] expect you, and so fare you well. [Exit Sir LAUNCELOT and WEATHERCOCK. Path. Now, sir, how shall we do for wedding ap- parel ? Flow. By the mass, that's true : now help, Kit ; The marriage ended, we'll make amends for all. Fath. Well, well, no more, prepare you for your bride, We will not want for clothes, whate'er betide. Flow. And thou shall see, when once I have my dower, In mirth we'll spend full many a merry hour ; As for this wench, I not regard a pin ; It is her gold must bring my pleasures in. [Exit Fath. Is't possible he hath his second living ?* Forsaking God, himself to the devil giving : But that I knew his mother firm and chaste, My heart would say, my head she had disgraced : But that her fair mind so foul a deed did shun, 3 Else would I swear, he never was my son. Enter Uncle. Uncle. How now, brother ! how do you find your son? Fath. brother, heedless as a libertine, Even grown a master in the school of vice ; One that doth nothing, but invent deceit : For all the day he humors up and down, How he the next day might deceive his friend ; He thinks of nothing but the present time : For one groat ready down, he'll pay a shilling : But then the lender must needs stay for it. When I was young, I had the scope of youth, Both wild, and wanton, careless, desperate : But such mad strains, as he's possessed withal, I thought it wonder for to dream upon. Uncle. I told you so, but you would not believe it. Fath. Well, I have found it; but one thing comforts Brother, to-morrow he's to be married [me ; To beauteous Luce, Sir Launcelot Spurcock's daugh- ter. Uncle. Is't possible ? Fath. 'Tis true, and thus I mean to curb him : Brother, this day, I will you shall arrest him : If anything will tame him, it must be that, For he is rank in mischief, chained to a life That will increase his shame, and kill his wife. 2 That is, his fellow, his equal in depravity. 3 I have transposed these two lines as they occur in othe; editions. ACT III. SCENE III. 57 Uncle. What ! arrest him on his wedding-day ? That Were an unchristian, an inhuman part : How many couple, even for that very day, Have purchased seven years' sorrow afterward ? Forbear him then to-day ; do it to-morrow ; And tftis day mingle not his joy with sorrow. Path. Brother, I'll have it done this very day, And, in the view of all, as he comes from church. Do but observe the course that he will take ; Upon my life he will forswear the debt : And, for we'll have the sum shall not be slight, Say that he owes you near three thousand pound : Good brother, let it be done immediately. Uncle. Well, brother, seeing you will have it so, I'll do it, and straight provide the sheriff. Path. So, brother, by this means shall we perceive What ['tis] Sir Launcelot in this pinch will do ; And how his wife doth stand affected to him ! Her love will then be tried to the uttermost ; And all the rest of them. What I will do, Shall harm him much, and much avail him too. [Exit. SCENE III. A High Road near London. Enter OLIVER, and afterward, Sir ARTHUR GREEN- SHIELD. OH. Cham assured thick be the place that the scoundrel [zo. Appointed to meet me : if a come, zo ; if a come not, And che war avise, he would make a coystrel 1 on us, Ched veze him, and che vang him in hand, che would Hoist him, and give it him too and again, zo chud. Who been a there ! Sir Arthur ? chil stay aside. Arth. I've dogged the De'nshire man into the field, For fear of any harm that should befall him : I had an inkling of that yesternight, That Flowerdale and he should meet this morning : Though, of my soul, Oliver fears him not, Yet, for I'd see fair play on either side, Made me to come, to see their valors tried. Good morrow to you, Master Oliver. OH. God and good morrow. Arth. What, Master Oliver, are you angry ? OK. What an it be, ty t an grieven you ? Arth. Not me at all, sir, but I imagine by Your being here thus armed, you stay for some That you should fight withal. Oli. Why an he do, che would not dezire you to take his part. Arth. No, by my troth, I think you need it not, For he you look for, I think means not to come. Oli. No, and che war assure of that, ched veze him in another place. Enter DAFFODIL. Daff. 0, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, ah me ! Your love, and yours, and mine, sweet Mistress Luce, This morn is married to young Flowerdale. Arth. Married to Flowerdale ! Impossible. Oli. Married, man ? che hope thou dost but jest, To make a vlowten 2 merriment of it. Daff. O, 'tis too true ; here comes his uncle. 1 Coystrel, from the French coustillier, properly the ser- vant of a man-at-arms ; hence it.became degraded in its sig- nification, and was applied to a low, mean person. Flouting. Enter FLOWERDALE, Sheriff, Officers. Uncle. Good morrow, Sir Arthur; good morrow Master Oliver. Oli. God and good morn, Mr. Flowerdale. I pray you tellen us, is your scoundrel kinsman married ? Uncle. [Ay] , Master Oliver, call hint what you will, But he is married to Sir Launcelot's daughter. Arth. Unto her? Oli. Ah ! ha the old fellow zerved me thick a trick ? Why, man, he was a promise chil chud a had her ; Is a zitch a vox, chil look to his water che vor him, Uncle. The music plays ; they are coming from the church. Sheriff, do your office : fellows, stand stoutly to it ! Enter Sir LAUNCELOT SPURCOCK, M. FLOWERDALE, WEATHERCOCK, CIVET, LUCE, FRANCES, FLOWER- DALE, senior, and Attendants. Oli. God give you joy, as the old zaid proverb is, and some zorrow among ! You met us well, did you not? Launce. Nay, be not angry, sir, the fault's in me : I have done all the wrong kept him from coming To the field to you, as I might, sir, for I'm a justice, And sworn to keep the peace. JVeath. Ay, marry is he, sir, A very justice, and sworn to keep the peace : You must not disturb the weddings. . Launce. Nay, never frown nor storm, sir ; if you do, ' I'll have an order taken for you. Oli. Well, chil be quiet. Weath. Master Flowerdale, Sir Launcelot, look you, who's here, Master Flowerdale ? Launce. Master Flowerdale, welcome with all my heart. Flow. Uncle, this is she faith! Master under- sheriff, Arrest me ? At whose suit ? Draw, Kit ! Uncle. At my suit, sir. Launce. Why, what's the matter, Master Flower- dale? Uncle. This is the matter, sir : this unthrift here Hath cozened you; and [he] hath had of me, In several sums, three thousand pound. Flow. Why, uncle ! Uncle. Cousin, you have uncled me, And if you be not [now] stayed, you will prove A cozener unto all that know you. Launce. Why, sir, suppose he be to you in debt Ten thousand pound, his state to me appears To be at least three thousand by the year. Uncle. 0, sir, I was too late informed of that plot, How that he went about to cozen you : And formed a will, and sent it to your friend there, Good Master Weathercock, in which was nothing true, But brags and lies. Launce. Ha! hath he not such lordships, lands, and ships ? Uncle. Not worth a groat , not worth a halfpenny, he. Launce. Pray, tell us true ; be plain, young Flower- dale. Flowerda. My uncle 's mad, disposed to do me wrong; But here's my man, by the Lord, an honest fellow, And of good credit, knows [that] all is true. ' Fath. Not I, sir; I'm too old to lie ; I rather know 53 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. You forged a will, where every line you writ, You studied where to quote your lands might lie. Weath. I pr'ythee, where be they, my honest friend ? Fath. I'faith, nowhere, sir, for he hath none at all. Weath. Benedict ! we are o'erreached, I believe. Launce. I'm cozened, and my hopeful's! child un- done. Flow. You are not cozened, nor is she undone j They slander me ; by this light, they slander me : Look you, my uncle here's an usurer, And would undo me, but I'll stand in law ; Do you but bail me, you shall do no more : You, brother Civet. Master Weathercock, Bail me, and let me have my marriage-money, And we'll ride down, and there your eyes shall see How my poor tenants there will welcome me. You shall but bail me, you shall do no more ; And you, you greedy gnat, their bail will serve. Uncle. Ay, sir, I'll ask no better bail. Launce. No, sir, you shall not take my bail, nor his, Nor my son Civet's. I'll not be cheated. Ay ! Shrieve, take your prisoner ; I'll not deal with him ; Let's uncle make false dice with his false bones, I'll not have to do with him : mocked, gulled, and wronged ! Come, girl, though it be late, it falls out well Thou shall not live with him in beggar's hell. Luce. He is my husband, and high Heaven doth know, With what unwillingness I went to church, But you enforced me, you compelled me to it ; The holy man pronounced these words but now : I must not leave my husband in distress : Now, I must comfort him, not go with you. Launce. Comfort a cozener ! On my curse forsake him! Luce. This day you caused me on your curse to take him : Do not, I pray, my grieved soul oppress ; God knows my heart doth bleed at his distress ! Launce. 0, Master Weathercock, I must confess I forced her to this match, Led with opinion his false will was true. Weath. He hath o'erreached me too. Launce. She might have lived Like Delia, in a happy virgin state. Delia. Father, be patient ; sorrow conies too late. Launce. And on her knees she begged and did en- If she must needs taste a sad marriage-life, [treat, She craved to be Sir Arthur Greenshield's wife. Art/i. You have done her and me the greater wrong. Launce. 0, take her yet. Arth. Not I. Launce. Or, Master Oliver, Accept my child, and half my wealth is yours. Oli. No, sir, chil break no laws. Luce. Never fear, she will not trouble you. Delia. Yet, sister, in this passion Do not run headlong to confusion : You may affect him, though not follow him. Frances. No, sister ; hang him, let him go. Weath. Do, 'faith, Mistress Luce, Leave him. Luce. You are three gross fools, let me alone ! I swear, I'll live with him in all his moan. OIL- But an he have his legs at liberty, Cham aveard he will never live with you. Arth. Ay, but he is now in huckster's handling for running away. Launce. Huswife, you hear how you and I am wronged, And if you will redress it yet you may : But if you stand on terms to follow him, Never come near my sight, nor look on me ; Call me not father ; look not for a groat ; For all the portion I will this day give Unto thy sister Frances. Frances. How say you to that, Tom? [To CIVET. I shall hare a good deal ; Besides, I'll be a good wife ; and a good wife Is a good thing I can tell. Civet. Peace, Frank, I would be sorry to see thy sister cast away, as I am a gentleman. Launce. What, are you yet resolved ? Luce. Yes, I'm resolved. Launce. Come then away, or now, or never come. Luce. This way I turn, go you unto your feast, And I to weep, that am with grief oppressed. Launce. For ever fly my sight. Come, gentlemen, Let's in, I'll help you to far better wives. Delia, upon my blessing talk not to her ; Base baggage, in such haste to beggary ! Uncle. Sheriff, take your prisoner to your charge. Flow. Uncle, by God, you have used me very hardly ; By my troth, upon my wedding-day. [Exeunt Sir LAUNCELOT, CIVET, and all but young FLOWERDAXE, his Father, Uncle, Sheriff, and Officers. Luce. O, Master Flowerdale, but hear me speak; Stay but a little while, good Master Sheriff; If not for him, for my sake pity him : Good sir, stop not your ears at my complaint, My voice grows weak, for women's words are faint. Flow. Look you, uncle, where she kneels to you. Uncle. Fair maid, for you, I love you with my heart, And grieve, sweet soul, thy fortune is so bad, That thou shouldst match with such a graceless Go to thy father ; think not upon him, [youth; Whom hell hath marked to be the son of shame. Luce. Impute his wildness, sir, unto his youth, And think that now's the time he doth repent : Alas, what good or gain can you receive, T'imprison him that nothing hath to pay ? And where naught is, the king doth lose his due : O, pity him, as God shall pity you. Uncle. Lady, I know his humors all too well, And nothing in the world can do him good, But misery itself to chain him with. Luce. Say that your debts were paid, then is Le free. Uncle. Ay, virgin, that being answered, I have But that to him is as impossible, [done As 'twere with me to scale the pyramids. Shrieve, take your prisoner ; maiden, fare thee welL Luce. 0, go not yet, good Master Flowerdale : Take my word for the debt ; my word, my bond. Flow. Ay, by God, uncle, and my bond too. Luce. Alas, I ne'er ought 1 nothing but I paid it ; And I can work ; alas, he can do nothing : I have some friends perhaps will pity me, His chiefest friends do seek his misery. 1 "Ought" owed. ACT IV. SCENE I. 59 All that I can. or beg, get, or receive, Shall be for you : O, do not turn away : Methinks that one with face so reverent ; So well experienced in this tottering world, Should have some feeling of a maiden's grief: For my sake, for his father's, your brother's sake, Ay, for your soul's sake, that doth hope for joy, Pity my state ; do not two souls destroy. Uncle. Fair maid, stand up; not in regard of him, But in [deep] pity of thy hapless choice, I do release him : Master Shrieve, I thank you : And officers, there is for you to drink. Maid, take this money, there's a hundred angels ; And, for I will be sure he shall not have it, Here, Kester, take it you ; use't sparingly, But let not her have any want at all. Dry your eyes, niece, do not too much lament For him whose life hath been in riot spent : If well he useth thee, he gets him friends ; If ill, a shameful end on him depends. [Exit UNCLE. Flow. A plague go with you for an old fornicator : Come, Kit, the money, come, honest Kit. Faih. Nay, by my faith, sir, you shall pardon me. Flow. And why, sir, pardon you ? give me the money, you old rascal, or I shall make you. Luce. Pray, hold your hands, give it him, honest friend. Fath. If you be so content, with all my heart. Flow. Content, sir; 'sblood! she shall be content Whether she will or no. A rattle-baby come To follow me ! Go, get you gone to the greasy chuff your father ; Bring me your dowry, or never look on me. Fath. Sir, she hath forsook her father, and all her friends for you. Flow. Hang thee, her friends, and father, alto- gether. Fath. Yet part with something to provide her lodg- ing. Flow. Yes, I mean to part with her and you ; but if I part with one angel, hang me at a post. I'll rather throw them at a cast of dice, as I have done a thousand of their fellows. Fath. Nay, then, I will be plain, degenerate boy, Thou hadst a father would have been ashamed Flow. My father was an ass, an old ass. Fath. Thy father ? [Oh ! thou] proud licentious villain ; What are you at your foils? I'll foil with you. Luce. Good sir, forbear him. Fath. Did not this whining woman hang on me, I'd teach thee what 't was t'abuse thy father : Go hang, beg, starve, dice, game, that when all's gone, Thou may'st after despair and hang thyself. Luce. 0, do not curse him. Fath. I do not, but to pray for him were vain ; It grieves me that he bears his father's name. Flow. Well, you old rascal, I shall meet with you : Sirrah, get you gone; I will not strip the livery Over your ears, because you paid for it : But do not use my name, sirrah, do you hear ? Look [that] you do not ; you were best. Fath. Pay me the twenty pound then that I lent Or give security when I may have it. [you, Flow. I'll pay thee not a penny ; And for security, I'll give thee none. Minckins, 1 look you do not follow me ; If you do, beggar, I shall slit your nose. Luce. Alas, what shall I do ? Flow. Why [not] turn whore ? that's a good trade ; And so perhaps I'll see thee now and then. [Exit FLOWERDALE. Luce. Alas, the day that ever I was born. Fath. Sweet mistress, do not weep ; I'll stick to you. Luce. Alas, my friend, I know not what to do ; My father and my friends, they have despised me : And I, a wretched maid, thus cast away, Know neither where to go, nor what to say. Fath. It grieves me to 2 the soul to see her tears Thus stain the crimson roses of her cheeks : Lady, take comfort, do not mourn in vain, I have a little living in this town, The which I think comes to a hundred pound ; All that and more shall be at your dispose ; I'll strait go help you to some strange disguise, And place you in a service in this town : Where you shall know all, yet yourself unknown : Come, grieve no more, where no help can be had, Weep not for him, that is more worse than bad. Luce. I thank you, sir. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. A Room in Sir LAUNCELOT SPURCOCK'S House, in Kent. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT SPURCOCK, Sir ARTHUR, OLI- VER, WEATHERCOCK, CIVET, FRANCES, and DELIA. OK. Well, cha' a bin zerved many a sluttish trick, But such a lerripoop as thick ych was ne'er sarved Launce. Son Civet, daughter Frances, bear with me, You see how I 'm pressed down with inward grief, About that luckless girl. But, 'tis fallen out With me, as with many families beside, They are most unhappy, that are most beloved. Civet. Father, 'tis even so ; 'tis fallen out so ! But what the remedy. Set hand to heart, And let it pass. Here is your daughter Frances, And I. We'll not say that we will bring forth. As witty children, but as pretty children As ever she was ; though she had the prick 3 And praise for a pretty wench. But, father, Dun 4 is the mouse ; you'll come ? Launce. Ay, son Civet, I'll come. Civ. And you, Master Oliver ? OH. Ay, for che a vext out this veast, chil see if a Make a better veast there. [gan Civ. And you, Sir Arthur ? Arth. Ay, sir, although my heart be full, I'll be a partner at your wedding feast. Civ. And welcome all indeed, and welcome ; Come, Frank, are you ready ? 1 Probably a corruption of mannikin, or minikin a little fellow. 2 Old copies read, " at the soul." 3 " Prick" was the centre of the tarcet in archery. It was consequently the mark shot at. " Pricked and praised" was a common phrase to designate one who was distinguished over all who had won theprize. * " Dun is the mouse." That is to say. you can not change the color of the thine now. A proverbial speech, which oc- curs in Romeo and Juliet : " Tut : dun's the mouse " THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Frances. Jeu, how hasty all these husbands are ; I pray, father, pray to God to bless me. Launce. God bless thee, and I do ; God make thee Rend you both joy, I wish it with wet eyes, [wise j Frances. But, father, shall not my sister Delia go along with us ! She is excellent good at cookery, and such things. * Launce.' Yes, marry shall she : Delia, make you ready. Delia. I'm ready, sir, I will first go to Greenwich, From thence to my cousin Chesterfield, and so To London. Civ. It shall suffice, good sister Delia, it shall suf- fice ; but fail us not, good sister ; give order to cooks, and others ; for I would not have my sweet Frank to soil her fingers. Frances. No, by my troth, not I ; a gentlewoman, and a married gentlewoman, too, to be companion to cooks and kitchen-boys ; not I, i'faith ; I scorn that. Civ. Why, I do not mean thou shalt, sweet heart ; thou seest I do not go about it : Well, farewell to you. God's pity, Mr. Weathercock ! we shall have your company too ? Wenth. With all my heart, for I love good cheer. Civ. Well, God be with you all ; come, Frank. Frances. God be with you, father, God be with you, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, and Master Weathercock, sister ; God be with you all : God be with you, father ; God be with you every one. [Exeunt CIVET and FRAHCES. Weath. Why, how now, Sir Arthur, all a mort ? Master Oliver, how now, man ? Cheerly, Sir Launcelot, and merrily say, Who can hold that will away ? Launce. Ay, she is gone indeed, poor girl, undone ; But when they'll be self-willed, children must smart. Arth. But, that she is wronged, you are the chiefest cause ; Therefore 'tis reason you redress her wrong. Weath. Indeed you must, Sir Launcelot, you must. Launce. Must ? who can compel me, Master Weath- I hope I may do what I list. [ercock ? Weath. I grant you may, you may do what you list. Oli. Nay, but and you be well evisen, it were not good, By this vrampolness, and vrowardness, to cast away As pretty a Dowsabel, as ane could chance to see In a summer's day : chil tell you what chall do, Chil go spy up and down the town, and see If I can hear any tale or tidings of her, And take her away from thick a messel, vor cham Assured he will but bring her to the spoil ; And so var well ; we shall meet at your son Civet's. Launce. I thank you, sir, I take it very kindly. Arth. To find her out, I'll spend my dearest blood. So well I loved her, to effect her good. [Exeunt both. Launce. 0, Master Weathercock, what hap had I To force my daughter from Master Oliver, And this good knight, to one that hath no goodness In's thought? Weath. Ill luck, but what the remedy? Launce. Yes, I have almost devised a remedy, Young Flowerdale is sure a prisoner. Weath. Sure, nothing more sure. Launce. And yet perhaps his uncle hath released him. Weath. It may be very like, no doubt he hath. Launce. Well, if he be in prison, I'll have warrants T'attach my daughter till the law be tried, For I will sue him upon cozenage. Weath. Marry, you may, and overthrow him too. Launce. Nay, that's not so ; I may chance to be And sentence passed with him. [scoffed, Weath. Believe me, so it may ; therefore take heed. Launce. Well howsoever, yet I will have warrants, In prison, or at liberty, all's one : You'll help to serve them, Master Weathercock ? [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street in London. Enter MATTHEW FLOWEHDALE. F low. A plague of the devil ; the devil take the dice! the dice, and the devil, and his dam together ! Of all my hundred golden angels, I have not left me one denier : a pox of " come a five." 1 what shall I do ? I can borrow no more of my credit : there's not any of my acquaintance, man, nor boy, but I have bor- rowed more or less of ; I would I knew where to take a good purse, and go clear away ; by this light, I'll venture for it. God's lid, my sister Delia! I'll rob her, by this hand. Enter DELIA and ARTICHOKE. Delia. I pr'ythee, Artichoke, go not so fast, The weather's hot, and I am something weary. Arti. Nay, I warrant you, Mistress Delia, I'll not tire you With leading, we'll go an extreme moderate pace. Flow. Stand, deliver your purse. Arti. 0, Lord, thieves, thieves ! [Exit ARTICHOKE. Flow. Come, come, your purse, lady ; your purse. Delia. That voice I have heard often before this time; What, brother Flowerdale become a thief? Flow. Ay, plague on't! thank your father! But sister, come, your money, come : What ! The world must find me ; I was born to li ve j 'Tis not a sin to steal, when none will give. Delia. O, God, is all grace banished from thy heart, Think of the shame that doth attend this fact. Flow. Shame me no shames ; come, give me your purse ; I'll bind you, sister, lest I fare the worse. Delia. No, bind me not ; hold ; there is all I have, And would that money would redeem thy shame. Enter OLIVER, Sir ARTHUR, and ARTICHOKE. Arti. Thieves, thieves, thieves ! OK. Thieves ! where man ? why, how now, Mis- tress Delia ; Ha' you a liked to been a robbed ? Delia. No, Master Oliver, 'tis Master Flowerdale ; He did but jest with me. Oli. How, Flowerdale, that scoundrel? sirrah, yon meten us well ; vang 4 thee that. [Strikes him. Flow. Well, sir, I'll not meddle with you, because I have a charge. 1 * Come a five !" was his invocation to the dice ; a pox on it, for he uttered it in vain. Vang thee that " take notice," in the jargon of Devon- shire. ACT IV. SCENE III. 61 Delia. Here, brother Flowerdale, I'll lend you this same money. Flow. I thank you, sister. OH. I wad you were ysplit, an you let the mezel have a penny ; but since you can not keep it, chil keep it myself. Arth. 'Tis pity to relieve him in this sort, Who makes a triumphant life 1 his daily sport. Delia. Brother, you see how all men censure you : Farewell, and I pray God t'amend your life. OIL Come, chil bring you along, and you safe enough from twenty such scoundrels as thick an one is. Farewell, and be hanged, zirrah, as I think so thou wilt be shortly. Come, Sir Arthur. [Exeunt all but FLOW- EHDALE. Flow. A plague go with you for a kersey rascal ! This De'nshire man I think is made all pork, His hands made only for to heave up packs ; His heart as fat and big as his face, As differing far from all brave gallant minds, As I to serve the hogs, and drink with hinds, As I am very near now. Well, what remedy? When money, means, and friends, do grow so small, Then farewell life, and there's an end of all ! [Exit. SCENE III. Another Street, before Civet's House. Enter FLOWERDALE, senior, LUCE like a Dutch Frow, CIVET, and FRANCES. Civ. By my troth, God 'a mercy for this, good Chris- topher ! I thank thee for my maid j like her well : how dost thou like her, Frances ? Frances. In good sadness, Tom, very well, excel- lent well ; She speaks so prettily. I pray what's your name ? Luce. My name, forsooth, be called Tanikin. Frances. By my troth, a fine name : O Tanikin, you are excellent for dressing one's head a new fashion. Luce. Me sail do everyting about de head. Civ. What countrywoman is she, Kester ? Fath. A Dutch woman, sir. Civ. Why, then, she is outlandish, is she not? Fatfi. Ay, sir, she is. Frances. O, then thou canst tell how to help me to cheeks and ears. 2 Luce. Yes, mistress, wery veil. Fath. Cheeks and ears ! Why, Mistress Frances, why want you cheeks and ears ? methinks you have very fair ones. Frances. Thou art a fool, indeed. Tom, thou know- est what I mean. Civ. Ay, ay, Kester, 'tis such as they wear o' their heads. I pr'ythee, Kit, have her in, and show her my house. Fath. I will, sir ; come, Tanikin. Frances. Oh ! Tom, you have not bussed me to- day, Tom. Civ. No, Frances, we must not kiss afore folks : God save me, Frank ! see yonder : Delia's come ; Enter DELIA and ARTICHOKE. Welcome, good sister. 1 Triumphant life, or triumphant vice t There is some- thing wrong about this passage. Some happy suggestion may make better sense of it to the reader. i Malone thinks that this inquiry relates to some fashion- able head-dress. Frances. Welcome, sister; how do you like the 'tire of my head ? Delia. Very well, sister. Civ. I am glad you're come, sister Delia, to give order for supper ; they will be here soon. Arti. Ay, but if good luck had not served, she had not been here now : filching Flowerdale had like to have peppered us ; but for Master Oliver, we had been robbed. Delia. Peace, sirrah ! no more. Fath. Robbed ! by whom ? Arti. Marry, by none but Flowerdale ; he's turned thief. Civ. By my faith, but that's not well ; but, God be praised For your escape ; will you draw near, my sister ? Fath. Sirrah, come hither ; would Flowerdale, he that was my master, have robbed you? I pr'ythee tell me true ? Arti. Yes, faith, even that Flowerdale that was thy master. Fath. Hold thee, there's a French crown speak no more of this'. [Aside. Arti. Not I ; not a word : now do I smell knavery : In every purse this Flowerdale takes, he's half And gives me this to keep counsel : not a word I ! Fath. Why, God ha' mercy ! Frances. Sister, look here ; I have a new Dutch maid, And she speaks so fine, it would do your heart good. Civ. How do you like her, sister ? Delia,. I like your maid well. Civ. Well, dear sister, will you draw near, and give directions for supper ? The guests will be here pres- ently. Delia. Yes, brother, lead the way ; I'll follow you, [Exeunt all but DELIA and LUCE. Hark you, Dutch frow, a word. Luce. Vat is your vill wit me ? Delia. Sister Luce, 'tis not your broken language, Nor this same habit, can disguise your face From I that know you. Pray tell me, what means this? Luce. Sister, I see you know me, yet be secret : This borrowed shape that I have ta'en upon me Is but to keep myself a space unknown, Both from my father and my nearest friends, Until I see how time will bring to pass The desperate course of Master Flowerdale. Delia. 0, he is worse than bad ; I pr'ythee leave him, And let not once thy heart to think on him. Luce. Do not persuade me now to such a thought ; Imagine yet that he is worse than naught : Yet one hour's 3 time may all that ill undo That all his former life did run into. Therefore, kind sister, do not disclose my state ; If e'er his heart doth turn, 'tis ne'er too late. Delia. Well, seeing no counsel can remove youi mind. I'll not disclose you, that art wilful blind. Luce. Delia, I thank you. I now must please her eyes, My sister Frank, who's neither fair nor wise. [Exeunt. 3 The old folio reads " lover's," and it is barely possible that we should ascribe his cure to love rather than time. 62 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. ACT V. SCENE I. Street before CIVET'S House. Enter M. FLOWERDALE, solus. Flow. On goes he that knows no end of his jour- ney ! I have passed the very utmost bounds of shift- ing ; I have no course now but to hang myself. I have lived since yesterday, two o'clock, of a spice- cake I had at a burial :' and for drink, I got it at an alehouse, among porters such as will bear out a mau, if he have no money indeed, I mean, out of their companies, for they are men of good car- riage.* Who comes here ? The two cony-catchers, that won all my money of me. I'll try if they'll lend me any. Enter DICK and RALPH. What, Master Richard, how do you do ? How do'st thou, Ralph ? By God ! gentlemen, the world grows bare with me : will you do as much as lend me an angel between you both ? you know you won a hundred of me t'other day. Ralph. How, an angel? Damn us if we lost not every penny Within an hour after thou wert gone ! Flow. I pr'ythee lend me so much as will pay lor my supper ; I'll pay you again, as I am a gentleman. Ralph. I'faith, we've not a farthing, not a mite: I wonder at it, Master Flowerdale, You will so carelessly undo yourself. Why, you will lose more money in an hour, Than any honest man spends in a year. For shame, betake you to some honest trade, And live not thus so like a vagabond ! [Exeunt both. Flow. A vagabond, indeed ! more villains you : They give me counsel that first cozened me. Those devils first brought me to this I am, And, being thus, the first that do me wrong. Well, yet I have one friend left me in store : Not far from hence there dwells a cockatrice, 3 One that I first put in a satin gown ; And not a tooth that dwells within her head, But stands me at the least in twenty pound : Her will I visit, now my coin is gone, Here, as I take it, dwells the gentlewoman. What, ho ! is Mistress Apricock within ? Enter RUFFIAN. Ruff. What saucy rascal is't that knocks so bold ? Oh ! is it you, old spendthrift ? are you here? One that's turned cozener about the town ? My mistress saw you, and sends this word by me : Either be packing quickly from the door, Or you shall have such greeting sent you straight As you will little like. You had best begone. [Exit. i There was always some refreshment at ancient funerals : rich cake for the mourners, and poor cake (which includes the prodigal's spice-cake) for the populace. s A quibble between carrying burden* and demeanor. MAI.ONK. A prostitute. Flow. Why, so, this is as it should be : being poor, Thus art thou served by a vile, painted whore Well, since the damned crew do so abuse me, I'll try, of honest men, how they will use me. Enter an ancient Citizen. Sir, I beseech you to take compassion of a man ; one whose fortunes have been better than at this instant they seem to be : but if I might crave of you so much little portion as would bring me to my friends, I would rest thankful until I had requited so great a courtesy. Citi. Fie ! fie ! young man, this course is very bad ; Too many such have we about this city ; Yet, for I have not seen you in this sort, Nor noted you to be a common beggar Hold, there's an angel to bear your charges down : Go to your friends ; do not on this depend ; Such bad beginnings oft have worser end. [Exit Citizen. Flow. Worser end ! Nay, if it fall out no worse than in old angels, I care not ! Now, that I have had such a fortunate beginning, I'll not let a six- penny purse escape me. By the mass, here comes another ! Enter a Citizen's Wife, with Servant, and a torch be- fore her. God bless you, fair mistress ! Now, would it please you, gentlewoman, to look into the wants of a poor gentleman a younger brother: I doubt not but God will treble restore it back again ; one that never be- fore this lime demanded penny, halfpenny, nor far- thing? Citi. Wife. Stay, Alexander. Now, by my troth, a very proper man; and 'tis great pity. Hold, my friend; there's all the money I have about me a couple of shillings : and God bless thee. Flow. Now God thank you, sweet lady : if you have any friend, or garden-house where you may employ a poor gentleman as your friend, I am yours to com- mand in all secret service. Citi. Wife. I thank you, good friend ; I pr'ythee let me see that again I gave thee ; there is one of them a brass shilling : give me them, and here is half-a- crown in gold. [He gives it her. Now out upon thee, rascal ! Secret service what dost thou make of me ? It were a good deed to have thee whipped ! Now I have my money again, I'll see thee hanged before I give thee a penny. Secret ser- vice ! On, good Alexander. [Exeunt both. Flow. This is villanous luck ; I perceive dishonesty will not thrive : here comes more ! God forgive me ! Sir Arthur and Master Oliver ! Afore God, I'll speak to them. God save you, Sir Arthur. God save you, Master Oliver. OK. Been you there, zirrah ? Come, will you taken yourself to your tools, coystrel ? Flow. Nay, Master Oliver, I'll not fight with you ; alas ! sir, you know it was not my doings ; it was only a plot to get Sir Launcelot's daughter : by God, I never meant you harm. OH. And where is the gentlewoman thy wife, me- zel ? Where is she, zirrah, ha ? Flow. By my troth, Master Oliver, sick, very sick ; an God is my judge, I know not what means to take for her, good gentlewoman. ACT V. SCENE I. 63 OK. Tell me true, is she sick ? Tell me true, itch "vise thee. Flow. Yes, faith, I tell you true : Master Oliver, if you would do me the small kindness but to lend me forty shillings, so God help me, I will pay you so soon as my ability shall make me able, as I am a gentle- man. OH. Well, thou zayest thy wife is zick : hold, there's vorty shillings ; give it to thy wife ; look thou give it her, or I shall so veze thee, thou wert not so vezed this zeven year ; look to it. Arth. I'faith, Master Oliver, it is in vain To give to him that never thinks of her. OK. Well, would che could yvind it. Flow. I tell you true, Sir Arthur, as I am a gentle- man. Oli. Well, farewell, zirrah. Come, Sir Arthur. [Exeunt both. Flow. By the Lord, this is excellent ! Five golden angels compassed in an hour : If this trade hold, I'll never seek a new; Welcome, sweet gold, and beggary adieu. Enter FLOWERDALE, senior, and FLO WERDALE, junior. Uncle. See, Kester, if you can find the house. Flow. Who's here my uncle, and my man Kes- ter ? By the mass, 'tis they ! How do you, uncle ? how do'st thou, Kester? By my troth, uncle, you must needs lend me some money ; the poor gentle- woman my wife, so God help me, is very sick ; I was robbed of the hundred angels you gave me j they are gone. Uncle. Ay, they are gone, indeed : come, Kester, away. Flow. Nay, uncle, do you hear ? good uncle ! Uncle. Out, hypocrite ! I will not hear thee speak. Come, leave him, Kester. Flow. Kester, honest Kester ! Fath. Sir, I have naught to say to you. Open the door to me. 'Kin, thou hadst best Lock fast, for there's a false knave [here] without. Flow. You are an old lying rascal, so you are ! [FLOWERDALE, sen., and FLOWERDALE, jun., go in. Enter LUCE from CIVET'S House. Luce. Vat is de matter ? Vat be you, yonker ? Flow. By this light, a Dutch frow j they say they are called kind ; I'll try her. Luce. Vat be you, yonker ? Why do you not speak ? Flow. By my troth, sweetheart, a poor gentleman that would desire of you, if it stand with your liking, the bounty of your purse. Re-enter FLOWERDALE, senior. Luce. hear him, God ! so young an armin. 1 Flow. Armin, sweetheart? I know not what you mean by that ; but I am almost a beggar. Luce. Are you not a married man ? Vere been your vife ? Here's all I have ; take dis. Flow. What ! gold, young frow ? This is brave. Fath. If he have any grace, he'll now repent. [Aside. Luce. Why speak you not ? Vere be your vife ? 1 Armin beggar. 5 Flow. Dead, dead, she's dead ; 'tis she that hath undone me ? Spent me all I had, and kept rascals under my nose to brave me. Luce. Did you use her veil? Flow. Use her ! there's never a gentlewoman in England could be better used than I did her. I could but coach her ; her diet stood me in forty pound a month ; but she is dead, and in her grave ; my cares are buried. Luce. Indeed ! dat vas not scone. 9 Fath. He is turned more devil than he was before. [Aside. Flow. Thou dost belong to Master Civet here : Dost thou not ? Luce. Yes, me do. Flow. Why, there's it ! There's not a handful of plate but [it] belongs To me. God's my judge, if I [but] had Such a wench as thou, there's never a man In England would make more of her than I Would do so she had any stock ? [Voice within.} Why, Tanikin ! Luce. Stay ; one doth call. I shall come by-and- by. Again ! [Call within. Exit LUCE uithin. Flow. By this hand, this Dutch wench is in love Were it not admirable to make her steal [with me ! All Civet's plate, and run away [with me] ? Fath. It were beastly ! 0, Master Flowerdale ! Have you no fear of God, nor conscience ? What do you mean by this vile course you take ? Flow. Whatdolmean? why,to live: 'tis that I mean. Fath. To live in this sort ? fie upon the course ! Your life doth show, you are a very coward. Flow. A coward ! 1 pray in what ? Fath. Why, you will borrow sixpence of a boy. Flow. 'Snails, is there such a cowardice in that ? I dare borrow it of a man ; ay, and of the tallest man in England, if he will lend it me : let me borrow it how I can, and let them come by it how they dare. And it is well known, I might have rid out a hundred times if I would ; so I might. Fath. It was not want of will, but cowardice ; There is none that lends to you, but know they gain ; And what is that but only stealth in you ? Delia might hang you now, did not her heart Take pity of you for her sister's sake. Go, get you hence, lest ling'ring here your stay, You fall into their hands you look not for. Flow. I'll tarry here, till the Dutch frow comes, il all the devils in hell were here. FLOWERDALE, senior, goes into CIVET'S House. Enter Sir LAUNCELOT, Master WEATHERCOCK, and ARTI- CHOKE. Launce. Where is the door? are we not past it, Artichoke ? Arti. By the mass, here's one ; I'll ask him. Do you hear, sir? What, are you so proud? Do you hear? which is the way to Master Civet's house? what, will you not speak ? 0, me ! This is filching Flowerdale. Lance. 0, wonderful ! is this lewd villain here ? You cheating rogue, you cutpurse, cony-catcher, What ditch, you villain, is my daughter's grave? A cozening rascal, that must make a will ! S Nicht-schoon" not handsome." 64 THE LONDON PRODIGAL. Take on him that strict habit ; very that ; When he should turn to angel ; a dying grace ! [will: I'll father-in-law you, sir; I'll make [you make] a Speak, villain, where's my daughter ? [Speak, I say !] Poisoned, I warrant you, or knocked o' the head ! And to abuse good Master Weathercock, With his forged will ; and Master Weathercock, To make 1 my grounded resolution ; Then to abuse the De'nshire gentleman : Go ; away with him to prison. Flow. Wherefore to prison ? Sir, I will not go. Enter Master CIVET, his Wife, OLIVER, Sir AHTHUB, FLO WERDALE, senior and junior, and DELIA. Launce. Oh ! here's his nncle ! Welcome, gentle- men, Welcome all ! Such a cozener gentlemen ! A murderer too, for anything I know ; My daughter's missing ; hath been looked for ; can Be found ! A vild upon thee ! [not Uncle. He is my kinsman, though his life be vile ; Therefore, in God's name, do with him what you will. Launce. Marry, to prison. Flow. Wherefore to prison ? snick-up ;* I owe you nothing. Launce. Bring forth my daugher, then ; away with him. Flow . Go seek your daughter ; what do you lay to my charge ? Launce. Suspicion of murder ; go, away with him. Flow. Murder your dogs ; I murder your daughter ? Come, uncle ; I know you'll bail me. Uncle. Not I, were there no more, Than I the gaoler, thou the prisoner. Launce. Go j away with him. Enter LUCE. Luce. O'my life, where will you ha de man ? Vat ha de yonker done ? Weath. Woman, he hath killed his wife. Luce. His wife, dat is not good ; dat is not scone. 3 Launce. Hang not upon him, huswife ; if you do I'll lay you by him. Luce. Have me no oder way dan you have him ! He tell me dat he love me heartily. France*. Lead away my maid to prison ; why, Tom, will you suffer that? Civet. No, by your leave, father, she is no vagrant : She is my wife's chambermaid, and as true as the skin Between any man's brows here. Launce. Go to, you're both fools : Son Civet, o' my life, this is a plot ; Some straggling counterfeit preferred to you ; No doubt, to rob you of your plate and jewels : I'll have you led away to prison, trull. Luce. I am no trull, neither outlandish frow ; Nor he, nor I, shall to the prison go : Know you me now ? Nay, never stand amazed. Father, I know I have offended you, And though that duty wills me bend my knee, 1 To unmake, rather to mar. 3 Malone tells us that "snick-up" is equivalent to the modern phrase, " go hang yourself.' 1 Not handsome Xicht'-schoon. To you, in duty and obedience ; Yet this way do I turn, and to him yield My love, my duty, and my humbleness. Launce. Bastard in nature, kneel to such a slave? Luce. 0, Master Flowerdale, if too much grief Have not stopped up the organs of your voice, Then speak to her that is thy faithful wife ; Or doth contempt of me thus tie thy tongue : Turn not away, I ara no Ethiop, No wanton Cressid, nor a changing Helen : But rather one made wretched by thy loss. What ! turnest thou still from me ? O, then, I guess thee wofullest 'mong hapless men. Flow. I am, indeed, wife ; wonder among wives ! Thy chastity and virtue hath infused Another soul in me ; red with defame, For, in my blushing cheeks is seen my shame. Launce. Out, hypocrite ! I charge thee, trust him not. Luce. Not trust him ; by the hopes of after bliss, I know no sorrow can be compared to his. Launce. Well, since thou wert ordained to beggary, Follow thy fortune. I defy thee, I OIL Ywood che were so well ydoussed as was ever white Cloth in locking mill, an che ha not made me weep. F ath. If he hath any grace he'll now repent. Arth. It moves my heart. Weath. By my troth, I must weep ; I can not choose. Uncle. None but a beast would such a maid misuse. Flow. Content thyself ; I hope to win his favor, And to redeem my reputation lost : And gentlemen, believe me, I beseech you ; I hope your eyes shall [soon] behold such change, As shall deceive your expectation. OIL I would che were split now, but che believ him. Launce. How, believe him ? Weath. By the mackins, I do. Launce. What do you think that ever he'll have grace? Weath. By my faith it will go hard. OIL Well, che vor ye he is changed ; and Master Flowerdale, in hope you been so, hold, there's vorty pound toward your zettingup : what ! be not ashamed ; vang it man, vang it ; be a good husband ; loving to your wife : and you shall not want for vorty more, I che vor thee. Arth. My means are little, but if you'll allow* me I will instruct you in my ablest power : But to your wife I give this diamond ; And prove true diamond, fair, in all your life. Flow. Thanks, good Sir Arthur : Master Oliver, You being my enemy, and grown so kind, Binds me in all endeavor to restore. 0/f. What ! restore me no restorings, man; I hare vorty pound more here; vang it: zouth chil devie London else : what, do not think me a mezel or a scoundrel, to throw away my money ? che have an hundred pound more to pace of any good spotation : I hope your under and your uncle will vollow my zamples. Uncle. You have guessed right of me ; if he leave This course of life, he [yet] shall be mine heir, [off * The old copies read, " follow." ACT V. SCENE I. 65 Launce. But he shall never get a groat of me ! A cozener, a deceiver; one that killed His painful father; honest gentleman, That passed the fearful danger of the sea, To get him living and maintain him brave. Weath. What ! hath he killed his father ? Launce. Ay, sir, with conceit Of his vile courses. Path. Sir, you are misinformed. Launce. Why, thou old knave, thou told'st me so thyself. Path. I wronged him, then ; toward my master's There's twenty nobles for to make amends, [stock Flow. No, Kest, I've troubled thee, and wronged thee more ; What thou in love giv'st, I in love restore. Frances. Ha ! ha ! sister, there you played bo-peep with Tom ; What shall I give her toward her household, sister ? Delia, shall I give her my fan? Delia. You were best ask your husband. Frances. Shall I, Tom ? Civet. Ay, do, Frank ; I'll buy thee a new one, with a longer handle. Frances. A russet one, Tom? Civet. Ay, with russet feathers. Frances. Here, sister, there's my fan toward your household, To keep you warm. 1 Luce. I thank you, sister. Weath. Why, this is well j and toward fair Luce's stock, Here's forty shillings : and forty good shillings more, I'll give her, marry. Come, Sir Launcelot, I Must have you friends. Launce. Not I ; all this is counterfeit ! He will consume it, were it a million. Fath. Sir, what is your daughter's dower worth? Launce. Had she been married to an honest man, It had been better than a thousand pound. Fath. Pay it him, [then] and I'll give you my bond, To make her jointure better worth than three. Launce. Your bond, sir ! why, what are you ? Fath. One whose word in London, though I say it, Will pass there for as much as yours. Launce. Wert not thou late, that unthrift's serving- man? Fath. Look on me better, now my scar is off; Ne'er muse, man, at this metamorphosis. Launce. Master Flowerdale ! Flow. My father ! Oh ! I shame to look on him. Pardon, dear father, the follies that are passed. Fath. Son, son, I do, and joy at this thy change ; 1 We must not think too lightly of the gift, toward Luce's housekeeping, of the silly sister Frances. Fans were costly thin t the period of our play. Their handles were of considerable length, probably to be used by pages, and were of silver, and inlaid with ornaments. And 'plaud thy fortune in this virtuous maid, Whom Heaven hath sent to thee to save thy soul. Luce. This addeth joy to joyj high Heaven be praised. Weath. Welcome from death, good Master Flower- dale. 'Twas said so here, 'twas said so here, good faith. Fath. I caused that rumor to be spread myself, Because I'd see the humors of my son, Which to relate the circumstance is needless : And, sirrah, see you run no more in that disease ; For he that's once cure"d of that malady, Of riot, swearing, drunkenness, and pride, And falls again into the like distress, That fever is deadly ; doth till death, endure : Such men die mad, as of a calenture. Flow. Heaven helping me, I'll hate the course as hell. Uncle. Say it, and do it, cousin, all is well. Launce. Well, being in hope you'll prove an honest man, I take you to my favor. Brother Flowerdale, Welcome with all my heart. 1 see your care Hath brought these acts to this conclusion, And I am glad of it ; come, let's in and feast. OK. Nay, zost you a while ; you promised to make Sir Arthur and me amends ; here is your wisest Daughter ; see which on's she'll have. Launce. A' God's name, you have my good will ; get hers. Oli. How say you, then, damsel ; tyters hate ? Delia. I, sir, am yours. 0/t. Why, then, send for the vicar, and chil have it Despatched in a trice, so chil. Delia. Pardon me, sir ; I mean [that] I am yours, In love, in duty, and affection ; But not to love as wife ; shall ne'er be said, Delia was buried married, but a maid. Arth. Do not condemn yourself for ever [thus] , [Most] virtuous fair ; for you were born to love. Oli. Why, you say true, Sir Arthur ; she was ybore to it, So well as her mother : but I pray you show us Some zamples or reasons why you will not marry? Delia. Not that I do condemn a married life, For 'tis, no doubt, a sanctimonious thing : But for the care and crosses of a wife, The trouble in this world that children bring, My vow's in heaven, on earth to live alone ; Husbands, however good, I will have none. Oli. Why, then, chil live a bachelor too ! Che zet not a vig by a wife, if a wife zet not a vig by me : come, shall's go to dinner? Fath. To-morrow I crave your companies in Mark- To-night we'll frolic in Master Civet's house, [lane : And to each health drink down a full carouse. [Exeunt. THE END OF THE LONDON PRODIGAL. INTRODUCTION TO THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. THE first edition of this play was published in 1602, onder the title of the " Chronicle History of Thomas Lord Cromwell." No name or initials, of any author, appear in the titlepage of this edition. " A booke called the Life and Death of the Lord Cromwell, as yt was lately acted by the Lord Chamberleyn his Servantes," was entered on the stationer's books, by William Cotton, on the llth August, of the same year. In 1613 appeared " The True Chronicle His- torie of the whole Life and Death of Thomas Lord Cromwell : as it hath been sundry times publickly acted by the King's Majestie's Servants : Written by W. S." It appears, therefore, that the play was ori- ginally performed, and continued to be performed, by the company in which Shakspeare himself was a chief proprietor. Whether this fact can make at all, either one way or the other, in resolving the question of authorship, is a matter which the reader may de- cide for himself, quite as readily as if he had the assistance of an editor. Shakspeare was in London, and connected with the actors, as a proprietor, up to 1613, the year when this play was first published with the initials W. S. ; and we are, therefore, almost at liberty to assume that, if not by himself, and by an- other having the same initials, he was yet not unwil- ling that his theatre should derive from the publica tion all the advantages which might be expected to accrue from his supposed authorship of the piece. Beyond the initials, in the edition of 1613, there is no external evidence whatever, by which we should ascribe Sir Thomas Cromwell to William Shakspeare. If the question depended upon the intrinsic evidence, assuming, for the standards by which to judge of its qualities, any of the acknowledged and unquestiona- ble plays of his mature genius, we should unhesita- tingly reject the claim. There is nothing in the per- formance to entitle it, as a production of Shakspeare, to the smallest consideration. Thomas, Lord Cromwell, is a very feeble effort, almost totally deficient in poetry, and lamentably wanting as a work of art. The story is disjointed, rambling, and purposeless ; and, but for a something of sedateness in the thought, occasional passages which show good sense, and an appreciation of the general characteristics of humanity, with a very tol- erable individualization of the persons of the drama, it would be wholly without a redeeming feature. And yet there are critics who find it in possession 68 INTRODUCTION. of considerable merits, which escape our search. Schlegel, speaking of this play, of " the Yorkshire Tragedy," and of " Sir John Oldcastle," says : " They are not only unquestionably Shakspeare's, but, in my opinion, they deserve to be classed among his best and maturest works.'' After this judgment, we may well hesitate to speak our own. Schlegel proceeds to describe them as " biographical dramas, and models in this species." Biographical they are, cer- tainly singularly so, indeed since, in this play of Sir Thomas, we have almost all the events of his life, from his earliest manhood to his death, crowded into the scene with a rapidity of action which defies all reason and probability, and largely overleaps the usual privileges of the dramatic historian. But to call this play, or either of the others mentioned, a model of its kind, betrays a large liberality in the critic which we can not conscientiously emu- late Mr. Knight, at the close of his analysis of this play, remarks, that " it would be a waste of time to attempt to show that Thomas Lord Cromwell could not have been written by Shafcjpeare." Certainly it would be, if the question were to depend entirely upon the arbitrary requisition of the commentators, that Shakspeare's writings must be all of them of a uniform excellence, determined by standards drawn from our sense of his highest excellences. This, how- ever, is not permitted us. But this point we have con- sidered in another place. It has been suggested, that " W. S." might be the initials of Wentworth Smith, another dramatic writer, of whom little is known, but for whom this play has never been claimed. It remains to add, that the subject of Sir Thomas Cromwell is derived from Fuller, Stow, Speed, Hoi- ingshead, and other English chroniclers. The events are narrated at large, in Fox's Book of Martyrs. The particulars relating to Frescobald, the benevo- lent Italian, were first published by Bandello, the novelist, in 1554 : " Francesco Frescobaldi, fa cortessa ad un straniero, e ne ben remeritato, essendo colui diuenuto contestabile d'Inghilterra." His story it translated by Fox. THE HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OP THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. English merchants. PERSONS REPRESENTED. DUKE OF NORFOLK. DUKE OF SUFFOLK. EARL OF BEDFORD. Cardinal WOLSEY. GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester. Sir THOMAS MORE. Sir CHRISTOPHER HALES. Sir RALPH SADLER. Old CROMWELL, a blacksmith of Putney. THOMAS CROMWELL, his son. BANISTER, BOWSER, NEWTON, CROSBT, j BAGOT, a money-broker. FRESCOBALD, a Florentine merchant. The Governor of the English factory at Antwerp. Governor and other officers of Bolognia. Master of an hotel in Bolognia. SEELY, a publican of Hounslow. Lieutenant of the Tower. Young CROMWELL, the son of Thomas. HODGE, WILL, and TOM, old Cromwell's servant*. Two Citizens. Mrs. BANISTER. JOAN, wife to Seely. Two Witnesses; a Sergeant-at-arms ; a Herald; a Hangman ; a Post ; Messengers ; Officers ; Ushers, and Attendants. SCENE, Partly in LONDON, and the adjoining Dis- tricts ; partly in ANTWERP and BOLOGNIA. ACT I. SCENE I. Putney. The entrance of a Smith's shop. Enter HODGE, WILL, and TOM. Hodge. Come, masters, I think it be past five o'clock. Is it not time we were at work ? My old master, he'll be stirring anon. Will. I can not tell whether my old master will be stirring or no ; but I am sure I can hardly take my afternoon's nap, for my young Master Thomas. He keeps such a coil in his study, with the sun, and the moon, and the seven stars, that I do verily think he'll read out his wits. Hodge. He skill of the stars ! There's Goodman Car of Fulham (he that carried us to the strong ale, where Goody Trundel had her maid got with child) : 0, he knows the stars ; he'll tickle you Charles's Wain in nine degrees. That same man will tell Goody Trundel when her ale shall miscarry, only by the stars. Tom. That's a great virtue, indeed ; I think Thomas be nobody in comparison to him. Will. Well, masters, come j shall we to our ham- mers? Hodge. Ay, content ; first let's take our morning's draught, and then to work, roundly. Tom. Ay, agreed. Go in, Hodge. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The same. Enter young CROMWELL. Crom. Good morrow, morn ; I do salute thy bright- ness ! The night seems tedious to my troubled soul, Whose black obscurity breeds 1 in my mind A thousand sundry cogitations : And now Aurora, with a lively dye, Adds comfort to my spirit that mounts high ;* Too high, indeed, my state being so mean. My study, like a mineral of gold, Makes my heart proud, wherein my hope's enrolled ; My books are all the wealth I do possess, And unto them I have engaged my heart. Oh, Learning ! how divine thou seem'st to me, Within whose arms is all felicity. [Smiths within hammer. Peace with your hammers, leave your knocking there ! You do disturb my study and my rest : Leave off, I say : you mad me with your noise. Enter HODGE, WILL, and Ton, from within. Hodge. Why, how now, Master Thomas, how now , Will you not let us work for you ? Crom. You fret my heart, with making of this noise. l Old copy, " bind*." Former copies read, " on high." 70 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Hodge. How ! fret your heart ? Ay. Thomas, but you'll fret Your father's purse if you let us from working. Tom. Ay, this 'tis for to make him a gentleman : Shall we leave work for your musing ? That's well, i'faith j But here comes my old master, now Enter old CROMWELL. Old Crom. You idle knaves, why are you loit'ring now? No hammers walking,' and my work lo do? What, not a heat among your work to-day ? Hodge. Marry, sir, your son Thomas will not let us work at all. Old Crom. Why, knave, I say, have I thus carked and cared, And all to keep thee like a gentleman ; And dost thou let my servants at their work, That sweat for thee, knave labor thus for thee ? Crom. Father, their hammers do offend my study. Old Crom. Out of my doors, knave, if thou lik'st it not : I cry you mercy ; are your ears so fine ? I tell thee, knave, these get when I do sleep ; I will not have my anvil stand for thee. Crom. There's money, father; I will pay your men. [ Throws money among them. Old Crom. Have I thus brought thee up unto my cost, In hope that one day thou'dst relieve my age, And art thou now so lavish of thy coin, To scatter it among these idle knaves '( Crom. Father, be patient, and content yourself: The time will come I shall hold gold as trash : And here. I speak with a presaging soul, To build a palace where this cottage stands, As fine as is King Henry's house at Sheen. Old Crom. You build a house ! You knave, you'll be a beggar ! Now, afore God, all is but cast away, That is bestowed upon this thriftless lad ! Well, had I bound him to some honest trade, This had not been ; but 'twas his mother's doing, To send him to the university. How ? Build a house where now this cottage stands, As fair as that at Sheen? they shall not hear me ! [Aside. A good boy, Tom ; I con thee ; thank thee, Tom, Well said, Tom ; Gramercy to ye, Tom ! In to your work, knaves ; hence [thou] saucy boy. [Exeunt all but young CROMWELL. Crom. Why should my birth keep down my mount- ing spirit ? Are not all creatures subject unto time ; To time who doth abuse the cheated world, And fills it full of hodge-podge bastardy ? There's legions now of beggars on the earth, That their original did spring from kings ; And many monarchs now, whose fathers were The riff-raff of their age ; for time and fortune Wear out a noble train to beggary ; And from the dunghill, minions* do advance To state and mark in this admiring world. This is but course, which, in the name of fate, 1 Qucre: Working! * Quere: Million*! Is seen as often as it whirls about. The river Thames, that by our door doth pass, His first beginning is but small and shallow ; Yet, keeping on his course, grows to a sea. And likewise Wolsey, the wonder of our age, His birth as mean as mine, a butcher's son ; Now, who, within this land a greater man ? Then, Cromwell, cheer thee up, and tell thy soul, That thou may'st live to flourish and control. Enter old CROMWELL. Old Crom. Tom Cromwell ; what, Tom, I say ! Crom. Do you call, sir? Old Crom. Here is Master Bowser come to know if you have despatched his petition for the lords of the council, or no. Crom. Father, I have ; please you to call him in. Old Crom. That's well said, Tom ; a good lad, Tom. Enter Master BOWSEK. Bow. Now, Master Cromwell, have you despatched this petition ? Crom. I have, sir ; here it is ; please you, peruse it. Bow. It shall not need ; we'll read't as we go by water. And, Master Cromwell, I have made a motion May do you good, an if you like of it. Our secretary at Antwerp, sir, is dead, And [now] the merchants there have sent to me, For lo provide a man fit for the place : Now, I do know none fitter than yourself, If it stand with your liking, Master Cromwell. Crom. With all my heart, sir; and I much am bound, In love and duty for your kindness shown. Old Crom. Body o'me, Tom, make haste, lest some- body get between thee and honor, Tom.3 I thank you, good Master Bowser, I thank you for my boy ; I thank you always ; I thank you most heartily, sir : Ho, a cup of beer here for Mailer Bowser. Bow. It shall not need, sir : Master Cromwell, will you go ? Crom. I will attend you, sir. Old Crom. Farewell, Tom ; God bless thee, Tom ; God speed thee, good Tom. [Exeunt SCENE III London. A Strert before FRESCOBALD'S House. Enter BAGOT. Bag. I hope this day is fatal unto some, And by their loss must Bagot seek to gain. This is the lodge of Master Frescobald, A liberal merchant and a Florentine, To whom Banister owes a thousand pound ; A merchant bankrupt, whose father was my mas- ter. What do I care for pity or regard ? He once was wealthy, but he now is fallen, And I this morning have him got arrested At suit of this same Master Frescobald ; And, by this means, shall I be sure of coin, For doing this same good to him unknown : And, in good time, see where the merchant come. 3 Old copies, " between thee and homt." ACT II. SCENE I. 71 Enter FRESCOEALD. Good morrow to kind Master Frescobald. Fres. Good morrow to yourself, good Master Bagot ; And what's the news, you are so early stirring T It is for gain ; I make no doubt of that. Bag. 'Tis for the love, sir, that I bear to you. When did you see your debtor, Banister ? Fres. I promise you, I have not seen the man This two months day ; his poverty is such, As I do think he shames to see his friends. Bag. Why then assure yourself to see him straight, For at your suit I have arrested him, A nd here they will be with him presently. Fres. Arrest him at my suit ? You were to blame, I know the man's misfortunes to be such, As he's not able for to pay the debt ; And were it known to some, he were undone. Bag. This is your pitiful heart to think it so ; But you are much deceived in Banister : Why, such as he will break for fashion sake, And unto those they owe a thousand pound, Pay scarce a hundred. 0, sir, beware of him, The man is lewdly given to dice and drabs ; Spends all he hath in harlot's companies ; It is no mercy for to pity him : I speak the truth of him, for nothing else, But for the kindness that I bear to you. Fres. If it be so, he hath deceived me much, And to deal strictly with such a one as he, Better severe than too much lenity : But here is Master Banister himself, And with him, as I take it, [are] the officers. Enter BANISTER, hi3 Wife, and two Officers. Ban. 0, Master Frescobald, you have undone me : My state was well nigh overthrown before, Now, altogether downcast by your means. Mrs. Ban. O, Master Frescobald, pity my hus- band's case ; He is a man hath lived as well as any, Till envious fortune and the ravenous sea Did rob, disrobe, and spoil us of our own. F res. Mistress Banister, I envy not your husband, Nor willingly would I have used him thus : But that I hear he is so lewdly given, Haunts wicked company, and hath enough To pay his debts, yet will not own 1 thereof. Ban. This is that damned broker, that same Bagot, Whom I have often from my trencher fed : Ungrateful villain for to use me thus. Bag. What I have said to him is naught but truth. Mrs. Ban. What thou hast said springs from an en- vious heart ! ! cannibal, 2 that doth eat men alive ! But here, upon my knee, believe me, sir ; And what I speak, so help me God, is true ! We scarce have meat to feed our little babes : Most of our plate is in that broker's hand, Which, had we money to defray our debts, think, we would not bide that penury ! Be merciful, kind Master Frescobald; My husband, children, and myself will eat Biit one meal a day ; the other, will we keep 1 Former editions read, " be known thereof* " A cannibal." in other copies. And sell ; in part to pay the debt we owe you. If ever tears did pierce a tender mind, Be pitiful ; let me some favor rind. Fres. Go to ; I see thou art an envious man. Good Mistress Banister, kneel not to me : I pray rise up ; you shall have your desire. Hold, officers ; begone ; there's for your pains. [Exit Officers. You know you owe to me a thousand pound ; [To BANISTER. Here, take my hand ; if e'er God make you able, And place you in your former state again, Pay me : but, if still [dark] your fortune frown, Upon my faith, I'll never ask a crown. I never yet did wrong to men in thrall, For God doth know what to myself may fall. Ban. This unexpected favor, undeserved, Doth make my heart bleed inwardly with joy : Ne'er may aught prosper with me as 3 my own, If I forget this kindness you have shown. Mrs. Ban. My children, in their prayers, both night and day, For your good fortune and success shall pray. Fres. I thank you both ; I pray go dine with me ; Within these three days, if God give me leave, I will to Florence, to my native home. Hold, Bagot, there's a portague 4 to drink, Although you ill deserved it by your merit ; Give not such cruel scope unto your heart j Be sure, the ill you do will be requited : Remember what I say, Bagot ; farewell. Come, Master Banister, you shall with me, My fare's but simple, but welcome heartily. [Exeunt all but BAOOT Bag. A plague go with you ! would you had eat your last ! Is this the thanks T have for all my pains ? Confusion light upon you all for me ! Where he had wont to give a score of crowns, 4 Doth he now foist me with a portague ? Well, I will be revenged upon this Banister. I'll to his creditors ; buy the debts he owes, As seeming that I do it for good will ; I'm sure to have them at an easy rate ; And when 'tis done, in Christendom he stays not, But I will make his heart to ache witn -orrow; And if that Banister become my debtor, By heaven and earth, I'll make his plague the greater. {Exit BAGOT. ACT II. Enter Chorus. Cho. Now, gentlemen, imagine that young Crom- well, In Antwerp's lieger* for the English merchants ; And Banister, to shun this Bagot's hate, Hearing that he hath got some of his debts, Is fled to Antwerp, with his wife and children ; Which, Bagot hearing, is gone after them : 3 Old editions read " i." < The portague (Fr. portugaite) was a gold coin of Portu- gal, worth about 4 10*. sterling. " Score of pounds" may be intended ; for, as a correspondent remarks, at JE4 10*. a portagut can not be much less than " a score of crown*.' 6 Lieger ambassador. 72 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. And thither sends his bills of debt before, To be revenged on wretched Banister. What doth fall out, with patience sit and see, A just requital of false treachery. SCENE I. Antwerp. CROMWELL in his study, dis- covered at a table, with bags of money before him, and boo fa of account. Crom. Thus far my reckoning doth go straight and even. But, Cromwell, this same plodding fits not thee ; Thy mind is altogether set on travel, And not to live thus cloistered, like a nun. It is not this same trash, that I regard ; Experience is the jewel of my heart. Enter a Post (courier). Post . I pray, sir, are you ready to despatch me ? Crom. Yes ; here's those sums of money you must carry. You go as far as Frankfort, do you not ? Post. I do, sir. Crom. Well, pr'ythee, then, make all the haste thou canst, For there be certain English gentlemen Are bound for Venice, and may haply want, An if that you should linger by the way : Beit in the hope that you will make good speed, There are two angels to buy spurs and wands. 1 Post. I thank you, sir ; this will add wings indeed. Crom. Gold is of power to make an eagle's speed. Enter Mistress BANISTER. What gentlewoman is this, that grieves so much? It seems she doth address herself to me. Mrs. Ban. God save you, sir ; is your name Master Cromwell ? Crom. My name is Thomas Cromwell, gentlewo- man. Mr*. Ban. Know you one Bagot, sir, that's come to Antwerp? Crom. No, trust me, I ne'er saw the man ; but here Are bills of deb' i have received against One Banister a merchant fallen into decay. Mrs. Ban. Into decay, indeed, 'long of that wretch ! I am the wife to woful Banister, And, by that bloody villain am pursued, From London, here to Antwerp, where my husband Lies in the governor's hands ; the God of Heaven He only knows how he will deal with him ! Now, sir, your heart is framed of milder temper, Be merciful to a distressed soul, And God, no doubt, will trebly bless your gain. Crom. Good Mistress Banister, what I can, I will, In anything that lies within my power. Mrs. Ban. O, speak to Bagot, that same wicked wretch ; An angel's voice may move a damned devil. Crom. Why, is he come to Antwerp, as you hear ? Mrs. Ban. I heard he landed some two hours since. Crom. Well, Mistress Banister, assure yourself, I will to Bagot speak in your behalf, And win him to all the pity that I can : Meantime, to comfort you, in your distress, Receive these angels to relieve your need, And, be assured, lhat what I can effect, To do you good, no way will I neglect. Mrs. Ban. That mighty God that knows each mor- tal's heart, Keep you from trouble, sorrow, grief, and smart. [Exit Mistress BANISTER. ' Crom. Thanks, courteous woman, for thy hearty prayer ! It grieves my soul to see her misery ; But we that live under the work of fate, May hope the best, yet know not to what state Our stars and destinies have us assigned ; Fickle is fortune, and her face is blind. [Exit. SCENE II. A Street in Antwerp. Enter BAGOT. Bag. So, all goes well ; it is as I would have it ! Banister, he is with the governor, And shortly shall have gyves upon his heels. It glads my heart to think upon the slave ; I hope to have his body rot in prison, And after hear his wife to hang herself, And all his children die for want of food. The jewels I have brought with me to Antwerp, Are reckoned to be worth five thousand pound, Which scarcely stood me in three hundred pound. I bought them at an easy kind of rate ; I care not much which way they came by them, That sold them me ; it comes not near my heart ; And, lest they should be stolen as sure they are I thought it meet to sell them here in Antwerp ; And so have left them in the governor's hand, Who offers me within two hundred pound Of all my price j but now, no more of that. I must go see an if my bills be safe, The which I sent before to Master Cromwell, That, if the wind should keep me on the sea, He might arrest him here before I came : And, in good time, see where he is : Enter CROMWELL. God save you, sir. Crom. And you. Pray, pardon me, I know you not. Bag. It may be so, sir ; but my name is Bagot ; The man that sent to you the bills of debt. Crom. Oh, you're the man that pursues Banister ? Here are the bills of debt you sent to me ; As for the man, you best know where he is. It is reported you've a flinty heart, A mind that will not stoop to any pity ; An eye that knows not how to shed a tear, A hand that's always open for reward. But, Master Bagot, would you be ruled by me, You should turn all these to the contrary ; Your heart should still have feeling of remorse, Your mind, according to your state, be liberal To those that stand in need and in distress ; Your hand to help them that do sink in want, Rather than with your poise to hold them down ; For every ill turn, show yourself more kind : Thus should I ; pardon me, I speak my mind. Bag. Ay, sir, you speak to hear what I would say ; ACT II. SCENE III. 73 But you must live, I know, as well as I. I know this place to be extortionate, And 'tis not for a man to keep safe here, But he must lie ; cog with his dearest friend, And,as for pity, scorn it ; hate all conscience : But yet I do commend your wit in this, To make a show of what I hope you are not ; But 1 commend you, and it is well done : This is the only way to bring you gain. Crom. Gain ! I had rather chain me to an oar, And, like a slave, there toil out all my life, Before I'd live so base a slave as thou. Ay, like a hypocrite, to make a show Of seeming virtue, and a devil within ! No, Bagot, if thy conscience were as clear, Ne'er had poor Banister been troubled here. Bag. Nay, Master Cromwell, be not angry, sir ; I know full well that you are no such man, But if your conscience were as white as snow, It will be thought that you are otherwise. Crom. Will it be thought [that] I am otherwise ? Let them that think so, know they are deceived ; Shall Cromwell live to have his faith misconstr'ed ? Antwerp, for all the wealth within thy town, I will not stay here full two hours longer. As good luck serves, my accounts are all made even, Therefore, I'll straight unto the treasurer. Bagot, I know you'll to the governor : Commend me to him ; say I'm bound to travel, To see the fruitful parts of Italy ; And if you ever bore a Christian mind, Let Banister some favor of you find. Bag. For your sake, sir, I'll help him all I can To starve his heart out e'er he gets a groat [aside.] So Master Cromwell, do I take my leave, For I must straight unto the governor. Crom. Farewell, sir ; pray remember what I've said. [Exit BAGOT. No, Cromwell, no ; thy heart was ne'er so base, To live by falsehood or by brokery. But it falls out well ; I little it repent ; Hereafter, time in travel shall be spent. Enter HODGE. Hodge. Your son Thomas, quoth you? I have been Thomas'd. 1 had thought it had been no such matter to ha' gone by water ; for at Putney I'll go you to Par- ish Garden for two pence ; sit as still as may be, with- out any wagging or jolting in my guts, in a little boat, too : here, we were scarce some four mile in the great green water, but I, thinking to go to my after- noon's nuncheon, 1 as was my manner at home, felt a kind of rising in my guts. At last, one o' the sailors spying of me, " B* o'good cheer," says he ; " set down thy victual, and up with it ; thou hast nothing but an eel in thy belly." Well, to't I went, and to my victuals went the sailors ; and, thinking me to be a man of better experience than any in the ship, they asked me what wood the ship was made of? They all swore I told them as right as if I had been acquainted with the carpenter that made it. At last, we grew near land, I grew villanous hungry, and went to my bag. The devil a bit there was; the sailors had tickled me ; yet I can not blame them ; it was a part of kindness, for I in kindness told them what wood I Luncheon. the ship was made of, and they in kindness eat up my victuals ; as, indeed, one good turn asketh another. Well, would I could find my Master Thomas, in this Dutch town ! he might put some English beer into my belly. Crom, What, Hodge, my father's man ! by my hand, welcome : How doth my father ? What's the news at home ? Hodge. Master Thomas ! O God, Master Thomas ! your hand glove and all ! this is to give you to un- derstand that your father is in health ; and Alice Downing here hath sent you a nutmeg ; and Bess Make-water a race of ginger ; my fellows Will and Tom, have, between them, sent you a dozen of points, and Goodman Toll, of the Goat, a pair of mittens ; myself came in person, and this is all the news. Crom. Gramercy, Hodge, and thou art welcome to But in as ill a time thou comest as may be ; [me, For I am travelling into Italy : What say'st thou, Hodge, wilt bear me company? Hodge. Will I bear thee company, Tom ? What tell'st me of Italy ? Were it to the farthest part of Flanders, I would go with thee, Tom. I am thine all, in weal and wo, thine own to command. What, Tom, I have passed the rigorous waves of Neptune's blasts. I tell you, Thomas, I have been in danger of the floods ; and when I have seen Boreas begin to play the ruffian with us, then would I down on my knees, and call upon Vulcan. Crom. And why upon him? Hodge. Because, as this same fellow Neptune, is god of the seas, so Vulcan is lord over the smiths, and therefore, I, being a smith, thought his godhead would have some care yet of me. Crom. A good conceit ; but tell me, hast thoa dined yet ? Hodge. Thomas, to speak the truth, not a bit yet I. Crom. Come, go with me, thou shall have cheer good store ; And farewell, Antwerp, if I come no more. Hodge. I follow thee, sweet Tom j I follow thee. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Another Street in the same. Enter the Governor of the English Factory ; BAGOT, Mr. and Mrs. BANISTER, and two Officers. Gov. Is Cromwell gone, then, say you, Master Bagot ? What the dislike, I pray ? What was the cause ? Bag. To tell you true, a wild brain of his own ; Such youth as he can't see when they are well : He is all bent to travel that's his reason And doth not love to eat his bread at home. GOB. Well, good fortune with him if the man b gone. We hardly shall find such a man as he, To fit our turns ; his dealings were so honest. But now, sir, for your jewels that I have, What do you say ? what, will you take my price ? Bag. O, sir, you offer too much under foot. Gov. 'Tis but two hundred pound between us, man, What's that, in payment of five thousand pound? Bag. Two hundred pound, by'rlady, sir, 'tis great j Before I got so much it made me sweat. Got*. Well, Master Bagot, I'll proffer you fairly. You see this merchant, Master Banister, 74 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Is going now to prison at your suit : His substance all is gone ; what would yon hare ? Yet, in regard I knew the man in 1 wealth, Never dishonest dealing, but such mishaps Hath fallen on him, may light on me or you : There is two hundred pound between us two ; We will divide the same ; I'll give you one, On that condition you will set him free. His state is nothing ; that you see yourself; And where naught is, the king must lose his right. Bag. Sir, you speak out of your love ; [but know] 'Tis foolish love, sir, sure to pity him. Therefore content yourself, this is my mind ; To do him good, I will not bate a penny. Ban. This is my comfort, though thou dost no good, A mighty ebb follows a mighty flood. Mrs. Ban. 0, thou base wretch, whom we have fostered, Even as a serpent, for to poison us ! If God did ever right a woman's wrong, To that same God I bend and bow my heart, To let his heavy wrath fall on thy head, By whom my hopes and joys are butchered. Bag. Alas, fond woman, I pr'ythee pray thy worst, The fox fares better still, when he is cursed. Enter BOWSEE. Goe. Master Bowser .' you're welcome, sir, from England. What's the best news ? and how do all our friends ? Bow. They are all well, and do commend them to you: There's letters from your brother and your son : So, fare you well, sir, I must take my leave, My haste and business do require it so. Got. Before you dine, sir ? What, go you out of town? Bow. I'faith, unless I hear some news in town, I must away ; there is no remedy. Gov. Master Bowser, what is your business ? may I know it ? Bow. You may, sir, and so shall all the city. The king of late hath had his treasury robbed, And of the choicest jewels that he had ; The value of them was seven thousand pound, The fellow that did steal these jewels is hanged, And did confess that, for three hundred pound, He sold them to one Bagot, dwelling in London : Now Bagot's fled, and, as we hear, to Antwerp j And hither am I come to seek him out ; And they that first can tell me of his news, Shall have a hundred pound for their reward. Ban. How just is God to right the innocent ! Got?. Master Bowser, you come in happy time, Here is the villain Bagot that you seek, And all those jewels have I in my hands. Here, officers, look to him, hold him fast. Bagot. The devil owed me a shame, and now hath paid it. Bow. Is this that Bagot ? Fellows, bear him hence, We will not now stand here for his reply ; Lade him with irons, we will have him tried In England, where his villanies are known. Bag. Mischief, confusion, light upon you all ! 1 The old copies read, " of wealth." 0, hang me, drown me, let me kill myself; Let go my arms, let me run quick to hell. Bow, Away ; bear him away ; stop the slave's mouth. [Exeunt Officers, with BAGOT. Mrs. Ban. Thy works are infinite, great God of Heaven ! Gov. I heard this Bagot was a wealthy fellow. Bow. He was indeed ; for when his goods were seized, Of jewels, coin, and plate, within his house, Was found the value of five thousand pound, His furniture worth fully half so much ; Which, being all distrained for the king, He frankly gave it to the Antwerp merchants ; And they again, out of their bounteous mind, Have, to a brother of their company, A man decayed by fortune of the seas, Given Bagot's wealth, to set him up again, And keep it for him ; his name's Banister. GOT. Good Master Bowser, with this happy news, You have revived two from the gates of death, This is that Banister, and this his wife. Bow. Sir, I am glad my fortune is so good, To bring such tidings as may comfort you. Ban. You have given life unto a man deemed dead ; For by these news, my life is newly bred. Mrs. Ban. Thanks to my G od, neit to my sovereign king; And last to you that these good news do bring. Gov. The hundred pound I must receive, as due For finding Bagot, I freely give to you. Bow. And, Master Banister, if so you please, I'll bear you company, when you cross the seas. Ban. If it please you, sir, my company is bnt mean: Stands with your liking,* I will wait on you. Gov. I am glad that all things do accord so well : Come, Master Bowser, let us in to dinner ; And Mistress Banister, be merry, woman. Come, after sorrow now let's cheer your spirit, Knaves have their due, and you but what you merit. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. The principal Bridge at Florence. Enter CROMWELL and HODGE in their shirts, and u-ith- out hats. Hodge. Call you this seeing of fashions? Marry would I had stayed at Putney still. Oh! Master Thomas, we are spoiled, we are gone. Crom. Content thee, man ; this is but fortune. Hodge. Fortune ! a plague of this fortune ; it makes me go wet-shod ; the rogues would not leave me a shoe to my feet : for my hose, they scorned them with their heels ; but for my doublet and hat, O. Lord they embraced me and unlaced me, and took away my clothes, and so disgraced me ! Crom. Well, Hodge, what remedy ? What shift shall we make now ? Hodge. Nay, I know not. For begging I am naught, Stands with your liking. Elliptical for ' If it stand*," ice. Percy. ACT III. SCENE II. 75 for stealing worse : by my troth I must even fall to my old trade ; to the hammer and the horse-heels again ; but now, the worst is, I am not acquainted with the humor of the horses in this country ; whether they are not coltish ; given much to kicking or no : for when I have one leg in my hand, if he should up and lay t'other on my chaps, I were gone ; there lay I, there lay Hodge. Crom. Hodge, I believe thou must work for us both. Hodge. O, Master Thomas, have not I told you of this? Have not I, many a time and often, said, " Tom, or Master Thomas, learn to make a horse-shoe ; it will be your own another day :" this was not regarded. Hark you, Thomas, what do you call the fellows that robbed us ? Crom. The banditti. Hodge. The banditti, do you call them ? I know not what they are called here, but 1 am sure we will call them plain thieves in England. O, Tom, that we were now at Putney, at the ale there. Crom. Content thee, man ; here set up these two bills, And let us keep our standing on the bridge : The fashion of this country still is such, If any stranger be oppressed with want, To write the manner of his misery ; And such as are disposed to succor him, Will do it. What, Hodge, hast thou set them up ? Hodge. Ay, they are up ; God send some to read them, and not only to read them, but also to look on ns ; and not altogether look on us, but relieve us. Oh ! cold, cold, cold ! [CBOMWELL stands at one end of the bridge, and HODGE at the other. Enter FRESCOEALD. Frescobald. [reads]. What's here? Two Englishmen robbed by the banditti ? One of them seems to be a gentleman, 'Tis pity that his fortune was so hard, To fall into the desperate hands of thieves ! I'll question him of what estate he is. God save you, sir, are you an Englishman? Crom. I am, sir, a distressed Englishman. Fres, And what are you, my friend ? Hodge. Who I, sir? By my troth, I do not know myself, what I am now ; but, sir, I was a smith, sir ; a poor farrier of Putney. That's my master, sir, yonder ; I was robbed for his sake, sir. Fres. I see you have been met by the banditti, And therefore need not ask how came you thus : But, Frescobald, why dost thou question them Of their estate, and not relieve their need ? Sirs, the coin I have about me is not much ; There's sixteen ducats for to clothe yourselves, There's sixteen more to buy your diet with, And there's sixteen to pay for your horse-hire : 'Tis all the wealth you see, my purse possesses ; But if you please for to inquire me out, You shall not want for aught that I can do. My name is Frescobald, a Florence merchant : A man that always loved your nation much. Crom. This unexpected favor at your hands, Which God doth know, if e'er I shall requite, Necessity makes me to take your bounty, And for your gold can yield you naught but thanks. Your charity hath helped me from despair ; Your name shall still be in my hearty prayer. Fres. It is not worth such thanks: come to my house ; Your want shall better be relieved than thus. Crom. I pray excuse me ; this shall well suffice, To bear my charges to Bolognia, Whereat a noble earl is much distressed ; An Englishman, Russel, the earl of Bedford, Is by the French king sold unto his death. It may fall out that I may do him good : To save his life, I'll hazard my heart's blood : Therefore, kind sir, thanks for your liberal gift, I must be gone to aid him ; there's no shift. Fres. I'll be no hinderer to so good an act, Heaven prosper you, in that you go about : If fortune bring you this way back again, Pray let me see you ; so I take my leave ; All a good man can wish, I do bequeath. [Exit FHESCOBALD. Crom. All good that God doth send, light on your head; There's few such men within our climate bred. How say you now, Hodge ? is not this good fortune ? Hodge. How say you? I'll tell you what, Master Thomas ; if all men be of this gentleman's mind, let's keep our stand upon this bridge : we shall get more here, with begging, in one day, than I shall with making horseshoes in a whole year. Crom. No, Hodge, we must be gone unto Bolognia, There to relieve the noble earl of Bedford ; Where, if I fail not in my policy, I shall deceive their subtle treachery. Hodge. Nay, I'll follow you. God bless us from the thieving banditti again. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Bolognia. A Room in an Hotel. Enter BEDFORD and his Host. Bed. Am I betrayed ? was Bedford born to die, By such base slaves, in such a place as this ? Have I escaped so many times in France, So many battles have I over-passed, And made the French stir when they heard my name ; And am I now betrayed unto my death ? Some of their heart's blood first shall pay for it. Host. They do desire, my lord, to speak with you. Bed. The traitors do desire to have my blood, But by my birth, my honor, and my name, By all my hopes, my life shall cost them dear. Open the door ; I'll venture out upon them, And, if I must die, then I'll die with honor. Host. Alas, my lord, that is a desperate course ; They have begirt you, round about the house. Their meaning is to take you prisoner, And so to send your body unto France. Bed. First shall the ocean be as dry as sand, Before alive they send me unto France : I'll have my body first bored like a sieve, And die as Hector, 'gainst the Myrmidons, E'er France shall boast, Bedford's their prisoner. O ! treacherous France, that, 'gainst the law of arms, Hath here betrayed thine enemy to death ! But, be assured, my blood shall be revenged Upon the best lives that remain in France. 76 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Enter a Servant. Stand back, or else thou runn'st upon thy death. Mes. Pardon, my lord, I come to tell your honor, That they have hired a Neapolitan, Who, by his oratory, hath promised them, Without the shedding of one drop of blood, Into their hands, safe to deliver you ; And therefore craves, none but himself may enter, And a poor swain that doth attend on him. Bed. A Neapolitan ? bid him come in. < [Exit Servant. Were he as cunning in his eloquence, As Cicero, the famous man of Rome, His words would be as chaff against the wind. Sweet-tongued Ulysses, that made Ajai mad, Were he ; and his tongue in this speaker's head, Alive he wins not ; 'tis no conquest, dead ! Enter CROMWELL, in Neapolitan habit, and HODGE. Crom. Sir, are you the master of the house ? Host. I am, sir. Crom. By this same token you must leave this And leave none but the earl and 1 together, [place, And this, my peasant, here to tend on us. Host. With all my heart : God grant you do some good. [Exit Host. CROMWELL shuts the door. Bed. Now, sir, what's your will with me ? Crom. Intends your honor not to yield yourself? Bed. No, goodman goose, not while my sword doth Is this your eloquence for to persuade me ? [last. Crom. My lord, my eloquence is for to save you j I am not, as you judge, a Neapolitan, But Cromwell, your servant, and an Englishman. Bed. How ! Cromwell ? not my farrier's son ? Crom. The same, sir ; and am come to succor you. Hodge. Yes, faith, sir, and I am Hodge, your poor smith ; many a time and oft have I shoed your dap- ple gray. Bed. And what avails it me, that thou art here? Crom. It may avail, if you'll be ruled by me. My lord, you know, the men of Mantua And these Bolognians are at deadly strife And they, my lord, both love and honor you. Could you but get out of the Mantua port, Then were you safe, despite of all their force. Bed. Tut, man, thou talk'st of things impossible ; Dost thou not see, that we are round beset ? How then is't possible we should escape ? Crom. By force we can not, but by policy. Put on the apparel here that Hodge doth wear, And give him yours : the states they know you not, For, as I think, they never saw your face, And, at a watch-word, must I call them in, And will desire, that we two safe may pass To Mantua, where I'll say my business lies j How doth your honor like of this device ? Bed. 0, wondrous good: but wilt thou venture, Hodge? Hodge. Will I? Oh, noble lord, I do accord, In anything I can ; And do agree to set thee free, Do fortune what she can. Bed. Come, then, and change [we] our apparel straight. Crom. Go, Hodge, make haste, lest they should chance to call. Hodge. I warrant you, I'll fit him with a suit. [Exeunt BEDFORD and HODGE. Crom. Heaven grant this policy doth take success, And that the earl may safely 'scape away ! And yet it grieves me for this simple wretch, For fear lest they should do him violence ! But of two evils best to shun the greatest, And better is'l that he should live in thrall, Than such a noble earl as this should fall. Their stubborn hearts, it may be, will relent, Since he is gone, on whom their hate is bent. Re-enter BEDFORD and HODGE. My lord, have you despatched ? Bed. How dost thou like us, Cromwell? is it well? Crom. O, my good lord, excellent. Hodge, how dost feel thyself? Hodge. How do I feel myself? why, as a noble man should do ! Oh ! how I feel honor come creeping on ; my nobility is wonderful melancholy. Is it not most gentlemanlike to be melancholy ? Crom. Yes, Hodge ; now go [and] sit down in thy And take [thy] state upon thee. [study, Hodge. I warrant you, my lord; let me alone to take state upon me : but hark, my lord, do you feel nothing bite about you ? Bed. No, trust me, Hodge. Hodge. Ay, they know they want their old pasture. 'Tis a strange thing of this vermin, they dare not meddle with nobility. Crom. Go take thy place, Hodge, while I call them All is now done. Enter, an if you please. [in, [SpeaJdng within. Enter the Governor, and other States and Citizens of Bolognia, and Officers with halberds. Gov. What, have you won him ? will he yield him- self? Crom. I have, an't please you ; and the quiet earl Doth yield himself to be disposed by you. Gov. Give him the money that we promised him : So let him go, whither he please himself. Crom. My business, sir, lies unto Mantua ; Please you to give me a safe conduct thither. Gov. Go and conduct him to the Mantua port, And see him safe delivered presently. [Exeunt CROMWELL, BEDFORD, and Officers. Go, draw the curtains, let us see the earl : 0, he is writing, stand apart awhile. Hodge, [reads] . Fellow William, I am not as I have been. I went from you a smith ; I write to you as a lord : I am at this present writing, among the Bono* nian sausages. I do commend my lordship to Ralph and to Roger ; to Bridget and to Dorothy, and so to all the youth of Putney. Gov. Sure these are names of English noblemen, Some of his special friends to whom he writes : But stay, he doth address himself to sing. [HODGE sings a long, My lord, I'm glad yon are so frolic and blithe ; Believe me, noble lord, if you knew all, You'd change your merry vein to sudden sorrow. Hodge. I change my merry vein? no, thou Bono- nian, no ; ACT III. SCENE III. 77 I am a lord, and therefore let me go ; I do defy thee and thy sausages : Therefore stand off, and come not near my honor. Gov. My lord, this jesting can not serve your turn. Hodge. Dost think, thou black Bononian beast, That I do flout, do jibe, or jest ? No, no, thou bear-pot ; know that I, A noble earl, a lord par-dy. [A trumpet sounds. Gov. What means this trumpet's sound ? Enter a Messenger. Cit. One is come hither from the states of Mantua. Gov. What would you with us ? Speak, thou man of Mantua ! Mess. Men of Bolognia, this my message is, To let you know the noble earl of Bedford Is safe within the town of Mantua, And wills you send the peasant that you have, Who hath deceived your expectation ; Or else the states of Mantua have vowed They will recall the truce that they have made, And not a man shall stir from forth your town, That shall return, unless you send him back. Gov. 0, this misfortune, how it mads my heart ! The Neapolitan hath beguiled us all. Hence with this fool. What should we do with him, The earl being gone ? A plague upon it all ! Hodge. No, I'll assure you, I am no earl, but a smith, sir One Hodge, a smith at Putney, sir ; one that hath Gulled you ; that hath bored you, sir. Gov. Away with him ; take hence the fool you came for. Hodge. Ay, sir. I leave the greater fool with you. Mess. Farewell, Bolognians. 1 Come, friend, along with me. Hodge. My friend, afore j my lordship will follow thee. [Exit. Gov. Well, Mantua, since by thee the earl is lost, Within few days I hope to see thee crost. [Exeunt. Enter Chorus. Cho. Thus far you see how Cromwell's fortune passed. The earl of Bedford, being safe in Mantua, Desires Cromwell's company into France, To make requital for his courtesy : But Cromwell doth deny the earl his suit, And tells him that those parts he meant to see, He had not yet set footing on the land : And so directly takes his way to Spain The earl to France and so they both do part. Now, let your thoughts, as swift as is the wind, Skip some few years that Cromwell spent hi travel : And now imagine him to be in England, Servant unto the master of the rolls ; Where, in short time, he there began to flourish: An hour shall show you what few years did cherish. [Exit. SCENE III. London. A Room in Sir CHRISTOPHER HALES' House. Music plays ; then a Banquet. En- ter Sir CHRISTOPHER HALES, CROMWELL, and two Servants. Hales. Come, sirs, be careful of your master's credit ; 1 I should be for giving this affectionate parting apostro- phe to Hodge, and the rest of the lino to the messenger. And as our bounty now exceeds the figure Of common entertainment, so do you, With looks as free as is your master's soul, Give formal welcome to the thronged tables That shall receive the cardinal's followers And the attendants of the great lord chancellor. But, Cromwell, all my care depends on thee : Thou art a man, differing from vulgar form, And by how much thy spirit's ranked 'bove these, In rules of art, by so much it shines brighter By travel, whose observance pleads thy 3 merit, In a most learned yet unaffected 3 spirit. Good Cromwell, cast an eye of fair regard 'Bout all my house and what this ruder flesh, Through ignorance, or wine, do miscreate, Salve thou with courtesy : if welcome want, Full bowls and ample banquets will seem scant. Crom. Sir, whatsoever lies in me, assure you I will show my utmost duty. [Exit CROMWELL. Hales. About it, then ; the lords will straight be here. Cromwell, thou hast those parts would rather suit The service of the state than of my house : I look upon thee with a loving eye, That one day will prefer thy destiny. Enter Messenger. Mess. Sir, the lords be at hand. Hales. They are welcome ; bid Cromwell straight attend us, And look you all things be in readiness. The Music plays. Enter Cardinal WOLSEY, Sir THOM- AS MORE, GARDINER, CROMWELL, and Attendants. Wol. O, Sir Christopher, You are too liberal : what, a banquet too ? Hales. My lords, if words could show the ample welcome That my free heart affords you, I could then Become a prater : but I now must deal Like a feast-politician with your lordships j Defer your welcome till the banquet end, That it may then salve our defect of fare : Yet welcome now, and all that tend on you. Wol. Our thanks to the kind master of the rolls. Come and sit down ; sit down, Sir Thomas More. 'Tis strange how that we and the Spaniard differ : Their dinner is our banquet, after dinner, And they are men of active disposition. This I gather, that, by their sparing meat, Their bodies are more fitter for the wars ; And if that famine chance to pinch their maws, Being used to fast, it breeds in them less pain. Hales. Fill me some wine ; I'll answer Cardinal Wolsey : My lord, we English are of more free souls Than hunger-starved and ill-complexioned Spaniards. They that are rich, in Spain, spare belly-food, To deck their backs with an Italian hood, And silks of Seville : and the poorest snake, That feeds on lemons, pilchards, and ne'er heated His palate with sweet flesh, will bear a case More fat and gallant than his starved face. 8 Elsewhere it reads, " hit merit" 3 Other editions, " unaffec tiug." 78 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Pride, the inquisition, and this belly-evil, Are, in my judgment, Spain's three-headed devil.i More. Indeed, it is a plague unto their nation, Who stagger after in blind imitation. Hales. My lords, with welcome,' I present your lord- A solemn health. [ships More. I love healths well, but when that healths do bring Pain to the head, and body's surfeiting, Then cease I healths : Nay, spill not, friend, for though the drops be small, Yet have they force, to force men to the wall. Wol. Sir Christopher, is that your man ? Hales. An it like Your grace, he is a scholar and a linguist One that hath travelled over many parts Of Christendom, my lord. Wol. My friend, come nearer. Hare you been a traveller ? Croro. My lord, I've added to my knowledge the Low Countries, With France, Spain, Germany, and Italy : And though small gain of profit I did find, Yet did it please my eye, content my mind. Wol. What do you think, then, of the several states And princes' courts that you have travelled [through] ? Crom. My lord, no court with England may com- pare, Neither for state, nor civil government : Lust dwells in France, in Italy, and Spain, From the poor peasant to the prince's train ; In Germany and Holland, riot serves, And he that most can drink, he most deserves. England I praise not, for I here was born, But that she laughs the others all to scorn. Wol. My lord, there dwells within that spirit more Than can be discerned by the outward eye. Sir Christopher, will you part with your man ? Hales. I have sought to proffer him unto your lord- ship, And now I see he hath preferred himself. Wol. What is thy name ? Crom. Cromwell, my lord. Wol. Then, Cromwell, here we make thee of our causes Solicitor, and nearest next ourself. Gardiner, give you kind welcome to the man. [GARDINER embraces him. More. Oh, my lord cardinal, you're a royal winner : Have got a man, besides your bounteous dinner : Well may you pray, knight, that we come no more If we come often, thou may'st shut thy door. Wol. Sir Christopher, hadst thou given me half thy lands, Thou couldst not have pleased me so much as with This man of thine. My infant thoughts do spell, Shortly, his fortune shall be lifted higher ; True industry doth kindle honor's fire, And so, kind master of the rolls, farewell. Hales. Cromwell, farewell. Crom. Cromwell takes leave of you That ne'er will leave to love and honor you. [Exeunt. [The music plays as they go out. I The philosophy of Hales is more decidedly true than that of Wolsey. John Bull owea much of hifl fighting propensity to hi bee " With welcome" with permission. ACT IV. Enter Chorus. Cho. Now Cromwell's highest fortunes do begin. Wolsey, that loved him as he did his life Committed all his treasure to his hands. Wolsey is dead ; and Gardiner, his man, Is now created bishop of Winchester. Pardon, if we omit all Wolsey's life, Because our play depends on Cromwell's death. Now sit and see his highest state of all, His height of rising, and his sudden fall. Pardon the errors are already past, And live in hope the best doth come at last : My hope upon your favor doth depend, And looks to have your liking ere the end. [Exit SCENE I. The same. A public Walk. Enter GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, Sir THOMAS MORE, Sir CHRIS- TOFHER HALES, and CROMWELL. Norf. Master Cromwell, since Cardinal Wolsey's His majesty is given to understand [death, There's certain bills and writings in your hand That much concern the [present] state of England. My lord of Winchester, is it not so ? Gar. My lord of Norfolk, we two were whilome fellows, And Master Cromwell though our master's love Did bind us, while his love was to the king It is no boot now to deny those things Which may be prejudicial to the state : And though that God hath raised my fortune higher Than any way I looked for, or deserved, Yet may my life no longer with me dwell, Than I prove true unto my sovereign. Suff. What say you, Master Cromwell ? Have you [Speak !] ay or no ? [those writings ? Crom. Here are the writings, and upon my knees I give them up unto the worthy dukes Of Suffolk and of Norfolk. He was my master, and each virtuous part That lived in him I tendered with my heart ; But what his head complotted 'gainst the state, My country's love commands me that to hate. His sudden death I grieve for, not his fall, Because he sought to work my country's thrall. Suff. Cromwell, the king shall hear of this thy Who, I assure myself, will well reward thee. [duty, My lord, let's go unto his majesty, And show these writings which he longs to see. [Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK. Enter BEDFORD liastily. Bed. How now? who is this ? Cromwell? By my soul, Welcome to England ! Thou didst save my life, Didst thou not, Cromwell ? Crom. If I did so, 'tis greater glory For me [my lord] , that you remember it, Than for myself [now] vainly to report it. Bed. Well, Cromwell, now's the time [for grati- I shall commend thee to my sovereign : [tude :] Cheer up thyself, for I will raise thy state j A Russell yet was never found ingrate. [Exit ACT IV. SCENE II. 70 Hales. how uncertain is the wheel of state I 1 Who lately greater than the cardinal, For fear and love ? And now who lower lies ? Gay honors are but fortune's flatteries ; And whom, this day, pride and promotion' swell, To-morrow envy and ambition quell. More. Who sees the cobweb tangle the poor fly, May boldly say the wretch's death is nigh. Gar. I know his state and proud ambition Were too, too violent to last o'er long. Hales. Who soars too near the sun with golden wings, Melts them ; to ruin his own fortune brings. Enter the Luke of SUFFOLK. Suff. Cromwell, kneel down, and, in King Henry's Arise, Sir Thomas ; thus begins thy fame, [name, Enter the Duke of NORFOLK. Norf. Cromwell, the gracious majesty of England, For the good liidng he conceives of thee, Makes thee the master of the jewel-house ; Chief secretary to himself ; and, withal, Creates thee one of his highness' privy council. Enter the Earl of BEDFORD. Bed. Where is Sir Thomas Cromwell ? Is he knighted ? Suff. He is, my lord. Bed. Then, to add honor to His name, the king creates him lord keeper of His privy seal,' and master of the rolls Which you, Sir Christopher, do now enjoy ;* The king determines higher place for you. Crom. My lords, These honors are too high for my desert. More. 0, content thee, man, who would not choose Yet thou art wise in seeming to refuse it. [it ? Gar. Here are honors, titles, and promotions ! I fear this climbing will have sudden fall. [Aside.]* Norf. Then come, my lords, let's all together bring This new-made counsellor to England's king. [Exeunt all but GARDINER. Gar. But Gardiner means his glory shall be dimmed ! Shall Cromwell live a greater man than I ? My envy with his honor now is bred : I hope to shorten Cromwell by the head. [Exit. i We should probably read it " fate" with more propriety fate in the sense of fortune. * Some of the editions read, " pride and ambition," but I see no reason to disturb the text. 3 The rise of Cromwell to the highest honors of the state was certainly sudden, but not quite so rapid as the author has represented. In 1531, he was made a privy counsellor and master of the jewel-house ; and the next year clerk of the hanaper and chancellor of the exchequer ; in 1534, prin- cipal secretary of state and master of the rolls. The follow- ing year he was appointed vicar-general over all the spiritu- alities in England, under the king ; on the 2d of July, 1536, lord keeper of the privy seal ; and, soon afterward, he was advanced to the dignity of a baron. In 1537, he was created knight of the garter ; and, in 1540, earl of Essex and lord high chamberlain of England. MALONE. Mr. Malone has been at great and unnecessary pains to show that our drama- tist was not also a chronologist. 4 The fact was exactly the reverse of what is here stated. Cromwell's predecessor in this office was not Sir Christo- pher Hales, but Dr. Taylor ; and Hales (who was the king's attorney-general) succeeded Cromwell in the rolls ; not, how- ever, immediately on his advancement to the office of keeper of the privy seal. MALONE. 6 I add this stage direction, which seems necessary, and is appropriate. SCENE II. London. A Street before CROMWELL'* House. Enter FHESCOBALD. Fres. O Frescobald ! what shall become of thee ? Where shalt thou go, or whither shall thou turn ? Fortune, that turns her too-inconstant wheel r Hath drowned 6 thy wealth and riches in the sea. All parts abroad, wherever I have been, Grow weary of me, and deny me succor ; My debtors, they that should relieve my want,. Forswear my money say they owe me none : They know my state too mean to bear out law j And here r in London, where I oft have been, And have done good to many a wretched man r Am' now most wretched and despised myself. In vain it is more of their hearts to try: Be patient, therefore, lay thee down and die ! [Lies down. Enter SEELY and JOAN. Seely. Come, Joan ; come, let's see what he'll do for us now. I wis we have done for him, when many a time and often he might have gone a hungry to bed. Wife. Alas! man, now he is made a lord, he'll nev- er look upon us ; he'll fulfil the old proverb : Set beg- gars a horseback, and they'll ride ! Ah ! well-a-day for my cow ! Such as he hath made us come behind- hand : we had never pawned our cow else to pay our rent. Seely. Well, Joan, he'll come this way : and by God's dickers, I'll tell him roundly of it; an if he were ten lords, he shall know that I had not my cheese and my bacon for nothing. Wife. Do you remember, husband, how he would mounch upon my cheese-cakes ? He hath forgot this now ; but now we'll remember him. Seely. Ay, we shall have now three flaps with a fox- tail : but i'faith I'll jibber a joint, 7 but I'll tell him his own. Stay, who comes here ? O, stand up ; here he comes ; stand up. Enter HODGE, unth a tip-staff ; CROMWELL, unth the mace carried before him ; the Dukes of NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, and Attendants. Hodge. Come, away with these beggars here. Rise Sirrah ; come out, good people. Run before, [up, There, ho ! [FRESCOBALD rise* and stands aloof. Seely. Ay, we are kicked away now, now we come for our own ; the time hath been, he would a looked more friendly upon us. And you, Hodge, we know you well enough, though you are so fine. Crom. Come hither, sirrah ; stay, what men are My honest host of Hounslow, and his wife ? [these ? I owe thee money, father, do I not ? Seely. Ay, by the body of me, dost thou : would thou wouldst pay me j good four pound it is : I have the post o't at home. Crom. I know 'tis true. Sirrah, give him ten an- And look your wife and you do stay to dinner. 8 [gels ; And while you live, I freely give to you Four pound a year, for the four pound I owed you. 6 " Turned," is the old reading. ? " And" in other copies. 8 Jeopard a joint that is, risk a limb, for my object. 9 Stowe says (quoted by Malone) that he had himself " of- ten seen at Lord Cromwell's gate more than two hundred persons served twice every day with bread, meat, and drink, sufficient" 80 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Seely. Th'art not changed ; th'art old Tom still ! Now, God bless thee, good Lord Tom ! Home, Joan, home ; I'll dine with my Lord Tom to-day, and thou shall come next week. Fetch my cow ; home, Joan, home. Wife. Now, God bless thee, my good Lord Tom ! Fetch my cow presently. [I'll [Exit JOAN. Enter GARDINER. Crom. Sirrah, go to yon stranger : tell him I Desire him stay to dinner : I must speak With him. [To HODGE. Gar. My lord of Norfolk, see you this same bubble ? That's a mere puff; 1 but mark the end, my lord ; But mark the end ! Norf. I promise you, I like not something he hath done ; But let that pass ; the king doth love him well. Croni. Good-morrow to my lord of Winchester : You bear me hard about the abbey lands. Gar. Have I not reason, when religion 's wronged? You had no color for what you have done. Crom. Yes, the abolishing of Antichrist, And of his popish order, from our realm. I am no enemy to religion, But what is done, it is for England's good. What did they serve for, but to feed a sort Of lazy abbots and of full-fed friars ? They neither plough nor sow, and yet they reap The fat of all the land, and suck the poor. Look, what was theirs is in King Henry's hands : His wealth before lay in the abbey lands. Gar. Indeed, these things you have alleged, my lord: When, God doth know, the infant yet unborn Will curse the time the abbeys were pulled down. I pray now where is hospitality ? Where now may poor distressed people go, For to relieve their need, or rest their bones, When weary travel doth oppress their limbs ? And where religious men should take them in, Shall now be kept back by a mastiff-dog ; And thousand, thousand Norf. O my lord, no more ; Things past redress 'tis bootless to complain. Crom. What, shall we to the convocation-house ? Norf. We'll follow you, my lord; pray, lead the way. Enter old CROMWELL, in the dress of a Farmer. Old Crom. How ! one Cromwell made lord keeper since I left Putney and dwelt in Yorkshire ? I never heard better news : I'll see that Cromwell, or it shall go hard. Crom. My aged father here ! State set aside. Father, upon my knee I crave your blessing. One of my servants go and have him in ; At better leisure will we talk with him. Old Crom, Now if I die, how happy were the day ! To see this comfort, weeps and rains forth showers of joy. [Exit old CROMWELL with. Servant. Norf. This duty in him shows a kind of grace. [Aside. 1 In the old editions it reads, " That same puff." Crom. Go on before, for time draws on apace. [Exeunt all but FRESCOBALD. Fres. I wonder what this lord would have with me, His man so strictly gave me charge to stay ? I never did offend him to my knowledge. Well, good or bad, I mean to bide it all ; Worse than I am now, never can befall. Enter BANISTER and his Wife. Ban. Come, wife, I take it be almost dinner-time ; For Master Newton and Master Crosby sent to me Last night, they would come dine with me [to-day] , And take their bond in. Pray thee, hie thee home, And see that all things be in readiness. Mrs. Ban. They shall be welcome; husband, I'll But is not that man Master Frescobald ? [before. [She runs and embraces him, Ban. Heavens ! it is kind Master Frescobald. Say, sir, what hap hath brought you to this pass ? Fres. The same that brought you to your misery. Ban. Why would you not acquaint me with your Is Banister, your poor friend, then forgot, [state ? Whose goods, whose love, whose life and all, are yours? Fres. I thought your usage would be as the rest, That had more kindness at my hands than you, Yet looked askance when as they saw me poor. Mrs. Ban. If Banister could bear so base a heart, I ne'er would look my husband in the face, But hate him as I would a cockatrice. Ban. And well thou might'st, should Banister so deal ! Since that I saw you, sir, my state is mended : And, for the thousand pound I owe to you, I have it ready for you, sir, at home ; And though I grieve your fortune is so had, Yet, that my hap's to help you, makes me glad. And now, sir, will it please you walk with me ? Fres. Not yet ; I can not : for the lord chancellor Hath here commanded me to wait on him ; For what, I know not : pray God it be for good. Ban. Never make doubt of that ! I'll warrant you ! He is as kind and noble a gentleman As ever did possess the place he hath. Mrs. Ban. My brother is his steward, sir ; if you please, We'll go along and bear you company ; I know we shall not want for welcome there. Fres. With all my heart ! But what's become of Bagot ? Ban. He is hanged for buying jewels of the king's. Fres. A just reward for one so impious ! The time draws on, sir ; will you go along ? Ban. I'll follow you, kind Master Frescobald. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. Another Street. Enter NEWTON and CROSBT. New. Now, Master Crosby, I see you have a care To keep your word, in payment of your money. Cros. By my faith, I have some reason on a bond: Three thousand pounds is far too much to forfeit ; Yet do I doubt not Master Banister. New. By my faith, sir, your sum is more than mint j And yet I am not much behind you, too, Considering what to-day I paid at court. ACT IV. SCENE V. 81 Cros. Mass, and 'tis well remembered ! What's the reason That the Lord Cromwell's men wear such long skirts Upon their coats ? They reach down to their hams. New. I will resolve you, sir ; and thus it is : The bishop of Winchester, that loves not Cromwell As great men are envied as well as less A while ago there was a jar between them, And it was brought to my Lord Cromwell's ear, That Bishop Gardiner would sit on his skirts ; Upon which word he made his men long blue coats, And, in the court, wore one of them himself: And, meeting with the bishop quoth he, My lord, Here's skirts enough now for your grace to sit on : Which vexed the bishop to the very heart. This is the reason why they wear these long coats. 1 Cros. 'Tis always seen, and mark it for a rule, That one great man will envy still another ; But 'tis a thing that nothing concerns me. What, shall we now to Master Banister? New. Ay, come, we'll pay him royally for our din- ner. . [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Room in CROMWELL'S House. Enter the Usher and the Sewer. 8 Servants cross the Stage with Dishes in their hands. Usher. Uncover, there, gentlemen. [To Attendants. Enter CROMWELL, BEDFORD, SUFFOLK, old CROMWELL, FRESCOBALD, SEELY, and Attendants. Crom. My noble lords of Suffolk and of Bedford, Your honors are welcome to poor Cromwell's house. Where is my father ? Nay, be covered, father ; Although that duty to these noble men Doth challenge it, yet I'll make bold with them. Your head doth bear the calendar of care : What ! Cromwell covered, and his father bare ? It must not be. Now, sir, to you : is not Your name Frescobald, and a Florentine ? Fres. My name was Frescobald, till cruel fate Did rob me of my name and of my state. Crom. What fortune brought you to this country now ? Fres. All other parts have left me succorless, Save only this. Because of debts I have, I hope to gain for to relieve my want. Crom. Did you not once, upon your Florence bridge, Help a distressed man, robbed by the banditti ? His name was Cromwell. Fres. I never made my brain i Whatever might have been the reason, the fact is as here represented. Stowe, who tells us that he remembered Crom- well's household, says that the skirts of his yeomen in livery were large enough for his friends to sit upon them. MA- LONE. Is not this story of the bishop sitting on his skirts rmciuayiicuii uiiu ^ctriuiiai vvuisey is somewiiai unierenc. The duke one day, holding a basin for the king to wash, as soon as his majesty had done, the cardinal dipped his hands in the same water. The duke, resenting this as an indigni- ty, spilled some of the water in Wolsey's shoes, with which, the cardinal being provoked, threatened him that he would sit on his skirts. Buckingham, the next day, came to court very richly dressed, but without skirts to his doublet, assign- ing, as a reason, to the king, for this strange omission, his purpose to prevent Wolsey from executing his threat * Tho sewer, or shewer, was the officer in ancient times who set and removed the dishes, and tasted them. A calendar of any good I did ; I always loved this nation with my heart. Crom. I am that Cromwell that you there relieved. You gave me, for to clothe me, sixteen ducats, Sixteen to bear my charges by the way, And sixteen more I had for my horse-hire. There be those several sums justly returned ; Yet 'twere injustice, serving at my need, For to repay thee without interest : Therefore receive of me these several bags ; In each of them there are four hundred marks ; And bring to me the names of all your debtors, And if they will not see you paid, I will. 0, God forbid that I should see him fall, That helped me in my greatest need of all. Here stands my father that first gave me life Alas ! what duty is too much for him ? This man in time of need did save my life I therefore can not do too much for him. By this old man I oftentimes was fed, Else might I have gone supperless to bed. Such kindness have I had of these three men, That Cromwell no way can repay agen. Now, in to dinner, for we stay too long, And, to good stomachs, there's no greater wrong. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Room in the Bishop of WINCHESTER'! House. Enter GARDINER and Servant. Gar. Sirrah, where be those men I caused to stay ? Ser. They do attend your pleasure, sir, within. Gar. Bid them come hither, and stay you without ; [Exit Servant. For, by these men the fox of this same land, That makes a goose of better than himself, Must worried be even to his latest home, Or Gardiner will fail in his intent. As for the dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk, Whom I have sent for, to come speak with me, Howsoever outwardly they shadow it, Yet in their hearts I know they love him not. As for the earl of Bedford, he's but one, And dares not gainsay what we do set down. Enter the two Witnesses. Now, my good friends, you know I saved your lives, When by the law you had deserved death ; And then you promised me, upon your oaths, To venture both your lives to do me good. Both Wit. We swore no more than that we will perform. Gar. I take your words ; and that which you must Is service for your God and for your king : [do, To root a rebel from this flourishing land One that's an enemy unto the church ; And therefore must you take your solemn oaths That you heard Cromwell, the lord chancellor, 3 3 Cromwell was never lord chancellor. It is with equal impropriety that he is called lord keeper in a previous scene, and represented with the mace borne before him. It is by confounding the great and privy seal that the dramatist fell into his error. The charge brought against him by the bishop of wishing a dagger in the king's heart, is pure inven- tion. Gardiner was his enemy, and contributed to his down- fall, but he was neither the only nor the principal enemy. Cromwell's ruin was due to several causes the jealousy of 82 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Did wish a dagger at King Henry's heart : Fear not to swear it, for I heard him speak it ; Therefore will shield you from ensuing harms. Both Wit. If you will warrant us the deed is good, We'll undertake it. Gar. Kneel down, and I will here absolve you both. This crucifix 1 I lay upon your heads, And sprinkle holy water on your brows : The deed is meritorious that you do, And by it shall you purchase grace from Heaven. 1 Wit. Now, sir, we'll undertake it, by our souls ! 2 Wit. For Cromwell never loved one of our sort. Gar. I know he hath not ; and, for both of yon, I will prefer you to some place of worth. Now get you in, until 1 call for you, For presently the dukes mean to be here. [Exeunt Witnesses. Cromwell, sit fast ; thy time's not long to reign : The abbeys that were pulled down by thy means, Are now a mean for me to pull thee down j Thy pride thy own head also lights upon, For thou art he hath changed religion. But now no more, for here the dukes are come. Enter SUFFOLK, NORFOLK, and the Earl of BEDFORD. Suff. Good-even to my lord bishop. Norf. How fares my lord ? what, are you all alone ? Gar. No, not alone, my lords ; my mind is troubled : I know your honors muse wherefore I sent, And in such haste. What, came you from the king ? Norf. We did, and left none but Lord Cromwell with him. Gar. O, what a dangerous time is this we live in ! There's Thomas Wolsey he's already gone j And Thomas More he followed after him ; Another Thomas yet there doth remain, That is far worse than either of those twain ; And if with speed, my lords, we not pursue it, I fear the king and all the land will rue it. Bed. Another Thomas ? Pray God, it be not Crom- well ! Gar. My lord of Bedford, 'tis that traitor Crom- well. Bed. Is Cromwell false ? My heart will never think it. Suff. My lord of Winchester, what likelihood, Or proof, have you, of this his treachery ? Gar. My lord, too much. Call in the men within. Enter the Witnesses. These men, my lord, upon their oaths affirm That they did hear Lord Cromwell, in his garden, Wishing a dagger sticking at the heart Of our King Henry ; what is this but treason? Bed. If it be so. my heart doth bleed with sorrow. Svff. How say you, friends ? What, did you hear these words ? 1 Wit. We did, an't like your grace. Norf. In what place was Lord Cromwell when he spake them? the nobility, the subversion of the monasteries, and not least, the king's aversion to Anne of Cleves, and his desire to mar- ry Catherine Howard, niece to the duke of Norfolk, who was Cromwell's chief assailant Note of JIalone, abridged. I It is supposed that, before the Reformation, the English bishops wore a small crucifix hanging to their outward gar- ments, ai in popish countries the bishops do at this day. MALONX. 2 Wit. In his garden, where we did attend a suit. Which we had waited for two years and more. Suff. How long is't since you heard him speak these words ? 2 Wit. Some half a year since. Bed. How chance that you concealed it all this time ? 1 Wit. His greatness made us fear ; that was the cause. Gar. Ay, ay, his greatness, that's the cause indeed : And to make his treason here more manifest, He calls his servants to him round about, Tells them of Wolsey's life, and of his fall: Says that himself hath many enemies ; And gives to some of them a park, or manor ; To others, leases ; lands to other some. What need he do this in his prime of life, An if he were not fearful of his death ? Suff. My lord, these likelihoods are very great. Bed. Pardon me, lords, for I must needs depart ; Their proofs are great, but greater is my heart. [Exit BEDFORD. Norf. My friends, take heed of that which you have said : Your souls must answer what your tongues report : Therefore, take heed ; be wary what you do. 2 Wit. My lord, we speak no more but truth, Norf. Let them depart, 3 my lord of Winchester ; Let these men be close kept, Until the day of trial. Gar. They shall, my lord. Ho ! take in these two men. [Exeunt Witnesses, &c. My lords, if Cromwell have a public trial, That which we do is void by his denial : You know the king will credit none but him. Norf. 'Tis true ; he rules the king even as he pleases. Suff. How shall we do for to attach him, then ? Gar. Marry, thus, my lord ; by an act he made himself, With an intent to entrap some of our lives And this it is : If any counsellor Be convicted of high-treason, he shall Be executed without public trial. This act, my lords, he caused the king to make. Suff. He did, indeed, and I remember it ; And now 'tis like to fall upon himself. Norf. Let us not slack it ; 'tis for England's good ; We must be wary, else he'll go beyond us ! Gar. Well hath your grace said, my good lord of Therefore let us to Lambeth presently : [Norfolk, Thither comes Cromwell from the court to-night : Let us arrest him, send him to the Tower, And, in the morn, cut off the traitor's head. Norf. Come, then, about it ; let us guard the town ; This is the day that Cromwell must go down. Gar. Along, my lords. Well, Cromwell is half dead: He shook my heart, but I will shear his head ! [Exeunt. 3 "Let them depart," in one breath, and "let them be kept," in another, denotes a gross corruption of the passage. " Set them apart," would be the probable reading, were it not that Norfolk has no motive or desire to purge their tes- timony. Perhaps the true reading should be " Let them be kept, my lord of Winchester, Close, till the day of trial" ACT V. SCENE III. 83 ACT V. SCENE I. A Street in London. Enter BEDFORD. Bed. My soul is like a water [greatly] troubled ; And Gardiner is the man that makes it so. O, Cromwell, I do fear thy end is near ! Yet I'll prevent their malice if I can : And, in good time, see where the man doth come, Who little knows how near's his day of doom. Enter CROMWELL with his train ; BEDFORD makes as though he would speak to him ; CROMWELL goes on. Crom. You're well encountered, my good lord of Bedford : I see your honor is addressed to talk : Pray, pardon me ; I am sent for to the king, And do not know the business yet myself: So fare you well, for I must needs be gone. [Exit CROMWELL, fyc. Bed. [Be gone] you must ; well, what [the] reme- I fear too soon you must be gone indeed. [dy ? The king hath business ; little dost thou know Who's busy for thy life : thou think'st not so. Re-enter CROMWELL, attended. Crom. The second time well met, my lord of Bed- I am very sorry that my haste is such ; [ford : Lord Marquis Dorset being sick to death, I must receive of him the privy seal. At Lambeth, soon, my lord, we'll take our fill. [Exit. Bed. How smooth and easy is the way to death ! Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, the dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk, Accompanied with the bishop of Winchester, Entreat you to come presently to Lambeth, On earnest matters that concern the state. Bed. To Lambeth ! so : go fetch me pen and ink ; I and Lord Cromwell there shall talk enough : Ay, and our last, I fear, an if he come. {Writes. Here, take this letter bear it to Lord Cromwell : Bid him to read it ; say't concerns him near ; Away ! begone ! make all the haste you can. To Lambeth do I go, a woful man. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Street near the Thames. Enter CROMWELL, attended. Crom. Is the barge ready ? I will straight to Lam- beth; And, if this one day's business once were past, I'd take my ease to-morrow, after trouble. Enter Messenger. How now, my friend, what, wouldst thou speak with me? Mess. Sir, here's a letter from my lord of Bedford. [Messenger gives letter. CROMWELL puts it in his pocket. Crom. good, my friend, commend me to thy lord : Hold, take these angels ; drink them for thy pains. Mess. He doth desire your grace to read it [straight] , Because he says it doth concern you near. Crom. Bid him assure himself of that: farewell; To-morrow, tell him, he shall hear from me. Set on before there, and away to Lambeth. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Lambeth. Enter GARDINER, SUFFOLK, NORFOLK, BEDFORD, Lieu- tenant of the Tower. Sergeant-at-arms, Herald, and Halberdiers. Gar. Halberts, stand close unto the water-side, Sergeant-at-arms, be you bold in your office ; Herald, deliver [now] your proclamation. Her. This is to give notice to all the king's subjects, the late Lord Cromwell, lord chancellor of England, vicar-general over the realm, him to hold and esteem as a traitor, against the crown and dignity of England. So, God save the king ! Gar. Amen. Bed. Amen, and [may God] root thee from the land, For, whilst thou livest, the truth can never stand. Nor. Make a lane there, the traitor is at hand. Keep back Cromwell's men : Drown them if they come on. Sergeant, your office ! Enter CROMWELL, attended. The Halberdiers make a lane. Crom. What means my lord of Norfolk by these Sirs, come along. [words ? Gar. Kill them, if they come on. Ser. Lord Thomas Cromwell, in King Henry's I do arrest your honor of high treason. [name, Crom. Sergeant, me of treason ! [CROMWELL'S Men offer to draw. Suff. Kill them, if they draw a sword. Crom. Hold, I charge you, As you love me, [friends,] draw not a sword, Who dares accuse Cromwell of treason now ? Gar. This is no place to reckon up your crime, Your dove-like looks were viewed with serpent's eyes. Crom. With serpent's eyes, indeed, if 1 thine they But, Gardiner, do thy worst ; I fear thee not. [were. My faith compared with thine, as much shall pass, As doth the diamond [still] excel the glass : Attached of treason, no accusers by, Indeed ! what tongue dares speak so foul a lie ? Norf. My lord, my lord, matters are too well known, And it is time the king had note thereof. Crom. The king, let me go to him, face to face, No better trial I desire than that. Let him but say that Cromwell's faith was feigned, Then let my honor, and my name be stained ; If e'er my heart against the king was set, let my soul in judgment answer it ! Then, if my faith's confirmed with his reason, 'Gainst whom hath Cromwell then committed treason ? Suff. My lord, your matter shall be [quickly] tried, Meantime, with patience [pray] content yourself. Crom. Perforce, I must with patience be content: O, dear friend Bedford, dost thou stand so near ? Cromwell rejoiceth, one friend sheds a tear : And whither is't ? Which way must Cromwell now 1 1 " By thine," in former copies. 84 LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. Gar. My lord, you must unto the Tower : lieutenant, Take him into your charge. Crom. Well, where you please ; but yet, before I Let me confer a little with my men. tP 31 '; Gar. Ay, as you go by water, so you shall. Crom. I have some business present to impart. Norf. You may not stay : lieutenant, take your charge. Crom. Well, well, my lord, you second Gardiner's Norfolk, farewell ! thy turn will be the next. [text. [Exeunt CROMWELL and the Lieutenant. Gar. His guilty conscience makes him rave, my lord. Norf. Ay, let him talk ; his time is short enough. Gar. My lord of Bedford, come ; you weep for him, That would not shed a [single] tear for you. Bed. It grieves me for to see his sudden fall Gar. Such success wish I unto traitors all. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-London. A Street. Enter two Citizens. 1 Cit. Why ? can this news be true ? is't possible ? The great Lord Cromwell 'rested for high treason, I hardly will believe it can be so. 2 Cit. It is too true, sir ; would't were otherwise, Condition I spent half the wealth I have. I was at Lambeth, saw him there arrested, And afterward committed to the Tower. 1 Cit. What, was't for treason that he was commit- ted? 2 Cit. Kind noble gentleman ! I may rue the time : All that I have, I did enjoy by him ; And, if he die, then all rny state is gone. 1 Cit. It may be hoped, sir, that he shall not die, Because the king did favor him so much. 2 Cit. 0, sir, you are deceived in thinking so : The grace and favor he had with the king, Hath caused him have so many enemies : He that in court secure will keep himself, Must not be great, for then he is envied at. The shrub is safe, when as the cedar shakes ; For where the king doth love above compare, Of others, they as much more envied are. 1 Cit. 'Tis pity that this nobleman should fall, He did so many charitable deeds. 2 Cit. 'Tis true ; and yet you see, in each" estate, There's none so good, but some one doth him hate ; And they before would smile him in the face, Will be the foremost to do him disgrace. What, will you go along unto the court ? 1 Cit. I care not if I do, and hear the news, How men will judge what shall become of him. 2 Cit. Some men will speak him hardly, some will Go you to the court ? I'll go into the city: [pity- There I am sure to hear more news than you. 1 Cit. Why then we soon will meet again. Adieu. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Room in the Tower. Enter CKOMWELL. Crom. Now, Cromwell, hast thoutime to meditate And think upon thy state, and of the time. Thy honors came unsought, ay, and unlocked for ; Thy fall is sudden, and unlocked for, too. WTiat glory was in England that I had not ? Who in this land commanded more than Cromwell ? Except the king, who greater than myself? But now I see, what after-ages shall, More great the men, more sudden is their fall. And now I dc remember, th' earl of Bedford Was very desirous for to speak to me ; And afterward sent unto me a letter, The which I think I still have in my pocket ; Now may I read it, for I now have leisure, And this, I take't, it is. [He reads the letter My lord, come not this night to Lambeth, For if you do, your state is overthrown ; And much I doubt your life, an if you come : Then, if you love yourself, stay where you are. O God, had I but read this [friendly] letter, Then had I been free from the lion's paw: Deferring this to read until to-morrow, [ spurned at joy, and did embrace my sorrow. Enter the Lieutenant of the Tower, Officers, 4-c. Master lieutenant, when's this day of death? Lieu. Alas, my lord, would I might never see it ! Here are the dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk. Winchester, Bedford, and Sir Richard Radcliff, With others still; but why they come I know not. Crom. No matter wherefore ; Cromwell is prepared, For Gardiner has my life and state ensnared. Bid them come in, or you shall do them wrong, For here stands he, who some think, lives too long j Learning kills learning, and, instead of ink To dip his pen, Cromwell's heart-blood doth drink. Enter the Dukes of SUFFOLK and NORFOLK ; the Earl of BEDFORD, GARDINER, Bishop of WINCHESTER, Sir RICHARD RADCLIFF, and Sir RALPH SADLER. Norf. Good-morrow, Cromwell. What, so sad ? Crom. One good among you, none of you are bad : For my part, it best fits me be alone ; Sadness with me, not I with any one. Have you the king acquainted with my cause ? Norf. We have, and he hath answered us, my lord. Crom. How shall I come to speak with him myself? Gar. The king is so advertised of your guilt, He'll by no means admit you to his presence. Crom. No way admit me ! am I so soon forgot ? Did he but yesterday embrace my neck, And say that Cromwell was even half himself? And are his princely ears so much bewitched With scandalous ignominy, and slanderous speeches, That now he doth deny to look on me ? Well, lord of Winchester, no doubt but you Are much in favor with his majesty, Will bear a letter from me to his grace ? Gar. Pardon me, I'll bear no triitor's letters. Crom. Ha, will you do this kindness then, to tell him, By word of mouth, what I shall say to you ? Gar. That will I. Crom. But, on your honor will you ? Gar. Ay, on my honor. Crom. Bear witness, lords. Tell him, when he hath known you, And tried your faith but half so much as mine, He'll find you to be the falsest-hearted man [Living] in England : pray [you] tell him this. Bed. Be patient, good my lord, in these extremities ACT V. SCENE V. 85 Crom. My kind and honorable lord of Bedford, I know your honor always loved me well : But, pardon me, this still shall be my theme ; Gardiner's the cause makes Cromwell's so extreme. Sir Ralph Sadler, I pray a word with you ; You were my man, and all that you possess Came by my means : sir, to requite all this, Say, will you take this letter here of me, And give it with your own hands to the king ? ISad. I kiss your hand, and never will I rest, Ere to the king this be delivered. [Exit SADLER. Crom. Why then hath Cromwell yet one friend in store. Card. But all the haste he makes shall be but vain ; Here's a discharge, sir, for your prisoner, To see him executed presently : My lord, you hear the tenure of your life. Crom. I do embrace it ; welcome my last date, And of this glistering world I take last leave ; And, noble lords, I take my leave of you. As willingly I go to meet with death, As Gardiner did pronounce it with his breath : From treason is my heart as white as snow, My death procured only by my foe : I pray commend me to my sovereign king, And tell him in what sort his Cromwell died, To lose his head before his cause was tried ; But let his grace, when he shall hear my name, Say only this ; Gardiner procured the same. Enter young CROMWELL. Litut. Here is your son, sir, come to take his leave. Crom,. To take his leave? Come hither, Harry Cromwell ; Mark, boy, the last words that I speak to thee ; Flatter not fortune, neither fawn upon her ; Gape not for state, yet lose no spark of honor ; Ambition, like the plague see thou eschew it ; I die for treason, boy, and never knew it ; Yet, let thy faith as spotless be as mine, And Cromwell's virtues in thy face shall shine : Come, go along and see me leave my breath, And I'll leave thee upon the floor of death. Son. O father, I shall die to see that wound, Your blood being spilt will make my heart to swound. Crom. How, boy, not dare to look upon the axe ? How shall I do then, to have my head struck off? Come on, my child, and see the end of all, And after say, that Gardiner was my fall. Gar. My lord, you speak it of an envious heart, I have done no more than law and equity. Bed. O, my good lord of Winchester, foibear ; 'Twould better have beseemed you to be absent, Than, with your words, disturb a dying man. Cram. Who, me, my lord ? no : he disturbs not me ; My mind he stirs not, though his mighty shock Hath brought more peers' heads down unto the block. Farewell, my boy ; all Cromwell can bequeath, My hearty blessing ! so, I take my leave. Hang. I am your deathsman ; pray, my lord, for- give me. Crom. Even with my soul ! why, man, thou art my doctor, Andbring'st me precious physic for my soul ; My lord of Bedford, I desire of you, Before my death, a corporal embrace. [CROMWELL embraces him. Farewell, great lord ; my lord, 1 I do commend My heart to you; my soul to heaven I send; This is my joy, that ere my body fleet, Your honored arms are my true winding-sheet ; Farewell, dear Bedford, my peace is made in heaven ; Thus falls great Cromwell, a poor ell in length, To rise t'uomeasured height, winged with new strength. The land of worms, 2 which dying men discover. My soul is shrined with heaven's celestial cover. [Exeunt CROMWELL, Officers, SfC. Bed. Well, farewell. Cromwell! sure the truest That ever Bedford shall possess again ! [friend Well, lords. I fear that when this man is dead, You'll wish in vain that Cromwell had a head. Enter Officer, with CROMWELL'S Head. Offi. Here is the head of the deceased Cromwell. Bed. Pray thee go hence, and bear his head away Unto his corse ; inter them both in clay. Enter Sir RALPH SADLER. Sad. How now, my lords ? what, is Lord Cromwell dead? Bed. Lord Cromwell's body now doth want a head. Sad. O, God ! a little speed hnd saved his life. Here is a kind reprieve come from the king, To bring him straight unto his majesty. Suff. Ay, ay, Sir Ralph, reprieves come now too late. Gar. My conscience tells me now this deed was ill ! Would Christ that Cromwell were alive again ! Norf. Come, let us to the king, who, well I know, Will grieve for Cromwell, that his death was so. [Exeunt. I Old copy reads, " my love." * This passage is manifestly corrupt THE END OF THE LIFE ANT) DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL. INTRODUCTION TO SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE THE history of Sir John Oldcastle may he found in Holingshead ; but the author of the drama has not heen tenacious of his facts. He has used them at pleasure, wherever a perversion of them might height- rn the interest of the play, or bring out the character of his hero more impressively. The play before us was entered on the stationer's books, on the 4th of August, 1600, as " The first part of the History of the Life of Sir John Oldcastle Lord Cobham j" the second part, " with his martyrdom," was entered at the same time ; but this was never published. The first part was entered without the name of Shak- speare ; but of two editions printed in 1600, one of them bears the name of William Shakspeare at full length, in the titlepage, with the addition: "as it hath beene lately acted by the Right Honorable the Earle of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral of England, his Servants." Mr. Knight remarks, of this fact : " In 1594, a play of Shakspeare's might have been acted as we believe Hamlet was, at Henslowe's the- atre, which was that of the lord high admiral his servants ; but in 1600, a play of Shakspeare's would have unquestionably been acted by the lord cham- berlain his servants." This is not conclusive. The interest of Shakspeare, in 1600, undoubtedly lay in the latter theatre ; but a former play might have be- come the property of the manager of another house, at a time when Shakspeare was connected with nei- ther, and thus be entirely out of the author's posses- sion and control, as well to revise, rewrite, or en- tirely suppress. Recently, however, we find by the Diary of Ph. Henslowe, lately published by the Shakspeare Society, that, on the 16th of October, 1599, he paid " for the first part of the Lyfe of Sir Ihon Oldcastle, and in earnest of the second Pte., for the use of the company, ten pound ;" and the money was received by " Thomas Downton," " to pay Mr. Monday, Mr. Drayton, Mr. Wilson, and Mr. Hathaway." This might be considered conclusive > were it not that nothing was more frequent than the 88 INTRODUCTION. production, at rival theatres, of pieces on the same subjects, particularly at the same time, and when the successful run of one piece provoked the cupidity of managers to desire a share in the profits accruing largely to their neighbors. The very employment of no less than four hands, in the preparation of this play, would seem to declare some present emergency. Mr. Knight speaks of it '* as a very curious example of the imperfect manner in which it was attempted to imitate the excellence, and to rival the popularity, of Shakspeare's best historical plays, at the time of their original production." Certainly, there are sev- eral respects in which Sir John Oldcastle reminds us of Shakspeare. The character of Sir John of Wro- tham, the priest, is just such an instance of resem- blance, as a feebler or a younger writer would attempt, at the character of Falstaff, who desired at the same time to escape the charge of imitation. The prologue has been relied upon to prove that Shakspeare had no agency in the piece, since it is supposed in two of the lines to reflect unfavorably upon his own labors : " It is no pampered glutton we present, Nor aged counsellor to youthful sin." Offence seems to have been taken at the character of Falstaff, who, it appears, had been confounded with Sir John Oldcastle. The employment of this name, openly, at the head of a new piece, might have occa- sioned some doubts as to the character in which that historical personage would be shown ; and the lan- guage of the prologue was intended to disarm all ap- prehensions. 11 Let fair truth be graced" is the entreaty of the dramatist " Since forged invention former time defaced." This is construed into a sarcasm upon Shakspeare's labors in Falstaff, and is supposed to be conclusive against his share in the production. If a sarcasm, it is a very gentle one. Shakspeare himself judges of Falstaff, through Henry V. and the Chief Justice, much more severely, and in much the same language. Were we, indeed, disposed to make out a case, we might insist upon this prologue as really apologetic, and assume that the play was chiefly written to atone for the supposed wrong done by the author of Sir John Falstaff, to the historical reputation of Sir John Oldcastle. But we take no interest in the question. It may be well to mention, that the opinion is held by some that the Sir John Falstaff of Shakspeare's Henry IV. was originally called Sir John Oldcastle. The character and name, indeed, seem to have been employed frequently by the dramatists. In the old play of " The Famous Victories," according to Mr. Knight, the character of Sir John Oldcastle occurs as a low and ruffianly sort of person. Fuller, in his Church History, has something directly on this sub- ject. Stage poets," quoth he, " have themselves been very bold with, and others very merry at, the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, whom they have fan- cied a boon companion, a jovial royster, and a cow- ard to boot. The best is, Sir John Falstaff hath re- lieved the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, and of late is substituted buffoon in his place." This description of Fuller would seem especially to describe our own Sir John of Shakspeare memory. Mr. Knight adds : " Whether or not Shakspeare's Falstaff was origin- ally called Oldcastle, he was, after the character was fairly established as Falstaff, anxious to vindicate himself from the charge that he had attempted to represent the Oldcastle of history. In the epilogue to the Second Part of Henry IV., we find this pas- sage : " For anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already he be killed with your hard opinions ; for Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man." This would show a consciousness of some necessity to apologize and atone for the past pre- cisely some such feeling us would prompt the Ian guage of the prologue to Sir John Oldcastle ; which is very well written, and in that frank and manly style which distinguishes the poetry of Shakspeare, when he contemplates nothing beyond the actual and di- rect : fc The doubtful title, gentlemen, prefixed Upon the argument we have in hand, May breed suspense, and wrongfully disturb The peaceful quiet of your settled thoughts : To stop which scruple, let this hrief suffice : It it no pampered glutton we present, Nor aged counsellor to youthful sin, But one," &c. : "Let fair truth be graced, Since forged invention former time defaced." 11 The mode," says Mr. Knight, " in which some of the German critics have spoken of this play, is a rebuke to dogmatic assertions and criticism." We have shown, elsewhere, what Schlegel says con- cerning these biographical dramas ; how he de- scribes Sir John Oldcastle, Thomas Lord Cromwell, and the Yorkshire Tragedy putting them all in the same category as not only unquestionably Shak- speare's, but the best of his works, and models of their species. Teick is equally confident in assigning the authorship of the play before us to Shakspeare. Ulrici, on the contrary, takes a more sober view of the matter. He says : " The whole betrays a poet who endeavored to form himself on Shakspeare's model nay, even to imitate him but who stood far below him in mind and talent." Schlegel's criticism seems wholly valueless in re- gard to these plays. There is, for example, a mon- strous inequality between the play of Cromwell and Oldcastle. To class them together, as equally mod- els, and either as worthy to be ranked among the best of Shakspeare's plays, is sheer absurdity. But Sir John Oldcastle is a performance of very considerable merit. The poetry is sometimes forci- cible and fine, if not rich and generous. It lacks the glow, the fire, and invention, of Shakspeare, when on the whig, but possesses his frankness, impulse, and transparency. When Ulrici speaks of the unknown author of this play as imitating Shakspeare, or mod- elling himself upon him, he probably confounds two things, in their nature very different. It appears to me that, while the author of Sir John Oldcastle has appropriated certain of Shakspeare's materials, some two or more of his characters, and some of his inci- dents, he has, neither in the plan of his story, nor in the structure of his verse, imitated any writer. His INTRODUCTION. 89 style of expression seems to be that of a practised writer, confident in his own mode of utterance, and never pausing to pick and choose his phrase in regard to any model. Remark, for instance, the prologue, where we see an instance of ease and freedom in the verse, such as prevails in all the better portions of this play, which conclusively show the habitual wri- ter, and one totally unaffected and unconstrained in the manner of delivering himself. If Shakspeare did not write this play and we attempt only to furnish the reader with the facts in relation to the question, and not to provide a comment upon them there are certain portions of it which are quite wor- thy of his pen. Take, for example, the manner in which the conspirators attempt to inveigle Lord Cob- ham into their confederacy. The allegory here is well sustained, and very forcibly given : " Cam. Nay, but the stag which we desire to strike, Lives not in Cowling : if you will consent, And go with us, we'll bring you to a forest Where runs a lusty herd ; among the which There is a stag superior to the rest; A stately beast, that, when his fellows run, He leads the race, and beats the sullen earth, As though he scorned it, with his trampling hoofs ; Aloft he bears his head, and with his breast, Like a a huge bulwark, counterchecks the wind : And, when he standeth still, he stretcheth forth His proud ambitious neck, as if he meant To wound the firmament with forked horns. Cob. 'Tis pity such a goodly beast should die. Cam. Not so, Sir John ; for he is tyrannous, And gores the other deer, and will not keep Within the limits are appointed him. Of late he's broke into a several, Which doth belong to me, and there he spoils Both corn and pasture. Two of hia wild race, Alike for stealth and covetous encroaching, Already are removed : if he were dead, I should not only be secure from hurt, But with his body make a royal feast" It is objected to the morality of this part of the play, that Cobham should betray those who had confided their conspiracy to him. I am somewhat doubtful whether this censure is deserved. What was Cobham to do ? The friend of the king, a con- spiracy is forced upon him, of which he disapproves, which contemplates the king's murder. Is he to suffer it to go forward to completion of its objects ? Surely not. If he had sought out the conspirators for their secret, and under false guises had obtained it, then to betray them would have been criminal ; but this was not the case. They thrust themselves upon him, assuming that he sympathizes with them, and the safety of the king compels the course which he adopts. As a play, Sir John Oldcastle lacks unity. It is desultory, and the purposes of the several characters do not work together. The several performances of the parties do not contemplate the denouement. The separate scenes are lively some of them very im- pressive and more than one of the persons of the drama are exceedingly well conceived. Sir John of Wrotham, who is meant to be a Falstaff, with the additional virtue of courage, might have been suc- cessful, but that Falstaff stood hi his way. Whether drawn by Shakspeare or another, the character of Sir John of Wrotham fails only as it reminds us that we have known Falstaff. It was this knowledge that paralyzed the effort to repaint the character under another name, and with additional attributes. Our " sweet Jack Falstaff," " kind Jack Falstaff," " true Jack Falstaff," " valiant and plump Jack Fal- staff," is already sufficiently perfect ; and an accumu- lation of more virtues in his character might only withdraw him in some degree from our sympathies. Sir John of Wrotham is a failure ; but we see what he might have been, but for the overwhelming excel- lence of his predecessor. SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. PART FIRST, PERSONS REPRESENTED. KING HENRY THE FIFTH. Sir JOHN OLDCASTLE, Lord COBHAM. Lord HERBERT. Lord Powis. The. DUKE OF SUFFOLK. The EARL OF HUNTINGTON. Conspirators against the king. Rebels. The EARL OF CAMBRIDGE, Lord SCROOP, Sir THOMAS GREY, Sir ROGER ACTON, Sir RICHARD LEE, Master BOURN, Master BEVERLEY, MURLEY, theBrewei- o/Dunstable, The BISHOP OF ROCHESTER. Two Judges of Assize. Lord- Warden of the Cinque Ports. Master BUTLER, Gentleman of the Privy Chamber. CHARTRES, the French Agent. CROMER, Sheriff of Kent. The Mayor of Hereford. The Sheriff of Hereford shire. Sir JOHN, the Parson of Wrotham. Lieutenant of the Tower. The Mayor and Gaoler of St. Alban's. A Kentish Constable and an Ale-man. DICK and TOM, Servants to Murley. An Irishman. HARPOOL, Servant to the Lord Cobham. GOUGH, Servant to Lord Herbert. OWEN and DAVY, Servants to Lord Powis. CLUN, Sumner to the Bishop of Rochester. Lady COBHAM. Lady Powis. DOLL, Concubine to Sir John, Parson of Wrotham. KATE, the Carrier's Daughter. Host, Ostler, Carriers, Soldiers, Beggarmen, Constables, Warders of the Tower, Bailiffs, Messengers, and Attendants. SCENE. ENGLAND. PROLOGUE. The doubtful title, gentlemen, prefixed Upon the argument we have in hand, May breed suspence, and wrongfully disturb The peaceful quiet of your settled thoughts. To stop which scruple, let this brief suffice ; It is no pampered glutton we present, Nor age"d counsellor to youthful sin ; But one, whose virtues shine, above the rest, A valiant martyr, and a virtuous peer ; In whose true faith and loyalty expressed Unto his sovereign, and his country's weal, We strive to pay that tribute of our love Your favors merit. Let fair truth be graced, Since forged invention former time defaced. ACT I. SCENE I. A Street in Hereford. Enter Lord HERBERT, Lord Powis, OWEN, GOUGH, DAVY, and others, followers of the Lords Powis and HERBERT. They fight. Enter the Sheriff of Here- ford shire and a Bailiff. Sher. My lords, I charge you in his highness' name, To keep the peace, you and your followers. Herb. Good master sheriff, look unto yourself. Pow. Do so, for we have other business. [They attempt to fight again. Sher. Will ye disturb the judges, and the assize 1 Hear the king's proclamation ; ye were best. Pow. Hold, then ; let's hear it. Herb. But be brief, be brief ! Bail. yes. Davy. Cossone, make shorter 0, or shall mar your yes. Bail. yes. Owen. What, has hur nothing to say but, yes ? Bail. yes. Davy. nay ; py coss plut, down with hur, down with hur. A Powis ! a Powis ! Cough. A Herbert ! a Herbert ! and down with Powis! [They fight again. Sher. Hold ! in the king's name, hold ! Owen. Down with a knave's name, down. [The Bailiff is knocked down, and the Sheriff runs away. Herb. Powis, I think thy Welsh and thou do smart. Pow. Herbert, I think my sword came near thy heart. Herb. Thy heart's best blood shall pay the loss of mine. Gough. A Herbert ! a Herbert ! Davy. A Powis ! a Powis ! 92 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. As they are fighting, enter the Mayor of Hereford, Aw Officers and Townsmen, with Clubs. Mayor. My lords, as you are liegemen to the crown, True noblemen, and subjects to the king, Attend his highness' proclamation, Commanded by the judges of assize, For keeping peace at this assembly. Herb. Good master mayor of Hereford, be brief. Mayor. Sergeant, without the ceremonies of " yes," Pronounce aloud the proclamation. Sfrg. The king's justices, perceiving what public mischief may ensue this private quarrel, in his majes- ty's name do straightly charge and command all per- sons, of what degree soever, to depart this city of Hereford, except such as are bound to give attendance at this assize,. and that no man presume to wear any weapon, especially welsh-hooks, forest-bills. Owen. Haw ? No pill nor Wells hoog ? ha ? Mayor. Peace, and hear the proclamation. Serg. And that the lord Powis do presently disperse and discharge his retinue, and depart the city in the king's peace, he and his followers, on pain of impris- onment. Davy. Haw? pud hur lord Powis in prison? A Powis ! A Powis ! Cossone, hur will live and tie with hur lord. Cough. A Herbert ! a Herbert ! They fight ; Lord HERBERT is wounded, and falls to the ground ; the Mayor and his followers interpose. Lord Powis runs away. Enter two Judges, the Sheriff and his Bailiffs before them. 1 Judge. Where's the lord Herbert ? Is he hurt or slain ? Sher. He's here, my lord. 2 Judge. How fares his lordship, friends ? Gough. Mortally wounded, speechless ; he can not live. 1 Judge. Convey him hence, let not his wounds take And get them 1 dressed with expedition. [air, [Exeunt Lord HERBERT and GOUGH. Master mayor of Hereford, master sh'riff o'the shire, Commit Lord Powis to safe custody, To answer the disturbance of the peace, Lord Herbert's peril, and his high contempt Of us, and you, the king's commissioners : See it be done with care and diligence. Sher. Please it your lordship, my lord Powis is gone, Past all recovery. 2 Judge. Yet, let search be made, To apprehend his followers that are left. Sher. Here are some of them, sirs ; lay hold of them. Owen. Of us ? and why ? what has hut done, I pray you? Sher. Disarm them, bailiffs. Mayor. Officers, assist. Davy. Hear you, lord shudge, what resson for this ? Owen. Cossone, pe'puse for fighting for our lord? 1 Judge. Away with them. Davy. Harg you, my lord. Owen. Gough, my lord Herbert's man's a scurvy* knave. 1 Previous copies read " get Mm dressed." I substitute here one epithet for another, to avoid a mere brutality. Davy. I'se live and tie in good quarrel. Owen. Pray you do shustice, let awl be prison. Davy. Prison, no ! Lord shudge, I wool give you pale, good surety. 2 Judge. What bail ? what sureties ? Davy. Hur cozen ap Rice, ap Evan, ap Morice, ap Morgan, ap Llwellyn, ap Madoc, ap Meredith, ap Griffin, ap Davy, ap Owen, ap Shinken Shones. 2 Judge. Two of the most sufficient are enow. Sher. An't please your lordship, these are all but one. 1 Judge. To jail with them, and the Lord Herbert's men. We'll talk with them, when the assize is done. [Exeunt Bailiffs with OWEN, DAVY, 4 - c. Riotous, audacious, and unruly grooms, Must we be forced to come from [off] the bench, To quiet brawls, which every constable In other civil places can suppress ? 2 Judge. What was the quarrel that caused all this stir? Sher. About religion, as I heard, my lord; Lord Powis detracted from the power of Rome, Affirming Wickliffe's doctrine to be true, And Rome's erroneous : hot reply was made By the lord Herbert, they were traitors all That would maintain it. Powis answered ; They were as true, as noble, and as wise, As he, and would defend it with their lives ! He named, for instance, Sir John Oldcastle, The lord Cobham : Herbert replied again, He, thou, and all, are traitors that so hold. The lie was given, the several factions drawn, And so enraged, that we could not appease it. 1 Judge. This case concerns the king's prerogative 'Tis dangerous to the state and commonwealth. Gentlemen, justices, master mayor, and sheriff, It doth behoove us all, and each of us, In general and particular, to have care For the suppressing of all mutinies, And all assemblies, except soldiers' musters, For the king's preparation unto France. We hear of secret conventicles made, And there is doubt of some conspiracies, Which may break out into rebellious arms When the king's gone perchance before he go. Note, as an instance, this one perilous fray : What factions might have grown on either part, To the destruction of the king and realm ! Yet, in my conscience, Sir John Oldcastle is Innocent of it ; only his name was used. We, therefore, from his highness, give this charge : You, master mayor, look to your citizens ; You, master sheriff, unto your shire ; and you, As justices, in every one's precinct, There be no meetings ; when the vulgar sort Sit on their ale-bench, with their cups and cans, Matters of state be not their common talk, Nor pure religion by their lips profaned. Let us return unto the bench again, And there examine further of this fray. Enter a Bailiff and a Sergeant. Sher. Sirs, have ye taken the lord Powis yet ? Bail. No, nor heard of him. Serg. He's gone far enough. 2 Judge. They that are left behind shall answer all. [Exeunt. ACT L SCENE II. 93 SCENE II. Eltham. An Antechamber in the Palace. Enter the Duke of SUFFOLK, Bishop of ROCHESTER, BUTLER, and Sir JOHN of Wrotham. Stiff. Now, my lord Bishop, take free liberty To speak your mind : what is your suit to us ? Bish. My noble lord, no more than what you know, And have been oftentimes invested with. Grievous complaints have passed between the lips Of envious persons to upbraid the clergy : Some carping at the livings which we have ; And others spurning at the ceremonies That are of ancient custom in the church ; Among the which, Lord Cobham is a chief. What inconvenience may proceed hereof, Both to the king and to the commonwealth, May easily be discerned, when, like a phrensy, This innovation shall possess their minds. These upstarts will have followers to uphold Their damned opinion, more than Harry shall, To undergo his quarrel 'gainst the French. Suff. What proof is there against them to be had, That what you say the law may justify ? Bish, They give themselves the names of protest- And meet in fields and solitary groves. [ants, Sir John. Was ever heard, my lord, the like till now, That thieves and rebels 'sblood ! that heretics Plain heretics, I'll stand to't to their teeth Should have, to color their vile practices, A title of such worth as protestant ? Enter Messenger to the Duke of SUFFOLK, with a Let- ter. Suff. O, but you must not swear : it ill becomes One of your coat, to rap out bloody oaths. Bish. Pardon him, good my lord ; it is his zeal An honest country prelate, who laments To see such foul disorders in the church. Sir John. There's one they call him Sir John Oldcastle He has not his name for naught ; for, like a castle, Doth he encompass them within his walls: But, till that castle be subverted quite, We ne'er shall be at quiet in the realm. Bish. This is our suit, my lord, that he be ta'en And brought in question for his heresy : Besides, two letters, brought me out of Wales, Wherein my lord of Hereford writes to me What tumult and sedition was begun, 'Bout the Lord Cobham, at the 'sizes there ; For they had much ado to calm the rage And that the valiant Herbert there is slain. Suff. A fire that must be quenched. Well, say no The king anon goes to the council-chamber, [more ; There to debate of matters touching France. As he doth pass, I will inform his grace Concerning your petition. Master Butler, If I forget, do you remember me. But. I will, my lord. Bish. [Offers the Duke a purse]. Not as a recom- But as a token of our love to you, [pense, By me, my lord, the clergy doth present This purse, and in it full a thousand angels, Praying your lordship to accept their gift. Suff. I thank them, my lord bishop, for their love, But will not take their money ; if you please To give it to this gentleman, you may. Bish. Sir, then we crave your furtherance herein. But. The best I can, my lord of Rochester. Bish. Nay, pray you take itj trust me, sir, you shall. Sir John. Were ye all three upon Newmarket heath, You should not need strain court'sy who should have Sir John would quickly rid ye of that care. [it : [Aside. Suff. The king is coming. Fear ye not, my lord ; The very first thing I will break with him Shall be about your matter. Enter King HENRY and the Earl of HUNTINGTON. K. Hen. My lord of Suffolk, Was it not said the clergy did refuse To lend us money toward our wars in France ? Suff. It was, my lord, but very wrongfully. K. Hen. I know it was ; for Huntington here tells They have been very bountiful of late. [me Suff. And still they vow, my gracious lord, to be so, Hoping your majesty will think on them As of your loving subjects, and suppress All such malicious errors as begin To spot their calling, and disturb the church. K. Hen. God else forbid ! Why, Suffolk, is there, Any new rupture to disquiet them ? [then], Suff. No new, my lord ; the old is great enough, And so increasing, as, if not cut down, Will breed a scandal to your royal state, And set your kingdom quickly in an uproar. The Kentish knight, Lord Cobham, in despite Of any law, or spiritual discipline, Maintains this upstart new religion still ; And divers great assemblies, by his means, And private quarrels, are commenced abroad, As, by this letter, more at large, my liege, Is made apparent. K. Hen. We do find it here There was in Wales a certain fray of late Between two noblemen. But what of this ? Follows it straight Lord Cobham must be he Did cause the same ? I dare be sworn, good knight, He never dreamed of any such contention. Bish. But in his name the quarrel did begin, About the opinion which he held, my liege. K. Hen. What if it did ? Was either he in place To take part with them, or abet them in it ? If brabbling fellows, whose enkindled blood Seeths in their fiery veins, will needs go fight, Making their quarrels of some words that passed Either of you, or yours, among your cups, Is the fault yours ? or are ye guilty of it ? Suff. With pardon of your highness, my dread lord Such little sparks neglected, may, in time, Grow to a mighty flame. But that's not all : He doth besides maintain a strange religion, And will not be compelled to come to mass. Bish. We do beseech you, therefore, gracious prince, Without offence unto your majesty, We may be bold to use authority. K. Hen. As how ? Bish. To summon him to the arches, 1 [sire], Where such offences have their punishment. 1 The court of Arches, to called because it was anciently held in the church of St. Mary le Bow, Sancta Maria de Ar- cubus. MALONE. 94 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. K. Hen. To answer personally ? is that your meaning? Bish. It is, my lord. K. Hen. How, if he appeal ? Bish. My lord, he can not in such case as this. Suff. Not where religion is the plea, my lord. K. Hen. I took it always that ourself stood on't As a sufficient refuge ; unto whom Not any but might lawfully appeal : But we'll not argue now upon that point. For Sir John Oldcastle, whom you do accuse, Let me entreat you to dispense a while With your high title of pre-eminence. Report did never yet condemn him so, But he hath always been reputed loyal ; And, in my knowledge, I can say thus much, That he is virtuous, wise, and honorable. If any way his conscience be seduced To waver in his faith, I'll send for him, And school him privately. If that serve not, Then, afterward, you may proceed against him. Butler, be you the messenger for us, And will him presently repair to court. [Exeunt King HENRY, HUNTINGTOH, SUFFOLK, and BOTLER. Sir John. How now, my lord ? why stand you dis- content ? In sooth, methinks the king hath well decreed. Bish. Ay, ay, Sir John, if he would keep his word : But I perceive he favors bun so much, As this will be to small effect, I fear. Sir John. Why, then, I'll tell you what you're best to do: If you suspect the king will be but cold In reprehending, send your process too To serve upon him ; so you may be sure To make him answer it, howsoe'er it fall. Bish. And well remembered ; I will have it so : A sumner 1 shall be sent about it straight. [Exit. Sir John. Yea, do so. In the mean space this re- mains, For kind Sir John of Wrotham, honest Jack. Methinks the purse of gold the bishop gave Made a good show ; it had a tempting look: Beshrew me, but my fingers' ends do itch To be upon those golden ruddocks. Well ! I am not what the world doth take me for : If ever wolf were clothed in sheep's coat, Then I am he ; old huddle and twang i'faith ; A priest in show, but in plain terms a thief: Yet, let me tell you too, an honest thief; One that will take it where it may be spared, And spend it freely in good fellowship. I have as many shapes as Proteus had, That still, when any villany is done, There may be none suspect it was Sir John. Besides, to comfort me for what's this life, Except the crabbed bitterness thereof Be sweetened now and then with lechery ? I have my Doll, my concubine, as 'twere, To frolic with a lusty, bouncing girl ! But, whilst I loiter here, the gold may 'scape, And that must not be so : it is mine own ; Therefore, I'll meet him on his way to court, And shrive him of it ; there will be the sport. [Exit. 1 A tumntr was an apparitor in plain, a twnmontr of persona to appear in the spiritual court SCENE III. Kent. An outer Court before Lord COBHAM'S House. A public Road leading to it, and an Alehouse at a little distance. Enter four poor People, some Soldiers, some old Men. 1 Sold. God help ! God help ! there's law for pun- ishing, But there's no law for our necessity : There be more stocks to set poor soldiers in, Than there be houses to relieve them at. Old Man. Ay, housekeeping now decays in every place, Even as Saint Peter writ, stUl worse and worse. 2 Old Man. Master mayor of Rochester has given command that none shall go abroad out of the parish ; and has set down an order, forsooth, of what every poor householder must give for our relief: where there be some 'sessed I may say to you had almost as much need to beg as we. 1 Old Man. It is a hard world the while. 2 Old Man. If a poor man ask at door for God's sake, they ask him for a license or a certificate from a justice. 1 Sold. Faith, we have none, but what we bear up- on our bodies our maimed limbs God help us ! 2 Sold. And yet, as lame as I am, I'll with the king into France, if I can but crawl o' shipboard. I had rather be slain in France than starve in England. 1 Old Man. Ha, were I but as lusty as I was at Shrewsbury battle, I would not do as I do : but we are now come to the good Lord Cobham's, the best man to the poor in all Kent. 2 Old Man. God bless him ! there be but few such. Enter Lord COBHAM with HARPOOL. Co&. Thou peevish, froward man, what wouldst thou have ? Har. This pride, this pride, brings all to beggary. I served your father, and your grandfather ; Show me such two men now. No, no, your backs, Your backs, the devil, and pride, have cut the throat Of all good housekeeping ; they were the best Yeomen's masters that ever were in England. Cob. Yea, except thou have a crew of filthy knaves And sturdy rogues still feeding at my gate, There is no hospitality with thee. Har. They may sit at the gate well enough, but the devil of anything you give them, except they'll eat stones. Cob. 'Tis 'long, then, of such hungry knaves as you : Here, sir's, your retinue ; your guests be come : They know their hours, I warrant you. 1 Old Man. God bless your honor ! God save the good Lord Cobham, and all his house ! 1 Sold. Good your honor, bestow your blessed alms Upon poor men. Cob. Now, sir, here be your alms-knights : Now are you as safe as the emperor. Har. My alms-knights ? Nay, they're yours : It is a shame for you, and I'll stand to't ; Your foolish alms maintains more vagabonds Than all the noblemen in Kent beside. Out, you rogues ! you knaves, work for your livings. Alas! poor men, they may beg their hearts out [here], There's no more charity among [living] men Than among so many mastiff-dogs. [Aside. ACT I. SCENE III. 95 What make you here, you needy knaves ? Away ! Away, you villains ? 2 Sold. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be good to us. Cob. Nay, nay, They know thee well enough ! I think that all The beggars in this land are thy acquaintance : Go, bestow your alms ; none will control you, sir. Har. What should I give them ? You are grown so beggarly, that you can scarce give a bit of bread at your door. You talk of your religion so long, that you have banished charity from you. A man may make a flax-shop in your kitchen-chimneys, for any fire there is stirring. Cob. If thou wilt give them nothing, send them hence : Let them not stand here starving in the cold. Har. Who ? I drive them hence ? If I drive poor men from the door, I'll be hanged ! I know not what I may come to myself. God help ye, poor knaves ! ye see the world. Well, you had a mother : 0, God be with thee, good lady ! thy soul's at rest ; she gave more in shirts and smocks to poor children, than you spend in your house ; and yet you live a beggar too. Cob. E'en the worst deed that e'er my mother did, Was in relieving such a fool as thou. Har. Ay, I am a fool still ; with all your wit, you'll die a beggar ; go to ! Cub. Go, you old fool, give the poor people some- Go in, poor men, into the inner court, [thing. And take such alms as there is to be had. Sold. God bless your honor ! Har. Hang you, rogues, hang you ! there's nothing but misery among you ; you fear no law, you ! [Exit. 2 Old Man. God bless you, good Master Ralph ! God save your life, you are good to the poor still ! Enter Lord Powis, disguised. Cob. What fellow yonder comes along the grove ? Few passengers there be that know this way : Methinks he stops as though he stayed for me, And meant to shroud himself among the bushes. I know the clergy hate me to the death, And my religion gets me many foes ; And this may be some desperate rogue, suborned To work me mischief: as it pleaseth God ! If he come toward me, sure I'll stay his coming, Be he but one man, whatsoe'er he be. [Lord Powis advances. I have been well acquainted with that face. Pow. Well met, my honorable lord and friend. Cob. You are very welcome, sir, whoe'er you be ; But of this sudden, sir, I do not know you. Pow. I am one that wisheth well unto your honor : My name is Powis, an old friend of yours. Cob. My honorable lord and worthy friend, What makes your lordship thus alone in Kent, And thus disguised in this strange attire ? Poic. My lord, an unexpected accident Hath at this time enforced me to these parts, And thus it happ'd : Not yet full five days since Now, at the last assize at Hereford, It chanced that the Lord Herbert and myself, 'Mong other things discoursing at the table, Did fall in speech about some certain points Of Wickliffe's doWrine 'gainst the papacy, And the religion catholic maintained 7 Through the most part of Europe at this day. This wilful, testy lord, stuck not to say That Wicklifie was a knave, a schismatic His doctrine devilish and heretical ; And whatsoe'er he was maintained the same, Was traitor both to God and to his country. Being moved at his peremptory speech, I told him some maintained those opinions, Good men, and truer subjects than Lord Herbert ; And he, replying in comparisons, Your name was urged, my lord, against his challenge To be a perfect favorer of the truth. And, to be short, from words we fell to blows, Our servants and our tenants taking parts ; Many on both sides hurt : and, for an hour, The broil by no means could be pacified, Until the judges, rising from the bench, Were, in their persons, forced to part the fray. Cob. I hope no man was violently slain. Pow. 'Faith, none, I trust, but the Lord Herbert's Who is in truth so dangerously hurt, [self As it is doubted he can hardly 'scape. Cob. I am sorry, my good lord, of these ill news. Pow. This is the cause that drives me into Kent, To shroud myself with you, so good a friend, Until I hear how things do speed at home. Cob. Your lordship is most welcome unto Cobham : But I am very sorry, my good lord, My name was brought in question in this matter, Considering I have many enemies, That threaten malice, and do lie in wait To take the 'vantage of the smallest thing. But you are welcome to repose your lordship, And keep yourself here secret in my house, Until we hear how the Lord Herbert speeds. Enter HARPOOL. Here comes my man. Sirrah, what news ? Har. Yonder's one Master Butler, of the privy chamber, is sent unto you from the king. Pow. Pray God the Lord Herbert be not dead And the king, hearing whither I am gone, Hath sent for me. Cob. Comfort yourself, my lord, I warrant you. Har. Fellow, what ails thee ? Dost thou quake ? dost thou shake ? Dost thou tremble ? ha ? Cob. Peace, you old fool ! Sirrah, convey this gen- tleman in the back way, and bring the other into the walk. Har. Come, sir, you're welcome, if you love my lord. Pow. Gramercy, gentle friend. [Exeunt Powis and HARPOOL. Cob. I thought as much that it would not be long Before I heard of something from the king About this matter. Enter HARPOOL, with BUTLER. Har. Sir, yonder my lord walks : you see him ; I'll have your men into the cellar the while. Cob. Welcome, good Master Butler. But. Thanks, my good lord. His majesty doth commend his love unto your lordship, and wills you to repair unto the court. Cob. God bless his highness, and confound his ene- mies ! I hope his majesty is well ? 96 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. But. In good health, my lord. Cob. God long continue it. Methinks you look As though you were not well : what ails ye, sir i But. 'Faith, 1 have had a foolish, odd mischance, That angers me. Coming o'er Shooters' hill, There came one to me like a sailor, and Asked me money ; and whilst I stayed my horse, To draw my purse, he takes th' advantage of A little bank, and leaps behind me, whips My purse away, and with a sudden jerk, I know not how, threw me at least three yards Out of my saddle. I never was so robbed In all my life. Cob. I am very sorry, sir, for your mischance ; We will send our warrant forth to stay all such Suspicious persons as shall [here] be found : Then, Master Butler, we'll attend on you. But. 'I humbly thank your lordship ; I'll await you. [Exeunt. ACT II. iJCENE T. The same. Before Lord COBHAM'S House. Enter a Sumner. Sum. I have the law to warrant what I do ; and though the Lord Cobham be a nobleman, that dis- penses not with law. I dare serve a process were he .five noblemen. Though we sumners make sometimes a mad slip in a corner with a pretty wench, a sumner must not go always by seeing j a man may be content to hide his eyes where he may feel his profit. Well, this is Lord Cobham's house : if I can not speak with him, I'll clap iny citation upon his door ; so my lord of Rochester bade me : but methinks here comes one of his men. Enter HARPOOI.. Har. Welcome, good fellow, welcome : who wouldst thou speak with ? Sum. With my Lord Cobham I would speak, if thou be one of his men. Har. Yes, I am one of his men, but thou canst not speak with my lord. Sum. May I send to him, then ? Har. I'll tell thee that, when I know thy errand. Sum. I will not tell my errand to thee. Har. Then keep it to thyself, and walk like a knave, as thou earnest. Sum. I tell thee, my lord keeps no knaves, sirrah ! Har. Then thou servest him not, I believe. What lord is thy master ? Sum. My lord of Rochester. Har. In good time : and what wouldst thou have with my Lord Cobham ? Sum. I come by virtue of a process, to cite him to appear before my lord in the court at Rochester. Har. [aside] . Well, God grant me patience ! I could eat this counger. 1 My lord is not at home ; therefore it were good, sumner, you carried your process back. Sum. Why, if he will not be spoken withal, then J 80 written in the old folio. In subsequent editions, "conger." The reader has his choice. The word "coun- ger" seems at one period to have been used for conjurer it was to conjure. Harpool may be supposed to sneer at the depth and mysteriousness of the sumner. "Conger" was flie sea-eel and might very well apply to a slippery fellow. Either word, accordingly, may be made to answer. will I leave it here : and see that he take knowledge of it. [Fixes the citation on the gate Har. 'Zounds ! you slave, do you set up your bills here ? go to ; take it down again. Dost thou know what thou dost ? Dost thou know on whom thou servest a process ? Sum. Yes, marry do I : on Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham. Har. I am glad thou knowest him yet. And sirrah, dost not know that the Lord Cobham is a brave lord, that keeps good beef and beer in his house, and every day feeds a hundred poor people at's gate, and keeps a hundred tall fellows ? Sum. What that's to my process ? Har. Marry, this, sir : is this process parchment? Sum. Yes, marry, is it. Har. And this seal wax ? Sum. It is so. Har. If this be parchment, and this wax, eat you this parchment and this wax, or I will make parch- ment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah sumner, despatch, devour, sirrah, devour !' 2 Sum. 1 am my lord of Rochester's sumner ; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. Har. Sirrah, no railing ; but betake yourself to your teeth. Thou shalt eat no worse than thou bring'st with thee. Thou bring'st it for my lord, and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself ? Sum. Sir, I brought it not my lord to eat. Har. O, do you sir me now ? All's one for that ; I'll make you eat it, for bringing it. Sum. I can not eat it. Har. Can you not ? 'Sblood ! I'll beat you till you have a stomach. [Beats him. Sum. Oh, hold, hold, good master servingman ! I will eat it. Har. Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I'll chew you, you rogue ! Tough wax shows the purest of the honey. Sum. Tough wax the purest honey ! Lord, sir, oh! oh! [Eats. Har. Feed, feed 'tis wholesome, rogue, whole- some. Can not you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process ? If thy seal were as broad as the lead that covers Rochester church, thou shouldst eat it. Sum. O, I am almost choked, I am almost choked ! Har. Who's within there ? will you shame my lord ( Is there no beer in the house ? Butler, I say ! Enter Butler. But. Here, here. Har. Give him beer. There : tough old sheepskin's bare dry meat ! [Sumner drinks. Sum. 0, sir, let me go no further : I'll eat my word. Har. Yea, marry, sir, I mean ye shall eat more than your own word ; for I'll make you eat all the words in the process. Why, you drabmonger, can not the secrets of all the wenches in a shire serve your turn, but you must come hither with a citation, with a pox? I'll cite you. A cup of sack for the sumner ! 2 The dramatist owes little in this process to his inven- tion. Nash, one of the early dramatists, telfs us that he saw Greene, another of the faculty, " make an apparitor eat hia citation, wax and all, very handsomely served 'twixt two dishes," The same punishment has been several times em- ployed since. ACT II. SCENE I. 97 But. Here, sir, here. Har. Here, slave, I drink to thee. Sum. I thank you, sir. Har. Now, if thou find'st thy stomach well be- cause thou shall see my lord keeps meat in's house if thou wilt go in, thou shall have a piece of beef to thy breakfast. Sum. No, I am very well, good master servingman ; I thank you, very well, sir. Har. I am glad on't; then be walking toward Rochester, to keep your stomach warm. And, sum- ner, if I do know you disturb a good wench within this diocese, if I do not make thee eat her petticoat, if there were four yards of Kentish cloth in't, I am a villain. Sum. God be wi'ye, master servingman. [Exit Sumner. Har. Farewell, sumner. Enter Constable. Con. Save you, Master Harpool. Har. Welcome, constable, welcome, constable ; what news with thee ? Con. An't please you, Master Harpool, I am to make hue and cry for a fellow with one eye, that has robbed two clothiers, and am to crave your hinderance to search all suspected places ; and they say there was a woman in the company. Har. Hast thou been at the alehouse ? hast thou sought there ? Co/i. I durst not search in my Lord Cobham's lib- erty, except I had some of his servants for my war- rant. Har. An honest constable; call forth him that keeps the alehouse there. Con. Ho! who's within there ? Ale-Man. Who calls there ? Oh, is't you, master constable, and Master Harpool ? You're welcome with all my heart. What make you here so early, this morning ? Har. Sirrah, what strangers do you lodge? There is a robbery done this morning, and we are to search for all suspected persons. Ale-Man. God's-bore, I am sorry for't. I'faith,sir, I lodge nobody but a good, honest priest, called Sir John o' Wrotham, and a handsome woman that is his niece, that he says he has some suit in law for ; and as they go up and down to London, sometimes they lie at my house. Har. What, is she here in thy house now ? Ale-Man. She is, sir. I promise you, sir, he is a quiet man ; and because he will not trouble too many rooms, he makes the woman lie every night at his bed's feet. Har. Bring her forth, constable, bring her forth, let's see her, let's see her. Ale-Man. Dorothy, you must come down to master constable. Enter DOROTHY. Doll. Anon forsooth. Har. Welcome, sweet lass, welcome. Doll. 1 thank you, good sir, and master constable also. Har. A plump girl, by the mass, a plump girl ! ha, Doll, ha. Wilt thou forsake the priest, and go with me, Doll ? Con. Ah ! well said, Master Harpool, you are a merry old man, i'faith ; you will never be old. Now, by the macke, 1 a pretty wench, indeed. Har. You old mad, merry constable, art thou ad- vised of that ? Ha, well said, Doll ; fill some ale here. Doll, [aside] . Oh, if I wist this old priest would not stick to me, by Jove, I would ingle 2 this old serving- man. Har. Oh, you old mad colt, i'faith, I'll ferk you : fill all the pots in the house there. Con. Oh ! well said, Master Harpool, you are heart of oak when all's done. Har. Ha, Doll, thou hast a sweet pair of lips, by the mass. Doll. Truly, you are a most sweet old man, as ever I saw ; by my troth, you have a face able to make any woman in love with you. Har. Fill, sweet Doll, I'll drink to thee. Doll. I pledge you, sir, and thank you therefore, and I pray you let it come. Har. [embracing her], Doll, canst thou love me? a mad, merry lass ; would to God I had never seen thee. Doll. I warrant you, you will not out of my thoughts this twelvemonth j truly, you are as full of favor as any man may be. Ah, these sweet gray locks ! by my troth, they are most loveiy. Con. Cud's bores, Master Harpool, I'll have one buss, too. Har. No licking for you, constable ; hands off, hands off. Con. By'r lady, I love kissing as well as you. Doll. Oh, you are an odd boy ; you have a wanton eye of your own : ah, you sweet, sugar-lipped wanton, you will win as many women's hearts as come in your company. Enter Sir JOHN, of Wrotham. Sir John. Doll, come hither. Har. Priest, she shall not. Doll. I'll come anon, sweet love. Sir John. Hands off, old fornicator. Har. Vicar, I'll sit here in spite of thee. Is this stuff for a priest to carry up and down with him ? Sir John. Sirrah, dost thou not know that a good fel- low parson may have a chapel of ease, where his par- ish church is far off? Har. You whorson-stoned vicar. Sir John. You old stale ruffian, you lion of Cots- wold. 3 Har. Zounds, vicar, I'll geld you. [Flies upon him. Con. Keep the king's peace. Doll. Murder, murder, murder ! Ale-Man. Hold, as you are men, hold ! for God's sake, be quiet : put up your weapons ; you draw not in my house. Har. You whorson bawdy priest. Sir John. You old mutton-monger. Con. Hold, Sir John, hold. Doll. I pray thee, sweet-heart, be quiet. I was but sitting to drink a pot of ale with him, even as kind a man as ever I met with. Har. Thou art a thief, I warrant thee. 1 Macke an ancient game at cards. * Ingle make a favorite or friend of, Tis not enough, Lord Cobham, to submit ; You must forsake your gross opinion. The bishops find themselves much injured, And though, for some good service you have done, We, for our part, are pleased to pardon you, Yet they will not so soon be satisfied. Cob. My gracious lord, unto your majesty, Next unto God [himself], I owe my life ; And what is mine, either by nature's gift, Or fortune's bounty, all is at your service. But for obedience to the pope of Rome. I owe him none ; nor shall his shaveling priests That are in England, alter my belief. If, out of Holy Scriptures they can prove That I am in an error, I will yield, And gladly take instruction at their hands : But otherwise, I do beseech your grace, My conscience may not be encroached upon. K. Hen. We would be loath to press our subjects' bodies, Much less their souls, the dear redeemed part Of Him that is the ruler of us all : Yet let me counsel you, that might command ; Do not presume to tempt them with ill words, Nor suffer any meetings to be had Within your house, but, to the uttermost, Disperse the flocks of this new gathering sect. Cob. My liege, if any breath that dares come forth, And say my life in any of these points Deserves th'attainder of ignoble thoughts : Here stand I, craving no remorse at all, But even the utmost rigor may be shown. K. Hen. Let it suffice we know your loyalty. What have you there ? Cob. A deed of clemency, Your highness' pardon for Lord Powis' life, Which I did beg, and you, my noble lord, Of gracious favor did vouchsafe to grant. K. Hen. But yet it is not signed with our hand. Cob. Not yet, my liege. K. Hen. The fact, you say, was done Not of prepensed 1 malice, but by chance. Cob. Upon mine honor so, no otherwise. K. Hen. [signs the pardon]. There is his pardon; bid him make amends, I Pretensed in the old copy ; and as this word anciently was made to signify intended or designed, it still might answer. But malice prepense or prepensed malice seems most legitimate. And cleanse his soul to God for his offence : What we remit, is but the body's scourge. Enter Bishop of ROCHESTER. How now, lord bishop ? Bishop. Justice, dread sovereign ! As thou art king, so grant I may have justice. K. Hen. What means this exclamation? Let us know. Bishop. Ah, my good lord, the state is much abused, And our decrees most shamefully profaned. K. Hen. How ? and by whom ? Bishop. Even by this heretic, This Jew, this traitor to your majesty. Cob. Prelate, thou liest ; even in thy greasy maw, Or whosoever twits me with the name Either of traitor or of heretic. K. Hen. Forbear, I say: and bishop, show the cause From whence this late abuse hath been derived. Bishop. Thus, mighty king. By general consent A messenger was sent to cite this lord To make appearance in the consistory : And, coming to his house, a ruffian slave, One of his daily followers, met the man, Who knowing him to be a paritor, Assaults him first, and after, in contempt Of us and our proceedings, makes him eat The written process, parchment, seal, and all : Whereby, this matter never was brought forth, And we but scorned for our authority. K. Hen. When was this done ? Bishop. At six o'clock this morning K. Hen. And when came you to court ? Cob. Last night, my liege K. Hen. By this, it seems, he is not guilty of it, And you have done him wrong to accuse him so. Bishop. But it was done, my lord, by his appoint Or else his man durst not have been so bold, [ment K. Hen. Or else you durst be bold to interrupt And fill our ears with frivolous complaints. Is this the duty you do bear to us ? Was't not sufficient we did pass our word To send for him ; but you, misdoubting it, Or, which is worse, intending to forestall Our regal power, must likewise summon him ? This savors of ambition, not of zeal, And rather proves you malice his estate, Than any way that he offends the law. Go to, we like it not : and he, your officer, Had his desert for being insolent, That was employed so much amiss herein. So, Cobham, when you please, you may depart. Cob. I humbly bid farewell unto my liege. [Exit COBHAM. K. Hen. Farewell. [Enter HUNTINGTON. What's now the news by Huntington ? Hunt. Sir Roger Acton, and a crew, my lord, Of bold seditious rebels, are in arms, Intending reformation of religion, And with their army they intend to pitch In Ficket-field, unless they be repulsed. K. Hen. So near our presence ? Dare they be so bold? And will proud war and eager thirst of blood, Whom we had thought to entertain far off, Press forth upon us in our native bounds ? JOO SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. Must we be forced to handsel our sharp blades In England here, which we prepared for France ? Well, in God's name be it. What's their number, say, Or who's the chief commander of this rout ? Hunt. Their number is not known as yet, my lord, But 'tis reported, Sir John Oldcastle Is the chief man, on whom they do depend. K. Hen. How ? the lord Cobham ? Hunt. Yes, my gracious lord. Bishop. I could have told your majesty as much Before he went, but that I saw your grace Was too much blinded by his flattery. Suff. Send post, my lord, to fetch him back again. But. Traitor unto his country ! how he smoothed And seemed as innocent as truth itself? K. Hen. I can not think it yet he would be false ; But, if he be, no matter ; let him go : We'll meet both him and them unto their wo. [Exeunt King HENRY, SUFFOLK, HUNTIUGTON, and BUTLER. Bish. This falls out well ; and at the last, I hope To see this heretic dying in a rope. [Exit. ACT III. SCENE I. An Avenue leading to Lord COBHAM'S House in Kent. Enter Earl of CAMBRIDGE, Lord SCROOP, Sir THOMAS GREY, and CHARTRES. Scroop. Once more, my lord of Cambridge, make rehearsal How you do stand entitled to the crown : The deeper shall we print it in our minds, And every man the better be resolved, When he perceives his quarrel to be just. Cam. Then thus, Lord Scroop, Sir Thomas Grey, and you, Monsieur de Chartres. agent for the French : This Lionel, duke of. Clarence (as I said), Third son of Edward (England's king) the Third, Had issue Philippa. his sole daughter and heir ; Which Philippa afterward was given in marriage To Edmund Mortimer, the earl of March, And by him had a son called Roger Mortimer j Which Roger likewise had of his descent, Kdmund and Roger, Ann and Eleanor, Two daughters and two sons ; but of these, three Died without issue. Ann, that did survive, And now was left her father's only heir, My fortune 'twas to marry, being also, By my grandfather, of King Edward's line : So of his surname I am called, you know, Richard Plantagenet. My father was Kdward, the duke of York, and son and heir To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son. Scroop. So that it seems your claim comes by your As lawful heir to Roger Mortimer, [wife, The son of Edmund, which did marry Philippa, Daughter and heir to Lionel, duke of Clarence. Cam. True ; for this Harry, and his father both, Harry the Fourth, as plainly doth appear, Are false intruders, and usurp the crown. For when young Richard was at Pomfret slain, In him the title of Prince Edward died, That was the eldest of King Edward's sons. William of Hatfield, and their second brother )eath in his nonage had before bereft : So that my wife, derived from Lionel, Third son unto King Edward, ought succeed 1 And take possession of the diadem Before this Harry or his father-king, Who fetch their title but from Lancaster, 'ourth of that royal line. And being thus, What reason is't but she should have her right ? Scroop. I am resolved : our enterprise is just. Grey. Harry shall die, or else resign his crown. Char. Perform but that, and Charles, the king of Shall aid you, lords, not only with his men, [France, 3ut send you money to maintain your wars : five hundred thousand crowns he bade me proffer, [f you can stop but Harry's voyage for France. Scroop. We never had a fitter time than now, The realm in such division as it is. Cam. Besides, you must persuade you there is due Vengeance for Richard's murder, which, although It be deferred, yet will it fall at last, And now as likely as another time. Sin hath had many years to ripen in, And now the harvest can not be far off, Wherein the weeds of usurpation Are to be cropped and cast into the fire. Scroop. No more, Earl Cambridge ; here I plight To set up thee and thy renowned wife. [my faith Grey. Grey will perform the same, as he is knight. Char. And, to assist ye, as I said before, Chartres doth 'gage the honor of his king. Scroop. We lack but now Lord Cobham's fellow- And then our plot were absolute indeed. [ship, Cam. Doubt not of him, my lord ; his life pursued By the incensed clergy, and, of late, Brought in displeasure with the king assures He may be quickly won unto our faction. Who hath the articles were drawn at large Of our whole purpose ? Grey. That have I, my lord. Cam. We should not now be far off from his house ; Our serious conference hath beguiled the way : See where his castle stands ; give me the writing. When we are come unto the speech of him, Because we will not stand to make recount Of that which hath been said, here he shall read Our minds at large, and what we crave of him. Enter Lord COBHAM. Scroop. A ready way. Here comes the man him- self, Booted and spurred : it seems he hath been riding. Cam. Well met, Lord Cobham. Cob. My lord of Cambridge, Your honor is most welcome into Kent, And all the rest of this fair company. I am new come from London, gentle lords ; But will ye not take Cowling* for your host,' And see what entertainment it affords ? Cam. We were intended to have b^en your guests : But now this lucky meeting shall suffice To end our business, and defer that kindness. 1 " Proceed" is the word in the old copy, and was no doubt so in the original, but only in the sense of succeed or follow, so that the present word is the proper one. a Cowling was the name of Lord Cobham's seat in Kent 3 Query : post ? ACT III. SCENE I. 101 Cob. Business, my lord ? what business should let You to be merry ? We have no delicates ; Yet this I'll promise you : a piece of venison, A cup of wine, and so forth hunters' fare ; And, if you please, we'll strike the stag ; ourselves Shall fill our dishes with his well-fed flesh. Scroop. That is indeed the thing we all desire. Cob. "My lords, and you shall have your choice with me. Cam. Nay, but the stag which we desire to strike Lives not in Cowling : if you will consent, . And go with us, we'll bring you to a forest Where runs a lusty herd : among the which There is a stag superior to the rest ; A stately beast, that, when his fellows run, He leads the race, and beats the sullen earth As though he scorned it with his trampling hoofs ; Aloft he bears his head, and with his breast, Like a huge bulwark, counter-checks the wind ; And, when he standeth still, he stretcheth forth His proud ambitious neck, as if he meant To wound the firmament with forked horns. Cub. 'Tis pity such a goodly beast should die. Cam. Not so, Sir John, for he is tyrannous, And gores the other deer, and will not keep Within the limits are appointed him. Of late he's broke into a several, Which doth belong to me, and there he spoils Both corn and pasture. Two of his wild race, Alike tor stealth and covetous encroaching. Already are removed ; if he were dead, I should not only be secure from hurt, But with his body make a royal feast. Scroop. How say you, then? will you first hunt with us ? Cob. 'Faith, lords, I like the pastime ; where's the place ? Cam. Peruse this writing : it will show you all, And what occasion we have for the sport. [Presents the paper. Cob. [Read*]. Call ye this hunting, lords ? Is this the stag You fain would chase Harry, our most dread king ? So may we make a banquet for the devil, And, in the stead of wholesome meat, prepare A dish of poison to confound ourselves ! Cam. Why so, Lord Cobham ? See you not our And how imperiously he holds the crown ? [claim ? Scroop. Besides, you know yourself is in disgrace, Held as a recreant, and pursued to death. This will defend you from your enemies, And 'stablish your religion through the land. Cob. [Aside] . Notorious treason ! yet I will conceal My secret thoughts, to sound the depth of it. My lord of Cambridge, I do see your claim, And what good may redound unto the land By prosecuting of this enterprise. But where are men? where's power and furniture To order such an action ? We are weak ; Harry, you know's a mighty potentate. Cam. Tut, we are strong enough ; you are beloved, And many will be glad to follow you ; We are the like, and some will follow us ; Theie's hope from France : here's an embassador That promiseth both men and money too. The commons likewise, as we hear, pretend A sudden tumult : we will join with them. Cob. Some likelihood, I must confess, to speed : But how shall I believe this in plain truth ? You are, my lords, such men as live in court, And have been highly favored of the king, Especially Lord Scroop, whom oftentimes He maketh choice of for his bed-fellow ; And you, Lord Grey, are of his privy council ; Is not this a train laid to entrap my life ? Cam. Then perish may my soul ! What ! think you so ? Scroop. We'll swear to you. Grey. Or take the sacrameni- Cob. Nay, you are noblemen, and I imagine, As you are honorable by birth and blood, So you will be in heart, in thought, in word. I crave no other testimony but this : That you would all subscribe, and set your hands Unto this writing which you gave to me. Cam. With all our hearts. Who hath any pen and ink? Scroop. My pocket should have one : O, here it is. Cam. Give it me, Lord Scroop. There is my name. Scroop. And there is mine. Grey. And m : ne. Cob. sir, let me crave That you would likewise write your name with theirs, For confirmation of your master's words, The king of France. Char. That will I, noble lord. Cob. So, now, this action is well knit together, And I am for you. Where's our meeting, lords ? Com. Here, if you please, the tenth of July next. Cob. In Kent ? Agreed. Now let us in to supper; I hope your honors will not away to-night. Cam. Yes, presently, for I have far to ride, About soliciting of other friends. Scroop. And we would not be absent from the court, Lest thereby grow suspicion in the king. Cob. Yet taste a cup of wine before ye go. Cam. Not now, my lord, we thank you : so fare- well. [Exeunt SCROOP, GREY, CAMERID&E, and CFIARTRES. Cob. Farewell, my noble lords ! my noble lord* !' My noble villains, base conspirators ! How can they look his highness in the face, Whom they so closely study to betray ? But I'll not sleep until I make it known: This head shall not be burdened with such thoughts^ Nor in this heart will 1 conceal a deed Of such impiety against my king. Madam, how now ? Enter Lady COBHAM, Lord Powis, Lady Powis, ana HARPOOL. Lady Cob. You're welcome home, my lord. Why seem you so unquiet in your looks ? What hath befallen you that disturbs your mind ? Lady Pow. Bad news. I am afraid, touching my husband. Cob. Madam, not so : there is your husband's par- don. Long may ye live, each joy unto the other ! Lady Pow. So great a kindness, as I know not how To make reply : my sense is quite confounded. Cob. Let that alone ; and, madam, stay me not, For I must back unto the court again, With all the speed I can. Harpool, my horse.. 102 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. Lady Cob. So soon, my lord? what, will you ride all night ? Cob. All night or day : it must be so, sweet wife ; Urge me not why, or what my business is, But get you in. Lord Powis, bear with me. And, madam, think your welcome ne'er the worse ; My house is at your use. Harpool, away ! Har. Shall I attend your lordship to the court ? Co 1 ). Yea, sir ; your gelding mount you presently. [Exit COBHAM. Lady Cob. I prythee, Harpool, look unto thy lord ; I do not like this sudden posting back. Pow. Some earnest business is afoot, belike ; Whate'er it be, pray God be his good guide. J.ndy Pow. Amen, that hath so highly us bestead. L-idy Cob. Come, madam, and my lord, we'll hope You shall not into Wales till he return. [the best ; Pow. Though great occasion be we should depart, Yet. madam, will we stay, to be resolved Of this unlooked-for, doubtful accident. [Exeunt. SCKNE II. A Road near Highgate. Enter MURLEY and Followers. Mur. Come, my hearts of flint, modestly, decently, soberly, and handsomely ; no man afore his leader : follow your master, your captain, your knight that shall be, for the honor of mealmen, millers, and malt- men. Dun is the mouse. Dick and Tom, for the credit of Dunstable, ding down the enemy to-morrow. Ye shall not come into the field like beggars. Where be Leonard and Lawrence, my two loaders ? Lord have mercy upon us, what a world is this ! I would give a couple of shillings for a dozen of good feathers for ye, and forty pence for as many scarfs to set you out withal. Frost and snow ! a mau has no heart to fight till he be brave. Dick. Master, we are no babes, our town footballs can bear witness ; this little 'parel we have shall off, and we'll fight naked before we run away. Tom. Nay. I'm of Lawrence' mind for that, for he means to leave his life behind him ; he and Leonard, your two loaders, are making their wills, because they have wives ; now, we bachelor^ bid our friends scramble for our goods if we die. But, master, pray let me ride upon Cut. Mur. Meal and salt, wheat and malt, fire and tow, frost and snow ! why, Tom, thou shall. Let me see : here are you ; William and George are with my cart ; and Robin and Hodge holding my own two horses; proper men, handsome men, tall men, true men. Dick. But, master, master, methinks you are mad to hazard your own person, and a cartload of money too. Tom. Yea, and master, there's a worse matter in't : if it be, as I heard say, we go fight against all the learned bishops, that should give us their bles- sing, and if they curse us, we shall speed ne'er the better. Dick. Nay, by'r lady, some say the king takes their part ; and, master, dare you fight against the king ? Mur. Fie ! paltry, paltry ; in and out, to and fro, upon occasion ; if the king be so unwise to come there, we'll fight with him too. Tom. What if ye should kill the king. Mur. Then we'll make another. Dick. Is that all ? Do ye not speak treason ? Mur. If we do, who dare trip us? We come to fight for our conscience and for honor. Little know you what is in my bosom : look here, mad knaves, a pair of gilt spurs. Tom. A pair of golden spurs ? Why do you not put them on your heels ? Your bosom's no place foi spurs. Mur. Be't more or less upon occasion, Lord have mercy upon us. Tom, thou'rt a fool, and thou speak'st treason to knighthood. Dare any wear gold or silver spurs, till he be a knight ? No. I shall be knighted to-morrow, and then they shall on. Sirs, was it ever read in the church-book of Dunstable. that ever malt-man was made knight? Tom. No; but you are more; you are meal-man, malt-man, miller, corn-master, and all. Dick. Yea, and half a r"-wer *oo and the devil and all for wealth. You bring more money with you than all the rest. Mur. The more's my honor. I shall be a knight to- morrow. Let me 'spose my men ; Tom upon Cut, Dick upon Hob, Hodge upon Ball, Ralph upon Sorrel, and Robin upon the fore-horse. Enter ACTON, BOURN, and BEVERLEY. Tom. Stand : who comes there ? Acton. All friends, good fellow. Mur. Friends and fellows, indeed, Sir Roger. Acton. Why, thus you show yourself a gentleman, To keep your day, and come so well prepared. Your cart stands yonder guarded by your men, Who tell me it is laden well with coin ; What sum is there ? Mur. Ten thousand pound, Sir Roger; and mod- estly, decently, soberly, and handsomely, see what 1 have here, against I be knighted. Acton. Gilt spurs ? 'Tis well. Mur. Where's our army, sir? Acton. Dispersed in sundry villages about ; Some here with us in Highgate, some at Finchley Tot'nam, Enfield, Edmunton, Newington, Islington, Hogsdon, Pancras, Kensington ; Some nearer Thames, Rateliff, Blackwall, and Bow But our chief strength must be the Londoners, Which, ere the sun to-morrow shine, Will be near fifty thousand in the field. Mur. Marry, God dild ye. dainty my dear ; but upon occasion, Sir Roger Acton, doth not the king know of it, and gather his power against us ? Acton. No, he's secure at Eltham. Mur. What do the clergy ? Acton. They fear extremely, yet prepare no force. Mur. In and out, to and fro ; bully my boykin, we shall carry the world afore us. I vow, by my wor- ship, when I am knighted, we'll take the king nap- ping, if he stand on their part. Acton. This night we few in High-gate will repose ; With the first cock we'll rise and arm o'urselves, To be in Picket-field by break of day, And there expect our general, Sir John Oldcaslle, Mur. What if he comes not ? Bourn. Yet our action stands ; Sir Roger Acton may supply his place. Mur. True, Master Bourn, but who shall make me knight ? Bev. He that hath power to be our general. ACT III. SCENE IV. 103 Act. Talk not of trifles ; come, let us away, Our friends of London long till it be day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A High Road in Kent. Enter Sir JOHN of Wrotham, and DOLL. Doll. By my troth, thou art as jealous a man as lives. .Sir John. Canst thou blame me, Doll ? thou art my lands, my goods, my jewels, my wealth, my purse ; none walks within forty miles of London, but supplies thee as truly, as the parish does the poor man's box. Doll. I am as true to thee as the* stone is in the wall, and thou knowest well enough I was in as good doing, when I came to thee, as any wench need to be : and therefore thou hast tried me, that thou hast : and I will not be kept as I have been, that I will not. Sir John. Doll, if this blade hold, there's not a pedlar walks with a pack, but thou shalt as boldly choose of his wares, as with thy ready money in a merchant's shop ; we'll have as good silver as the king coins any. Doll. What, is all the gold spent you took the last day from the courtier ? Kir John. 'Tis gone, Doll, 'tis flown ; merrily come, merrily gone ; he comes a-horseback that must pay for all ; we'll have as good meat as money can get, and as good gowns as can be bought for gold : be merry, wench ; the malt-man comes on Monday. Doll. You might have left me at Cobham, until you had been better provided for. Sir John. No, sweet Doll, no ; I like not that ; yon old ruffian is not for the priest : I do not like a new clerk should come in the told belfrey. Doll. Thou art a mad priest, i'faith. Sir John. Come, Doll, I'll see thee safe at some alehouse here at Cray, and the next sheep that comes, shall leave behind his fleece. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Blackheath. Enter King HENRY, disguised ; SUFFOLK, and BUTLEH. A'. Hen. My lord of Suffolk, post away for life, And let our forces, of such horse and foot, As can be gathered up by any means, Make speedy rendezvous in Tothill-fields. It must be done this evening, my good lord ; This night the rebels mean to draw to head Near Islington ; which, if your speed prevent not If once they should unite their several forces Their power is almost thought invincible. Away, my lord, I will be with you soon. Svff. I go, my sovereign, with all happy speed. X. Hen. Make haste, my lord of Suffolk, as you love us. [Exit SUFFOLK. Butler, post you to London with all speed : Command the mayor and sheriffs, on their allegiance, The city-gates be presently shut up, And guarded with a strong sufficient watch, And not a man be suffered to pass, Without a special warrant from ourself. Command the postern by the tower be kept, And proclamation, on the pain of death, That not a citizen stir from his doors, Except such as the mayor and sheriffs shall choose For their own guard, and safety of their persons : Butler, away, have care unto thy 1 charge. 1 Written, " my charge," elsewhere. But. I go, my sovereign. Jf. Hen. Butler ! But. My lord ? J{. Hen. Go down by Greenwich, and command a boat, At the Friars-bridge attend my coming down. But. I will, my lord. [Exit BUTLER. K. Hen. 'Tis time, I think, to look unto rebellion, When Acton doth expect unto his aid, No less than fifty thousand Londoners. Well, I'll to Westminster in this disguise, To hear what news is stirring in these brawls. Enter Sir JOHN of Wrotham, and DOLL. Sir John. Stand, true-man, says a thief. K. Hen. Stand, thief, says a true man : how if a thief? Sir John. Stand, thief, too. K. Hen. Then, thief or true-man, I must stand, I see, Howsoe'er the world wags, trade of thieving yet Will never down. What art thou ? Sir John. A good fellow. K. Hen. And so am I, too ; I see that thou dost know me. Sir John. If thou be a good fellow, play the good fellow's part ; deliver thy purse without more ado. K. Hen. I have no money. Sir John. I must make you find some before we part. If you have no money, you shall have ware ; as many sound blows as your skin can carry. K. Hen. Is that the plain truth ? Sir John. Sirrah, no more ado ; come, come ; give me the money you have. Despatch, I can not stand all day. K. Hen. Well, if thou wilt needs have it, there it is : just the proverb, one thief robs another. Where the devil are all my old thieves ? Falstaff, that vil- lain, is so fat, he can not get on's horse ; but me- thinks Poins and Peto should be stirring hereabouts. Sir John. How much is there on't,o'thy word? K. Hen. A hundred pound in angels, on my word. The time has been I would have done as much For thee, if thou hadst past this way, as I Have now. Sir John. Sirrah, what art thou? thou seem'st a gentleman. K. Hen. I am no less ; yet a poor one now, for thou hast all my money. Sir John. From whence cam'st thou ? K. Hen. From the court at Eltham. Sir John. Art thou one of the king's servants ? K. Hen. Yes, that I am, and one of his chamber. Sir John. I am glad thou'rt no worse : Ihou may'st the better spare thy money. I think thou might'st get a poor thief his pardon if he should have need. K. Hen. Yes, that I can. Sir John. Wilt thou do so much for me, when I shall have occasion ? K. Hen. Yes, faith will I, so it be for no murder. Sir John. Nay, I am a pitiful thief; all the hurt I do a man, I take but his purse : I'll kill no man. K. Hen. Then, on my word, I'll do't. Sir John. Give me thy hand on the same. K. Hen. There 'tis. Sir John. Metbinks the king should be good to 104 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. thieves, because he has been a thief himself, although I think now he be turned a true man. K. Hen. 'Faith, I have heard, indeed, he has had an ill name that way in his youth: but how canst thou tell that he has been a thief? Sir John. How? because he once robbed me before I fell to the trade myself, when that foul villanous guts, that led him to all that roguery, was in his company there ; that Falstaff. K. Hen. [aside]. Well, if he did rob thee then, thou art but even with him, now, I'll be sworn. Thou knowest not the king now, I think, if thou sawest him? Sir John. Not I, i'faith. K. Hen, [aside] . So it should seem. Sir John. Well, if old King Harry had lived, this king, that is now, had made thieving the best trade in England. K. Hen. Why so ? Sir John. Because he was the chief warden of our company. It's pity that e'er he should have been a king, he was so brave a thief. But, sirrah, wilt re- member my pardon, if need be ? K. Hen. Yes, faith, will I. Sir John. Wilt thou ? well, then, because thou shall go safe, for thou may'st hap (being so early) be met with again before thou come to Southwark, if any man when he should bid thee good morrow, bid thee stand, say thou but Sir John, and they will let thee pass. K. Hen. Is that the word? then let me alone. Sir John. Nay, sirrah, because I think, indeed, I shall have some occasion to use thee, and as thou comest oft this way, I may light on thee another time, not knowing thee, here, I'll break this angel ; take thou half of it ; this is a token betwixt thee and me. K. Hen. God-a-mercy : farewell. [Exit. Sir John. 0, my fine golden slaves ! here's for thee, wench, i'faith. Now, Doll, we will revel in our bever, 1 this is a tythe pig of my vicarage. God-a-mercy, neighbor Shooter's Hill, you ha' paid your tythe hon- estly. Well, I hear there is a company of rebels up against the king, got together in Ficket-field, near Holborn, and as it is thought, here in Kent, the king will be there to-night in his own person. Well, I'll to the king's camp, and it shall go hard, if there be any doings, but I'll make some good boot among them. [Exeunt, ACT IV. SCENE I. A Field near London. King HENRY'S Camp. Enter King HENRY, disguised ; SUFFOLK, HUNTINGTON, and Attendants, with torches. K. Hen. My lords of Suffolk and of Huntington, Who scouts it now? or who stand sentinels? What men of worth ? what lords do walk the round ? Suff. May't please your highness K. Hen. Peace, no more of that : The king's asleep, wake not his majesty, 1 Sever was the intermediate refreshment between break- fast and dinner. The term is now used among harvestmen and other laborers. It is a meal between meals. With terms or titles ; he's at rest in bed. Kings do not use to watch themselves ; they sleep, And let rebellion and conspiracy Revel and havoc in the commonwealth. Is London looked unto ? Hunt. It is, my lord : Your noble uncle, Exeter, is there, Your brother Gloster, and my lord of Warwick ; Who, with the mayor and the aldermen, Do guard the gates, and keep good rule within. The earl of Cambridge and Sir Thomas Grey Do walk the round ; Lord Scroop and Butler scout ; So, though it please your majesty to jest, Were you in bed, you well might take your rest. K. Hen. I thank ye, lords : but you do know of old, That I have been a perfect night-walker. London, you say, is safely looked unto, Alas, poor rebels, there your aid must fail ; And the lord Cobham, Sir John Oldcastle, Quiet in Kent. Acton, you are deceived : Reckon again ; you count without your host. To-morrow you shall give account to us ; Till when, my friends, this long, cold winter's night, How can we spend ? King Harry is asleep, And all his lords ; these garments tell us so ; All friends at football, fellows all in field. Harry, and Dick, and George. Bring us a drum. Give us square dice ; we'll keep this court of guard, For all good fellows' companies that come. Where's that mad priest ye told me was in arms To fight, as well as pray, if need required ? Suff. He's in the camp, and if he knew of this, I undertake he would not long be hence. K. Hen. Trip Dick, trip George. [Here] I must have the dice : What do we play at ? 9 Suff. Passage, 3 if ye please. Hunt. Set round, then : so ; at all. K. Hen. George, you are out. Give me the dice; I pass for twenty pound; Here's to our lucky passage into France. Hunt, Harry, you pass, indeed, for you sweep all. Suff. A sign King Harry shall sweep all in France. Enter Sir JOHN of Wrotham. Sir John. Edge ye, good fellows ; take a fresh gamester in. K. Hen. Master parson, we play nothing but gold ? Sir John. And, fellow, I tell thee that the priest hath gold, gold ! what ? ye are but beggarly soldiers to me ; I think I have more gold than all you three. Hunt. It may be so, but we believe it not. K Hen. Set, priest, set : I pass for all that gold. Sir John. Ye pass, indeed. K. Hen. Priest, hast anymore? Sir John. More ? what a question's that ? I tell thee, I have more than all you three. At these ten angels. K. Hen. I wonder how thou comest by all this gold. How many benefices hast thou, priest ? 2 This sentence, in the old copies, is given to Huntington. 3 Passage was a game at tables so Steevens. But this tells us nothing. Passage was a game at dice, played with three dice, and with only two persons. The caster throws continually till he has thrown doublets under ten, and then he is out and loses ; or doublets above ten, and then he passes and wins ; high runners are most requisite for this game, such as will rarely run any other chance than. four, five, or six, by which means, if the caster throws doublets, he scarcely can throw oUL ACT IV. SCENE I. 105 Sir John. 'Faith, but one. Dost wonder how I come by gold ? I wonder rather how poor soldiers should have gold : for I'll tell thee, good fellow, we have ev- ery day tithes, offerings, christenings, weddings, buri- als ; and you poor snakes come seldom to a booty. I'll speak a proud word : I have but one parsonage; Wrotham ; 'tis better than the bishopric of Roches- ter ; there's ne'er a hill, heath, nor down, in all Kent, hut 'tis in my parish ; Barrham-down, Cobham-down, Gad's-hill, Wrotham-hill, Black-heath, Cocks'-heath, Birchen-wood all pay me tithe. Gold, quoth-a ? ye pass not for that. Stiff. Harry, you are out ; now, parson, shake the dice. Sir John. Set, set; I'll cover ye; at all. A plague on't, I am out : the devil, and dice, and a wench; who will trust them ? Suff. Say'st thou so, priest ? set fair; at all for once. K. Hen. Out, sir ; pay all. Sir John. Sir, pay me angel gold ; I'll none of your cracked French crowns nor pistolets, Pay me fair angel gold, as I pay you. K. Hen. No cracked French crowns [do you say] ? I hope to see More cracked French crowns ere long. Sir John.. Thou mean'st of Frenchmen's crowns, when the king's in France. Hunt. Set round ; at all. Sir John. Pay all : this is some luck. K. Hen. Give me the dice ; 'tis I must shred the priest. At all, Sir John. Sir John. The devil and all is yours. At that. 'Sdeath ! what casting's this ? Suff. Well thrown, Harry, i'faith. K. Hen. I'll cast better yet. Sir John. Then I'll be hanged. Sirrah, hast thou not given thy soul to the devil for casting ? K. Hen. I pass for all. Sir John. Thou passest all that e'er I played with- Sirrah, dost thou not cog, nor foist, nor slurr ? [al : K. Hen. Set, parson, set ; the dice die in my hand. When, parson, when? what, can ye find no more ? Already dry ? was't yoij bragged of your store ? Sir John. All's gone but that. Hunt. What, half a broken angel ? Sir John. Why, sir, 'tis gold. K. Hen. Yea, and I'll cover it. Sir John. The devil give ye good on't ! I am blind. You have blown me up. K. Hen. Nay, tarry, priest ; you shall not leave u: Do not these pieces fit each other well ? [yet : Sir John. What if they do ? K. Hen. Thereby begins a tale : There was a thief, in face much like Sir John, But 'twas not he that thief was all in green Met me last day on Black-heath, near the park ; With him a woman. I was all alone And weaponless ; my boy had all my tools, And was before, providing me a boat. Short tale to make, Sir John the thief, I mean- Took a just hundred pound in gold from me. I stormed at it, and swore to be revenged If e'er we met ; he, like a lusty thief, Brake with his teeth this angel just in two, To be a token at our meeting next, Provided I should charge no officer To apprehend him, but at weapon's point lecover that, and what he had beside. Well met, Sir John : betake ye to your tools, By torchlight ; for, master parson, you are he That had my gold. Sir John. 'Zounds ! I won it in play, in fair square lay, of the keeper of Eltham-park ; and that I will maintain with this poor whyniard. Be you two hon- st men to stand and look upon us and let us alone, and neither part ? K. Hen. Agreed ; I charge ye do not budge a foot. Sir John, have at ye ! Sir John. Soldier, 'ware your sconce. As they are preparing to engage, enter BUTLER, and draws his sword to part them. But. Hold, villain, hold ! My lords, what do ye To see a traitor draw against the king ? [mean, Sir John. The king ? God's will ! I'm in a proper pickle. K. Hen. Butler, what news ? why dost thou trouble us? But. Please it, your majesty, it is break of day, And as I scouted near to Islington, The gray-eyed morning gave me glimmering Of armed men coming down Highgate-hill, Who, by their course, are coasting hitherward. K. Hen. Let us withdraw, my lords ; prepare our To charge the rebels, if there be such cause, [troops For this lewd priest, this devilish hypocrite, That is a thief, a gamester, and what not, Let him be hanged up for exampie : s sake. Sir John. Not so, my gracious sovereign. I con- fess I am a frail man flesh and blood as other are ; but set my imperfections aside, ye have not a taller man, nor a truer subject to the crown and state, than Sir John of Wrotham is. K. Hen. Will a true subject rob his king ? Sir John. Alas ! 'twas ignorance and want, my gra- cious liege. K. Hen. 'Twas want of grace. Why, you should To season others with good document ; [be as salt Your lives, as lamps to give the people light ; As shepherds, not as wolves to spoil the flock : Go hang him, Butler. But. Didst thou not rob me ? Sir John. I must confess I saw some of your gold ; but, my dread lord, I am in no humor for death : God wills that sinners live : do not you cause me to die. Once in their lives the best may go astray, And if the world say true, yourself, my liege, Have been a thief. K. Hen. I do confess I have, But I repent and have reclaimed myself. Sir John. So will I do, if you will give me time. K. Hen. Wilt thou ? My lords, will you be sure- ties? Hunt. That, when he robs again, he shall be hanged. Sir John. I ask no more. K. Hen. And we will grant thee that. Live and repent, and prove an honest man ; Which, when I hear, and safe return from France, I'll give thee living : till when, take thy gold, But spend it better than at cards or wine, For better virtues fit that coat of thine. Sir John. Vivat rex, et currat lex. My liege, if ye have cause of battle, ye shall see Sir John bestir him- self in your quarrel. [Exeunt. 106 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. SCENE II. A Field of Battle near London. Alarum. Enter King HENRY, SUFFOLK, HUNTING-TON ; Sir JOHN bringing in ACTON, BEVERLEY, and MUR- I.EY, Prisoners. K. Hen. Bring in those traitors, whose aspiring Thought to have triumphed in our overthrow, [minds But now ye see, base villains, what success Attends ill actions wrongfully attempted. Sir Roger Acton, thou retain'st the name Of knight, and shouldst be more discreetly tempered Than join with peasants ; gentry is divine, But thou hast made it more than popular. Acton. Pardon, my lord ; my conscience urged me to it. K. Hen. Thy conscience ! then thy conscience is corrupt, For in thy conscience thou art bound to us, And in thy conscience thou shouldst love thy country ; Else what's the difference betwixt a Christian And the uncivil manners of the Turk ? Bee. We meant no hurt unto your majesty, But reformation of religion. K. Hen. Reform religion ? was it that you sought ? I pray who gave you that authority ? Belike, then, we do hold the sceptre up, And sit within the throne but for a cipher. Time was, good subjects would make known their And pray amendment, not enforce the same, {grief, Unless their king were tyrant ; which I hope You can not justly say that Harry i- What is that other ? Suff. A malt-man, my lord, And dwelling in Dunstable, as he says. K. Hen. Sirrah, what made you leave your barley- To come in armor thus against your king ? [broth, Mur. Fie ! paltry, paltry, to and fro, in and out up- on occasion, what a world is this ! Knighthood, my liege ; 'twas knighthood brought me hither ; they told me I had wealth enough to make my wife a lady. K. Hen. And so you brought those horses which we saw Trapped all in costly furniture, and meant To wear these spurs when you were knighted once ? Mur. In and out upon occasion, I did. K. Hen. In and out upon occasion, therefore, You shall be hanged, and in the stead of wearing These spurs upon your heels, about your neck They shall bewray your folly to the world. Sir John. In and out upon occasion, that goes hard. Mur. Fie ! paltry, paltry, to and fro. Good my liege, a pardon ; I am sorry for my fault. K. Hen. That comes too late : but tell me, went Beside Sir Roger Acton, upon whom [there none You did depend to be your governor ? Mur. None, my lord, but Sir John Oldcastle. K. Hen. Bears he a part in this conspiracy ? Acton. We looked, my lord, that he would meet us here. K. Hen. But did he promise you that he would come? Acton. Such letters we received forth of Kent. Enter the Bishop of ROCHESTER. Bith. Where is my lord the king ? Health to your grace. Examining, my lord, some of these rebels, It is a general voice among them all, That they had never come into this place, But to have met their valiant general, The good Lord Cobham, as they title him : Whereby, my lord, your grace may now perceive His treason is apparent, which before He sought to color by his flattery. K. Hen. Now, by my royalty, I would have sworn, But for his conscience, which I bear withal, There had not lived a more true-hearted subject. Bish. It is but counterfeit, my gracious lord, And therefore may it please your majesty To set your hand unto this precept here, By which we'll cause him forthwith to appear, And answer this by order of the law. K. Hen. Not only that, but take commission To search, attach, imprison, and condemn, This most notorious traitor as you please. Bish. It shall be done, my lord, without delay. So now I hold, Lord Cobham, in my hand, That which shall finish thy disdained life. [A fide and exit. K. Hen. I think the iron age begins but now, Which learned poets have so often taught, Wherein there is no credit to be given To either words, or looks, or solemn oaths : For if there were, how often hath he sworn, How gently tuned the music of his tongue, And with what amiable face beheld he me, When all, God knows, was but hypocrisy ! Enter COBHAM. Cob. Long life and prosperous reign unto my lord ! K. Hen. Ah ! villain, canst thou wish prosperity, Whose heart includeth naught but treachery ? I do arrest thee here myself, false knight, Of treason capital against the state. Cob. Of treason, mighty prince ? your grace mis- takes, I hope it is but in the way of mirth. K. Hen. Thy neck shall feel it is in earnest shortly! Dar'st thou intrude into our presence, knowing How heinously thou hast offended us ? But this is thy accustomed deceit. Now, thou perceivest thy purpose is in vain, With some excuse or other thou wilt come To clear thyself of this rebellion. Cob. Rebellion, good my lord ? I know of none. K. Hen. If you deny it, here is evidence : See you these men ? You never counselled Nor offered them assistance in their wars ? Cob. Speak, sirs ; not one, but all : I crave no favor ! Have ever I been conversant with you ? Or written letters to encourage you ? Or kindled but the least or smallest part Of this your late unnatural rebellion ? Speak, for I dare the uttermost you can. Mur. In and out upon occasion, I know you not. K. Hen. No ? didst thou not say that Sir John Old- castle Was one with whom you purposed to have met ? Mur. True, I did say so, but in what respect ? Because I heard it was reported so. K. Hen. Was there no other argument but that ? Acton. To clear my conscience ere I die, my lord, I must confess we have no other ground, ACT IV. SCENE IV. 107 But only rumor to accuse this lord, Which now I see was merely fabulous. K. Hen. The more pernicious you to taint him, then, Whom you know was not faulty, yea or no. Cob. Let this, my lord, which 1 present your grace, Speak for my loyalty. Read these articles, And then give sentence of my life or death. K. Hen. Earl Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, cor- rupted With bribes from Charles of France, either to win My crown from me, or secretly contrive My death by treason ! Is't possible ? Cob. There is the platform and their hands, my Each severally subscribed to the same. [lord, K. Hen. Oh, never-heard-of. base ingratitude ! Even those I hug within my bosom most, Are readiest evermore to sting my heart. Pardon me, Cobham, I have done thee wrong ; Hereafter I will live to make amends. Is, then, their time of meeting so near at hand? We'll meet with them but little for their ease, If God permit. Go, take these rebels hence : Let them have martial law ; but as for thee, Friend to thy king and country, still be free ! [Exeunt King HENRY and COBHAM. Mur. Be it more or less, what a world is this ! Would I had continued still of the order of knaves, And ne'er sought knighthood, since it costs so dear. Sir Roger, I may thank you for it all. Acton. Now 'tis too late to have it remedied, I pr'ythee, Murley, do not urge me with it. Hunt. Will you away, and make no more to-do ? Mur. Fie ! paltry, paltry, to and fro, as occasion serves ; if you be so hasty, take my place. Hunt. No, good sir knight, e'en take it for yourself. Mur. I could be glad to give my betters place. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in Lord COBHAM'S House in Kent.i Enter CAMBRIDGE, SCROOP, and GREY. They sit down at a Table. King HENRY, COBHAM, and other Lords, listening at the door. Cam. In mine opinion, Scroop hath well advised : Poison will be the only aptest mean, And fittest for our purpose, to despatch him. Grey. But yet there may be doubt in the delivery ; Harry is wise, and therefore, earl of Cambridge, I judge that way not so convenient. Scroop. What think ye, then, of this ? I am his And unsuspected nightly sleep with him. [bedfellow, What if I venture in those silent hours, When sleep hath sealed up all mortal eyes, To murder him in bed ? How like ye that ? Cam. Herein consists no safety for yourself, And you disclosed, what shall become of us ? But this day, as ye know, he will aboard The wind's so fair and set away for France : If, as he goes, or entering in the ship, It might be done then were it excellent. Grey. Why, any of these, or if you will, I'll cause 1 This scene, in previous editions, made the opening scene of the fifth act, but improperly, as it would then have shown Cobham arrested by the bishop before having assisted at the detection of the conspirators. I have transposed several of the scenes in the fourth and fifth acts, which were out of place in old editions. A present sitting of the council, wherein I will pretend some matter of such weight, As needs must have his royal company ; And so despatch him in his council-chamber. Cam. Tush ! yet I hear not anything to purpose. I wonder that Lord Cobham stays so long ; His counsel in this case would much avail us. Scroop. What, shall we rise thus, and determine nothing ? [ The King advances uith his Lords. K. Hen. That were a shame, indeed : no, sit again, And you shall have my counsel in this case. If you can find no way to kill the king, Then you shall see how I can furnish ye. Scroop's way, by poison, was indifferent, But yet, being bedfellow to the king, And unsuspected, sleeping in his bosom, In mine opinion that's the likelier way ; For such false friends are able to do much, And silent night is treason's fittest friend. Now, Cambridge, in his setting hence for France, Or by the way, or as he goes aboard, To do the deed that was indifferent too, But somewhat doubtful. Marry, Lord Grey came very near the point To have the king at council, and there murder him, As Caesar was among his dearest friends. Tell me, oh tell me, you bright honor's stains, For which of all my kindnesses to you Are ye become thus traitors to your king, And France must have the spoil of Harry's life ? All. Oh ! pardon us, dread lord. K. Hen. How ! pardon ye ? that were a sin indeed. Drag them to death, which justly they deserve : And France shall dearly buy this villany, So soon as we set footing on her breast. God have the praise for our deliverance ! And next, our thanks, Lord Cobham, unto thee, True, perfect mirror of nobility. \Exeitnt. SCENE IV. Kent. Court before Lord COBHAM'S House. Enter Bishop of ROCHESTER, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, CROMER, Lady COBHAM, and Attend- ants. Bish. I tell ye, lady, 'tis not possible But you should know where he conveys himself; And you have hid him in some secret place. Lady Cob. My lord, believe me, as I have a soul, I know not where my lord, my husband, is. Bish. Go to, go to ; you are a heretic, And will be forced by torture to confess, If fair means will not serve to make you tell. Lady Cob. My husband is a noble gentleman, And need not hide himself for any fact That e'er I heard of; therefore wrong him not. Bish. Your husband is a dangerous schismatic, Traitor to God, the king, and commonwealth ; And therefore, Master Cromer, sheriff of Kent, I charge you take her to your custody, And seize the goods of Sir John Oldcastle To the king's use : let her go in no more, To fetch so much as her apparel out ; There is your warrant from his majesty. Lord War. Good my lord bishop, pacify your wrath Against the lady. 108 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. Bisk. Then let her confess Where Oldcastle, her husband, is concealed. Lord War. I dare engage mine honor and my life, Poor gentlewoman, she is ignorant And innocent of all his practices If any evil by him be practised. Bish. If, my lord warden ? Nay, then I charge you That all the cinque-ports whereof you are chief, Be laid forthwith, that he escape us not. Show him his highness' warrant, master sheriff. Lnrd War. I am sorry for the noble gentleman. Bish. Peace ! here he comes : now do your office, sir. Enter COBHAM and HARPOOL. Cob. Harpool, what business have we here in hand ? What makes the bishop and the sheriff here ? I fear my coming home is dangerous : I would I had not made such haste to Cowling. Har. Be of good cheer, my lord : if they be foes, We'll scramble shrewdly with them ; if they be friends, They are welcome. Crom. Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, in the king's name, I arrest you of high-treason. Cob. Treason, Master Cromer? Har. Treason, master sheriff? what treason ? Cob. Harpool, I charge thee stir not, but be quiet. Do ye arrest me of treason, master sheriff? Bish. Yea, of high-treason, traitor, heretic ! Cob. Defiance in his face that calls me so ! I am a loyal gentleman ; as true Unto his highness as my proudest enemy. The king shall witness my late faithful service, For safety of his sacred majesty. Bish. What thou art, the king's hand shall testify : Show him, lord warden. Cob. Jesu defend me ! Is't possible your cunning could so temper The princely disposition of his mind, To sign the damage of a loyal subject ? Well, the best is, it bears an antedate, Procured by my absence and your malice. But I, since that, have showed myself as true As any churchman that dare challenge me. Let me be brought before his majesty : If he acquit me not, then do your worst. Bish. We are not bound to do kind offices For any traitor, schismatic, or heretic: The king's hand is our warrant for our work, Who is departed on his way for France, And at Southampton doth repose this night. Har. that thou and I were within twenty miles of it, on Salisbury plain ! I would lose my head if thou brought'st thy head hither again. [Aside. Cob. My lord warden o' the cinque-ports, and lord of Rochester, ye are joint commissioners : favor me so much on my expense, to bring me to the king. Bish. What, to Southampton ? Cob. Thither, my good lord ; And if he do not clear me of all guilt, And all suspicion of conspiracy, Pawning his princely warrant for my truth I ask no favor, but extremes! torture. Bring me, or send me to him, good my lord ; Good my lord warden, master sheriff, entreat. [ They both entreat for him. Come hither, lady ; nay, sweet wife, forbear To heap one sorrow on another's neck. 'Tis grief enough falsely to be accused, And not permitted to acquit myself: Do not thou, with thy kind, respective tears, Torment thy husband's heart that bleeds for thee, But be of comfort. God hath help in store For those that put assured trust in him. Dear wife, if they commit me to the Tower, Come up to London to your sister's house ; That, being near me, you may comfort me. One solace find I settled in my soul That I am free from treason's very thought : Only my conscience, for the gospel's sake, Is cause of all the troubles I sustain. Lady Cob. O, my dear lord, what shall betide of us ? You to the Tower, and I turned out of doors ; Our substance seized unto his highness' use, Even to the garments 'longing to our backs. Har. Patience, good madam, things at worst will mend, And if they do not, yet our lives may end. Bish. Urge it no more ; for if an angel spake, I swear by sweet Saint Peter's blessed keys, First goes he to the Tower, then to the stake ! Crom. But, by your leave, this warrant doth not To imprison her. [stretch Bish. No, turn her out of doors, Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower, With guard enough, for fear of rescuing. Lady Cob. O God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man ! Cob. May it not be, my lord of Rochester ? Wherein have I incurred your hate so far That my appeal unto the king's denied ? Bish. No hate of mine, but power of holy church, Forbids all favor to false heretics. Cob. Your private malice, more than public power, Strikes most at me ; but with my life it ends. Har. [aside] . that I had the bishop in that fear That once I had his sumner by ourselves ! Crom. My lord, yet grant one suit unto us all, That this same ancient servingman may wait Upon my lord, his master, in the Tower. Bish. This old iniquity, this heretic, That, in contempt of our church discipline, Compelled my sumner to devour his process ? Old ruffian past-grace, upstart schismatic, Had not the king prayed us to pardon you, You had fried for't, you grizzled heretic ! Har. 'Sblood ! my lord bishop, you wrong me ; I am neither heretic nor puritan, but of the old church. I'll swear, drink ale, kiss a wench, go to mass, eat fish all Lent, and fast Fridays with cakes and wine, fruit and spicery; shrive me of my old sins afore Easter, and begin new before Whitsuntide. Crom. A merry, mad, conceited knave, my lord. Har. That knave was simply put upon the bishop. Bish. Well, God forgive him, and I pardon him: Let him attend his master in the Tower, For I in charity wish his soul no hurt. Cob. God bless my soul from such cold charity ! Bish. To th' Tower with him ; and when my leisura I will examine him of articles. [serves Look, my lord warden, as you have 't in charge, The sheriff, perform his office. Lord War. Ay, my lord. [Exeunt Lord Warden, CROMER, and Lord COBHAJC. ACT V. SCENE I. 109 Enter, frvm Lord COBHAM'S House, Sumner with Books. Rish. What bring'st thou here? what ! books of heresy ? Sum. Yea, my lord, here's not a Latin book, No, not so much as Our Lady's psalter; Here's the Bible, the Testament, the Psalms in metre, The Sick Man's Salve, the Treasury of Gladness All English ; no, not so much but the almanac's Eng- lish. Bish. Away with them ! to the fire with them, Now fie upon these upstart heretics ! [Clun ! All English ! burn them, burn them quickly, Clun ! Har. But do not, sumner, as you'll answer it ; for I have there English books, my lord, that I'll not part withal for your bishopric : Bevis of Hampton, Oiclglass, the Friar and the Boy, Ellen of Rumming, Robin Hood, 1 and other such godly stories, which, if ye burn, by this flesh I'll make ye drink their ashes in Saint Marget's ale. [Exeunt Bishop of ROCHESTER, Lady COBHAM, HARPOOL, and Sumner. ACT V. SCENE I. The entrance of the Tower. Enter the Bishop of ROCHESTER, attended. 1 Serv. Is it your honor's pleasure we shall stay, Or come back in the afternoon to fetch you ? Bish. Now have ye brought me here unto the Tow- You may go back unto the porter's lodge, [er, Where, if I have occasion to employ you, I'll send some officer to call you to me. Into the city go not, I command you : Perhaps I may have present need to use you. 2 Serv. We will attend your honor here without. 3 Serv. Come, we may have a quart of wine at the Rose at Barking, and come back an hour before he'll go. 1 Serv. We must hie us, then. 3 Serv. Let's away. [Exeunt. Bish. Ho, master lieutenant ! Enter Lieutenant of the Tower. Lieut. Who calls there ? Bish. A friend of yours. Lieut. My lord of Rochester ! your honor's wel- come. Bish. Sir, here is my warrant from the council, For conference with Sir John Oldcastle, Upon some matter of great consequence. Lieut. Ho. Sir John ! Har. [within] . Who calls there ? Lieut. Harpool, tell Sir John, my lord of Rochester Comes from the council to confer with him. I think you may as safe without suspicion As any man in England, as I hear, For it was you most labored his commitment. Bish. I did, and naught repent it, I assure you. Enter Lord COBHAM and HARPOOL. Master lieutenant, I pray you, give us leave, I must confer here with Sir John a little. Lieut. With all my heart, my lord. [Ex. Lieut. i This was all the popular literature of that day. The ncrvingman of my Lord Cobham had quite a comprehensive library. Har. [aside] . My lord, be ruled by me, take this While it is offered, and, upon my life [occasion, Your lordship will escape. Cob. No more, I say : Peace, lest he should suspect it. Bish. Sir John, I come to you from the lords o' the council To know if you do yet recant your errors. Cob. My lord of Rochester, on good advice, I see my error ; but yet understand me ; I mean not error in the faith I hold, But error in submitting to your pleasure. Therefore, your lordship, without more ado, Must be a means to help me to escape. B-ish. What mean's! thou, heretic? Dar'st thou but lift thy hand against my calling? Cob. No, not to hurt you for a thousand pound. Har. Nothing but to borrow your upper garment a little: not a word more ; peace, for waking the chil- dren. There, put them on ; despatch, my lord ; the window that goes out into the leads is sure enough: as for you, I'll bind you surely in the inner room. [Carries the Bishop in, and returns. Cob. This is well begun ; God send us happy speed, Hard shift you see men make in time of need. [Puts on the Bishop's cloak. Re-enter the Bishop of ROCHESTER'S Servants. 1 Serv. I marvel that my lord should stay so long. 2 Serv. He hath sent to seek us, I dare lay my life. 3 Serv. We come in good time ; see where he is coming. Har. I beseech you, good my lord of Rochester, Be favorable to my lord and master. Cob. The inner rooms be very hot and close, I do not like this air here in the Tower. Har. His case is hard, my lord. You shall safely* get out of the Tower, but I will down upon them : in which time get you away. Hard under Islington wait my coming : I will bring my lady ready with horses to get hence. [Aside.'] Cob. Fellow, go back again unto thy lord, And counsel him. Har. Nay, my good lord of Rochester, I'll bring you to St. Alban's, through the woods, I warrant you. Cob. Villain, away. Har. Nay, since I am past the Tower's liberty, You part not so. [He draws. Cob. Clubs, clubs, clubs. 1 Sere. Murther, murther, murther. [ They set upon HARPOOL. 2 Serv. Down with him. Har. Out, you cowardly rogues. [COBHAM escapes. Enter Lieutenant of the Tower, and Warder. Lieut. Who is so bold as dare to draw a sword So near unto the entrance of the Tower ? 1 Serv. This ruffian, servant to Sir John Oldcastle, Was like to have slain my lord. Lieut. Lay hold on him. Har. Stand off, if you love your puddings. Subsequent editions read " scarcely." Harpool is a littie confused. It may be scarcely, or safely, but either word re- quires you to make allowances for the disorder of the sen- tence. 110 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. J)ish. [within]. Help, help, help, master lieutenant ; help .' Lieut. Who's that within ? some treason in the Tower, Upon my life ; look in ; who's that who calls? [Exit one of the Warders within, and re-enter with the Bishop of ROCHESTER, bound. Lieut. Without your cloak, my lord of Rochester ? Har. There, now I see it works ; then let me speed, For now's the fittest time to 'scape away. [Exit HARPOOL. Lieut. Why do you look so ghastly and affrighted ? Bish. Oldcastle, that foul traitor and his man, When you had left me to confer with him, Took, bound, and stript me, as you see me now, And left me lying in this inner chamber j And so departed. 1 Serv. And I Lieut. And you now say that the lord Cobham's Did here set on you, like to murder you? [man 1 Serv. And so he did. Bish. It was upon his master then he did, That, in the brawl, the traitor might escape. Lieut. Where is this Harpool? 2 Serv. Here he was, even now. Lieut. Fled ! Where? can you tell? Bish. They are both escaped ! Lieut. Since it so happens that he is escaped, I am glad you are a witness of the same : It might have else been laid unto my charge, That I had been consenting to the fact. Bish. Come ! Search shall be made for him with expedition, The haven's laid that he shall not escape, And hue and cry continue throughout England, To find this damned, dangerous heretic. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A High Road near St. Alban's. Enter Sir JOHN of Wrotham, and DOLL. Sir John. Come, Doll, come ; be merry, wench. Farewell, Kent ; we are not for thee. Be lusty, my lass. Come ! for Lancashire. We must nip the bung, 1 for these crowns. Doll. Why, is all the gold spent already, that you had the other day ? Sir John. Gone, Doll, gone ; flown, spent, vanished ; the devil, drink, and dice, have devoured all. Doll, You might have left me in Kent, till you had been better provided. Sir John. No, Doll, no ; Kent's too hot, Doll, Kent's too hot ; the weathercock of Wrotham will crow no longer ; we have plucked him ; he has lost his feath- ers ; I have pruned him bare ; left him thrice ; he is moulted ; he is moulted, wench. Doll. I might have gone to service, again ; old Master Harpool told me he would provide me a mis- tress. Sir John, Peace, Doll, peace ; come, mad wench, I'll make thee an honest woman ; we'll into Lanca- shire to our friends ; the truth is, I'll marry thee ; we want but a little money, and money we will have, I warrant thee : stay, who comes here ? some Irish villain, methinks, that has slain a man, and now is rifling of him. Stand close, Doll ; we'll see the end. 1 Bung a pickpocket Enter an Irishman, with his dead Master. He lays him down and rifles him. Irish. Alas, poe master, Sir Richard Lee: be St. Patrick, I'se rob and cut dy trote, for dy shain, and dy mony, and dygold ring. Be me truly, I'se love do well, but now dow be kill, dow be bastely 2 knave. Sir John. Stand, sirrah, what art thou ? Irish.. Be St. Patrick, mester, I'se poor Irishman; I'se a- leufter. 3 Sir John. Sirrah, sirrah, you're a damned rogue ; you have killed a man here, and rifled him of all that he has. 'Sblood,. you rogue, deliver, or I'll not leave you so much as a hair above your shoulders, you whorson Irish dog. [Robs him. Irish. We's me ! Be St. Patrick, I'se kill my mes- ter for his shain and his ring, and now's be rob of all. Me's undo. Sir John. Avaunt, you rascal ; go, sirrah; be walk- ing ! Come, Doll, the devil laughs when one thief robs another. Come, wench, we'll to St. Alban's, and revel in our bower, my brave girl. Doll. 0, thou art old 4 Sir John, when all's done, i'faith. [Exeunt. SCENE III. St. Alban's. The Entrance of a Carri- er's Inn. Enter Host and Irishman. Irish. Be me tro', mester, I'se poor Irishman. I'se want ludging ; I'se have no mony ; I'se starve and cold ; good mester, give hur some meat ; I'se famish and tie. Host. 'Faith, fellow, I have no lodging, but what I keep for my guests. As for meat, thou shall have as much as there is ; and if thou wilt lie in the barn there's fair straw, and room enough. Irish. I'se tank my mester, heartily. Host. Ho, Robin ! Enter ROBIW. Robin. Who calls ? Host. Show this poor Irishman to the barn ; go, sirrah. [Exeunt. Enter Carrier and KATE. Car. Who's within, here ? who looks to the hor- ses ? Uds heart, here's fine work : the hens in the maunger, and the hogs in the litter. A bots 'found you all ! here's a house well looked to, i'faith. Kate. Mas gaff Club, I'se very cawd. Cor. Get in, Kate, get in to the fire, and warm thee. John Ostler ! Enter Ostler. Oat. What, gaffer Club ! welcome to St. Alban's ! How do all our friends in Lancashire ? Cor. Well, God-a-mercy, John ! How does Tom ? Where is he ? Ostl. Tom's gone from hence ; he's at the Three Horse-loaves, at Stony-Stratford. How does old Dick Dun? Cor. Uds heart, old Dun has bin moyr'd in a slough in Brick-hill lane : a plague 'found it ! yonder's such abomination-weather as was never seen. 2 I have substituted one epithet here, for another, in order to avoid a sheer brutality. 3 What a "leufter" is, nobody can say at this day. " Leu- terer" was a thie? a vagabond. The Irishman is probably willing to confess himself both, that he may escape the more heinous charge of murder. * Query : bold J ACT V. SCENE VIII. Ill Ostl. Ud's heart ! thief! 'a shall have one half peck of pease and oats more for that, as I am John Ostler ; he has been ever as good a jade as ever travelled. Car. 'Faith, well said, old Jack ; thou art the old lad stiU. Ostl. Come, gafier Club, unload, unload, and get in to supper. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. A Room in the Carrier's Inn. Enter Host, Lord COBHAM, and HAHPOOL. Host. Sir, you are welcome to this house, and to such as is here, with all my heart: but I fear your lodging will be the worst. 1 have but two beds, and they are both in one chamber, and the carrier and his daughter lie in the one, and you and your wife must lie in the other. C'b. 'Faith, sir, for myself I do not greatly press, 1 My wife is weary, and would be at rest, For we have travelled very far to-day ; We must be content with such as you have. Host. But I can not tell what to do with your man. Har. What ? hast thou never an empty room in thy house for me ? Host. Not a bed, in troth. There came a poor Irish- man, and I lodged him in the barn, where he has fair straw, although he have nothing else. Har. Well, mine host, I pry'thee help me to a pair of clean sheets, and I'll go lodge with him. Host. By the mass, that thou shall ; as good a pair of hempen sheets were never lain in : come. [Exeunt. SCENE V. The same. A Street. Enter Mayor, Constable, and Watch. Mayor. What ! have you searched the town ? Con. All the town, sir ; we have not left a house unsearched that uses to lodge. Mayor. My lord of Rochester was then deceived, Or ill-informed of Sir John Oldcastle : Or, if he came this way, he's past the town ; He could not else have 'scaped you in the search. Con. The privy watch hath been abroad all night, And not a stranger lodgeth in the town But he is known ; only a lusty priest We found in bed with a young, pretty wench, That says she is his wife, yonder at the Shears : But we have charged the host with his forthcoming To-morrow morning. Mayor. What think you best to do ? Con. Faith, master mayor, here's a few straggling houses beyond the bridge, and a little inn, where car- riers use to lodge, although I think surely he would never lodge there : but we'll go search, and the rather, because there came notice to the town the last night of an Irishman, that had done a murder, whom we are to make search for. Mayor. Come, then, I pray you, and be circum- spect. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. The same. Bffore the Carrier's Inn. Enter Constable and Officer. Con. First beset the house, before you begin to search. l "Pass," in the old editions. 8 O$. Content ; every man take a several place. [Noise uithin Voice [icithin] . Keep ; keep ; strike him down there j down with him ! Enter from the Inn, the Mayor and Constable, with the Irishman in HARPOOL'S apparel. Con. Come, you villanous heretic, tell us where your master is. 7mA. Vat mester ? Mayor. Vat mester, you counterfeit rebel ? This shall not serve your turn. Irish. Be Sent Patrick, I ha' no mester. Con. Where's the lord Cobham, Sir John Oldcastle, that lately escaped out of the Tower ? Irish. Vat lort Cobham ? Mayor. You counterfeit ; this shall not serve you ; we'll torture you ; we'll make you confess where that arch heretic is. Come, bind him fast. Irish. Ahone, ahone, ahune, a cree ! Con. Ahone! you crafty rascal ? [Exeunt. SCENE VII. The same. The Yard of the Inn. Enter Lord COBHAM, in his nightgown. Cob. Harpool ! I hear a marvellous noise about the house : God warrant us, I fear we are pursued ! What ! Harpool ! Har. [within] . Who calls, there ? Cob. 'Tis I ! Dost thou not hear a noise about the house ? Har. Yes, marry do I. Zounds, I can not find my hose. This Irish rascal that lodged with me all night, hath stolen my apparel, and has left me noth- ing but a lousy mantle, and a pair of brogues. Get up, get up ! And if the carrier and his wench be 'sleep, Change you with him, as he 2 hath done with me, And see if we can 'scape. [Exit Lord COBHAM. SCENE VIII. The same. Noises at intervals, about the House. Then enter HARPOOL, in the Irishman's apparel, Wie Mayor, Constable, and Officers, meeting him. Con. Stand close ; here comes the Irishman that did The murder ; by all tokens this is he ! Mayor. And perceiving the house beset, would get Stand, sirrah ! [away. Har. What art thou that bidd'st me stand ? Con. I am the officer, and am come to search for An Irishman ; such a villain as thyself j Thou'st murdered a man, this last night, by the high- way. Har. 'Sblood, constable, art mad? am I an Irish- man? Mayor. Sirrah, we'll find you an Irishman, before We part. Lay hold upon him. Con. Make him fast ! Oh ! bloody rogue ! [ The Officers seize him. Enter Lord and Lady COBHAM, in the habits of the Car- rier and his Daughter. Cob. What, will these ostlers sleep all day ? 8 The Irishman. 112 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. Good morrow, good morrow. Come, wench, come : Saddle, saddle ; now, afore God, two fair days, ha ? Con. Who goes there ? Mayor. O 'tis the Lancashire carrier, let them pass. Cob. What, will nobody open us the gates here ? Come, let's into stable to look to our capons. [Exeunt Lord and Lady COBHAM. Car. (irithin]. Host! why, ostler! zooks ! here's such abomination company of boys : A pox of this pigstye at the house end ; it fills all the house full of fleas. Ostler, ostler ! Enter Ostler. Ostl. Who calls there ? what would you have ? Car. [u-ithin] . Zooks ! do you rob your guests ? Do you lodge rogues, and slaves, and scoundrels, ha ? They ha 1 stolen our clothes, here : why, ostler ? Ostl. A murrain choke you ! what a bawling you keep ! Enter Host. Host. How now ? What would the carrier have ? Look up, there ! Ostl. They say the man and the woman that lay by them have stolen their clothes. Host. What, are the strange folks up, that came in yesternight ? Con. What, mine host, up so early? Host. What, master mayor, and master constable ? May. We are come to seek for some suspected per- And such as here we found have apprehended, [sons, Enter Carrier and KATE, in Lord and Lady COBHAM'S Apparel. Con. Who comes here ? Car. Who comes here ? A plague 'found 'em ! You bawl, quoth-a? odds heart, I'll forswear your house : you lodged a fellow and his wife by us, that ha' run away with our 'parel, and left us such gew- gaws here ! Come, Kate ; come to me ; thou's diz- ard i'faith. Mayor. Mine host, know you this man? Host. Yes, master mayor, I'll give my word for him. Why, neighbor Club, how comes this gear about ? Kale. Now a foul on't ! I can not make this gew- gaw stand on my head. Con. How came this man and woman thus attired ? Host. Here came a man and woman hither this last Which I did take for substantial people, [night, And lodged all in one chamber by these folks : Methinks they have been so bold to change apparel, And gone away this morning ere these rose. Mayor. It was that traitor Oldcastle that thus Escaped us ; make hue and cry yet after him j Keep fast that trait'rous rebel, his servant there : 'Farewell, mine host. Cor. Come, Kate Owdham, thou and I'se trimly dizard. Kate. I'faith, neam Club, I'se wot ne'er what to do ; I'se 'be so flouted and so shouted at ; but, by the mess, I'se cry. [Exeunt. SCENE IX. A Wood near St. Alban's. Enter Lord and Lady COBHAM, disguised. Cob. Come, madam, happily escaped. Here let us sit: This place is far remote from any path ; And here awhile our weary limbs may rest To take refreshing, free from the pursuit Of envious Rochester. Lady Cob. But where, my lord, Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds ? There dwell untamed thoughts that hardly stoop To such abasement of disdained rags : We were not wont to travel thus by night, Especially on foot. Cob. No matter, love ; Extremities admit no better choice ; And, were it not for thee, say froward time Imposed a greater task, I would esteem it As lightly as the wind that blows upon us. But, in thy sufferance, I am doubly tasked ; Thou wast not wont to have the earth thy stool, Nor the moist dewy grass thy pillow, nor Thy chamber [walls] to be the wide horizon. Lady Cob. How can it seem a trouble, having you, A partner with me, in the worst I feel? No, gentle lord, your presence would give ease To death itself, should he now seize upon me : [She produces some bread and cheese and a bottle. Behold what my foresight hath undertaken For fear we faint ; these are but homely cates ; Yet, sauced with hunger, they may seem as sweet As greater dainties we were wont to taste. Cob. Praise be to Him, whose plenty sends both And all things else our mortal bodies need ! [this Nor scorn we this poor feeding, nor the state We now are in ; for what is it on earth, Nay, under heaven, continues at a stay? Ebbs not the sea, when it hath overflown ? Follows not darkness, when the day is gone ? And see we not, sometimes, the eye of heaven Dimmed with o'er-flying clouds ? There's not that Of careful nature, or of cunning art, [work How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be, But falls in time to ruin. Here, gentle madam, In this one draught, I wash my sorrow down. [Drinks. Lady Cob. And I, encouraged with your cheerful Will do the like. [speech, Cob. Pray God, poor Harpool come ! If he should fall into the bishop's hands, Or not remember where we bade him meet us, It were the thing of all things else, that now Could breed revolt in this new peace of mind. Lady Cob. Fear not, my lord, he's witty to devise, And strong to execute a present shift. Cob. That Power be still his guide hath guided us. My drowsy eyes wax heavy ; early rising, Together with the travel we have had, Makes me that I could gladly take a nap, Were I persuaded we might be secure. Lady Cob. Let that depend on me : whilst you do I'll watch, that no misfortune happen us. [sleep, Cob. I shall, dear wife, but too much trouble thee. Lady Cob. Urge not that ; My duty binds me, and your love commands. I would I had the skill, with tuned voice, To draw on sleep with some sweet melody. But imperfection, and unaptness 1 too, I The impropriety of drawing attention to their place ol shelter. ACT V. SCENE XL 113 Are both repugnant : fear inserts 1 the one, The other nature hath denied me use. But what talk I of means, to purchase that Is freely happened ? Sleep, with gentle hand, Hath shut his eyelids. O, victorious labor, How soon thy power can charm the body's sense ! And now thou likewise climb'st unto my brain, Making my heavy temples stoop to thee. Great God of heaven, from danger keep us free ! [Falls asleep. Enter Sir RICHAKD LEE and his Servants. Lee. A murder cruelly 3 done, and in my ground? Search carefully : if anywhere it were, This obscure thicket is the likeliest place. [Exit Ser- vant, who re-enters, 'bearing a dead body. Serv. Sir, I have found the body stiff with cold, And mangled cruelly with many wounds. Lee. Look, if thou know'st him ; turn his body up : Alack, it is my son ! my son and heir, Whom, two years since, I sent to Ireland, To practise there the discipline of war ; And coming home for so he wrote to me Some savage heart, some bloody, devilish hand, Either in hate, or thirsting for his coin, Hath here sluiced out his blood. Unhappy hour ! Accursed place ! but most inconstant fate, That had reserved him from the bullet's fire, And suffered him to 'scape the wood-kernes's fury, Didst here ordain the treasure of his life, Even here within the arms of tender peace, To be consumed by treason's wasteful hand ! And, which is most afflicting to my soul, That this his death and murder should be wrought Without the knowledge by whose means 'twas done. 2 Serv. Not so, sir ; I have found the authors of it. See where they sit, and in then- bloody fists The fatal instruments of death and sin. Lee. Just judgment of that Power, whose gracious Loathing the sight of such a heinous fact, [eye, Dazzled their senses with benumbing sleep, Till their unhallowed treachery was known ! Awake, ye monsters ! murderers, awake ! Tremble for horror ; blush, you can not choose, Beholding this inhuman deed of yours. Cob. What mean you, sir, to trouble weary souls, And interrupt us of our quiet sleep ? Lee. 0, devilish ! Can you boast unto yourselves Of quiet sleep, having, within your hearts, The guilt of murder waking, that with cries Deafs the loud thunder, and solicits Heaven With more than mandrakes' shrieks,* for your offence ? Lady Cob. What murder ? You upbraid us wrong- fully. Lee. Can you deny the fact ? See you not here The body of my son by you misdone ? Look on his wounds, look on his purple hue : Do we not find you where the deed was done ? Were not your knives fast closed in your hands ? Is not this cloth an argument besides, Thus stained and spotted with his innocent blood ? These speaking characters, were there nothing else To plead against ye, would convict you both. 1 " Insists," perhaps. 8 " Closely" is the word in previous copies. 3 The kerne was the Irish light-armed footaoldier. 4 The mandrake, or mandragora, provoked many super- stitions. It was said to shriek when torn up. To Hertford with them, where the 'size is now : Their lives shall answer for my son's lost life. Cob. As we are innocent, so may we speed. Lee. As I am wronged, so may the law proceed. [Exeunt. SCENE X. St. Alban's. Enter the Bishop of ROCHESTER, Constable of St. AJ- ban's, with Sir JOHN, DOLL, and the Irishman in HAHFOOL'S Apparel. Bish. What intricate confusion have we here ? Not two hours since, we apprehended one In habit Irish, but in speech not so ; And now you bring another, that in speech Is Irish, but in habit English : yea, And more than so the servant of that heretic, Lord Cobham. Irish. Fait, me be no servant of de Lort Cobham ; me be Mackshane of Ulster. Bish. Otherwise called Harpool of Kent : go to. sir ; You can not blind us with your broken Irish. Sir John. Trust me, lord bishop, whether Irish or English, Harpool or not Harpool, I leave to the trial : But sure I am, this man by face and speech, Is he that murdered young Sir Richard Lee. I met him presently upon the fact, And that he slew his master for that gold, Those jewels, and that chain, I took from him. Bish. Well, our affairs do call us back to London, So that we can not prosecute the cause As we desire to do ; therefore we leave The charge with you, to see they be conveyed To Hertford 'sizes : both this counterfeit And you, Sir John of Wrotham, and your wench, For you are culpable as well as they, Though not for murder, yet for felony. But since you are the means to bring to light This graceless murder, you shall bear with you Our letters to the judges of the bench, To be your friends in what they lawf ly may. Sir John. I thank your lordship. [Exeunt. SCENE XI. Hertford. A Hall of Justice. Enter Gaoler and Servants, bringing forth Lord COB- HAM in irons. Gaol. Bring forth the prisoners ; see the court pre- The justices are coming to the bench : [pared ; So, let him stand ; away and fetch the rest. [Exit Servant. Cob. 0, give me patience to endure this scourge, Thou that art fountain of this virtuous stream ! And though contempt, false witness, and reproach, Hang on these iron gyves, to press my life As low as earth, yet strengthen me with faith, That I may mount in spirit above the clouds ! Re-enter Gaoler's Servant, bringing in Lady COBHAM and HARPOOL. Here comes my lady. Sorrow, 'tis for her Thy wound is grievous ; else I scoff at thee. What ! and poor Harpool ? art thou i'th' briars too ? Har. I'faith, my lord, I am in, get out how I can.. Lady Cob. Say, gentle lord for now we are alone And may confer shall we confess in brief Of whence and what we are, and so prevent The accusation is commenced against us ? SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. Co6. What will that help us ? Being known, sweet love, We shall for heresy be put to death, For so they term the religion we profess. No, if we die, let this our comfort be, That of the guilt imposed our souls are free. Har. Ay, ay, my lord ! Harpool is so resolved ; I reck of death the less, in that I die Not by the sentence of that envious priest. Lady Cob. Well, be it, then, according as Heaven please. Enter the Judge of Assize and Justices. Mayor of St. Alban's, Lord and Lady Powis, and Sir RICHARD LEE ; the Judge and Justices take their places on the Bench. Judge. Now, master mayor, what gentleman is that You bring with you before us to the bench ? May. ['Tis] the Lord Powis, if it like your honor, And this his lady, travelling toward Wales ; Who for they lodged last night within my house, And my lord bishop did lay wait for such Were very willing to come on with me, Lest, for their sakes, suspicion we might wrong. Judge. We cry your honor mercy, good my lord ; Will't please you take your place ? Madam, your la- dyship May here, or where you will, repose yourself, Until this business now in hand be past. Lady Pow. I will withdraw into some other room, So that your lordship and the rest be pleased. Judge. With all our hearts : attend the lady there. Pow. [aside to his Wife). Wife, I have eyed yon pris'ners all this while, And my conceit doth tell me 'tis our friend The noble Cobham and his virtuous lady. Lady Pow. I think no less. Are they [my lord, do Suspected for this murder ? [you think] Pow. What it means I can not tell, but we shall know anon : Meantime, as you pass by them, ask the question ; But do it secret, so you be not seen, And make some sign, that I may know your mind. Lady Pow. My Lord Cobham ? Madam ? [As she passes over the stage by them.'] Cob. No Cobham now, nor. madam, as you love us, But John of Lancashire, and Joan his wife. Lady Pow. O tell, what is it that our love can do To pleasure you, for we are bound to you ? Cob. Nothing but this, that you conceal our names ; So, gentle lady, pass ; for, being spied Lady Pow. My heart I leave, to bear part of your grief. [Exit Lady Powis. Judge. Call the prisoners to the bar. Sir Richard Lee, What evidence can you bring against these people, To prove them guilty of the murder done ? Lee. This bloody towel, and these naked knives : Besides, we found them sitting by the place Where the dead body lay within a bush. Judge. What answer you why law should not pro- According to this evidence given in, [ceed To tax ye with the penalty of death ? Cob. That we are free from murder's very thought, And know not how the gentleman was slain. 1 Just. How came this linen cloth so bloody, then ? Lady Cab. My husband, hot with travelling, my His nose gushed out a-bleeding ; that was it. [lord, 2 Just. But how came your sharp-edged knives un- sheathed ? Lady Cob. To cut such simple victual as we had. Judge. Say we admit this answer to these articles, What made you in so private, dark a nook, So far remote from any common path, As was the thick where the dead corpse was thrown ? Cob. Journeying, my lord, from London, from the Down into Lancashire, where we do dwell [term, And what with age and travel, being faint, We gladly sought a place where we might rest, Free from resort of other passengers ; And so we strayed into that secret corner. Judge. These are but ambages 1 to drive off time, And linger justice from her purposed end. Enter Constable with the Irishman, Sir JOHN, and DOLL. But who are these ? Const. Stay judgment, and release these innocents, For here is he whose hand hath done the deed For which they stand indicted at the bar : This savage villain, this rude Irish slave His tongue already hath confessed the fact, And here is witness to confirm as much. Sir John. Yes, my good lord, no sooner had he His loving master for the wealth he had, [slain But I upon the instant met with him : And what he purchased with the loss of blood, With strokes I presently bereaved him of ; Some of the which is spent ; the rest remaining, I willingly surrender to the hands Of old Sir Richard Lee, as being his ; Besides, my good lord judge, I greet your honor With letters from my lord of Rochester. [Delivers a letter. Lee. Is this the wolf whose thirsty throat did drink My dear son's blood ? Art thou the cursed snake He cherished, yet with envious, piercing sting, Assailedst him mortally ? Wer't not that the law Stands ready to revenge thy cruelty, Traitor to God, thy master, and to me, These hands should be thy executioner ! Judge. Patience, Sir Richard Lee, you shall have justice. The fact is odious : therefore take him hence, And, being hanged until the wretch be dead, His body after shall be hanged in chains, Near to the place where he did act the murder. Irish. Pr'ythee, lord shudge, let me have mine own clothes, my strouces 2 there, and let me be hanged in a wyth, after my country the Irish fashion. Judge. Go to, away with him. [Exit Gaoler with Irishman. And now, Sir John, Although by you this murder came to light, Yet upright law will not hold you excused, For you did rob the Irishman ; by which You stand attainted here of felony : Besides, you have been lewd, and many years Led a lascivious, unbeseeming life. Sir John. Oh, but Sir John repents, and he will mend. 1 "Ambages" evasions, subterfuges, circumlocutions, and sometimes circumstances, a Trowsers. ACT V. SCENE XI. 115 Judge. In hope thereof, together with the favor My lord of Rochester entreats for you, We are contented that you shall be proved. Sir John. I thank your lordship. Judge. These other falsely here Accused, and brought in peril wrongfully, We in like sort do set at liberty. Lee. And for amends, Touching the wrong unwittingly I've done, I give these few crowns. Judge. Your kindness merits praise. Sir Richard So let us hence. [Lee : [Exeunt all but Powis and COBHAM. Pow. But Powis still must stay. There yet remains a part of that true love He owes his noble friend, unsatisfied And unperformed ; which first of all doth bind me To gratulate your lordship's safe delivery : And then entreat, that since, unlocked for thus We here are met, your honor will vouchsafe To ride with me to Wales, where, through my power Though not to quittance those great benefits I have received of you yet both my house, My purse, my servants, and what else I have, Are all at your command. Deny me not : I know the bishop's hate pursues you so, As there's no safety in abiding here. Cob. 'Tis true, my lord, and God forgive him for it ! Pow. Then let us hence. You shall be straight provided Of lusty geldings : and once entered Wales, Well may the bishop hunt but, 'spite his face, He never more shall have the game in chase ! [Exeunt. THE END OF SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. INTRODUCTION TO THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. " A booke called the Comtdie of the Puritan Wydowe" was entered at Stationers' hall, by G. Eld, August 6, 1607. The first published edition was made in the same year, under the following title : " The Puritaine, or the Widdow of Walling Streete : acted by the children of Paules : written by W. S." It was in- cluded in the third edition of Shakspeare's works, nnd was ascribed to Shakspeare, by Gildon, in 1702. The English critics, of recent times, have uniformly rejected the pretension. Malone supposes this play to have been written by one William Smith, who is known as the author of three plays the Palsgrave, the Hector of Germany, and the Freeman's Honor. Mr. Steevens remarks that, " though Shakspeare has ridiculed the Puritans, in his ' All's Well that Ends Well,' and ' Twelfth Night,' yet he seems not to have had the smallest share in the present comedy. The "Uthor of it, however, was well acquainted with his plays, as appears from resemblances already pointed out." Schlegel, with more indulgence, and perhaps much less discrimination, is of opinion that Shak- speare wrote it. To account for its manifest discrep- ancy with the acknowledged writings of Shakspeare, he most absurdly supposes that the great dramatist, for once in his life, conceived the idea of writing a, play in the manner of Ben Jonson. Mr. Knight prop- erly remarks, that, to investigate this supposed imi- tation, would " bring us to the conclusion that ' The Puritan' is as unlike Ben Jonson as it is unlike Shak- speare." He adds, justly : " If it possesses little of the wit, the buoyancy, the genial good humor, the sparkling poetry, the deep philosophy, and the uni- versal characterization, of Shakspeare, it wants, in the same degree, the nice discrimination of shades of character, the sound judgment, the careful man- agement of the plot, the lofty and indignant satire, the firm and gorgeous rhetoric, of Jonson." But all this, we must repeat, relates only to the superior 118 INTRODUCTION. works of these two masters. I am not prepared to regard the " Puritan" as much, if anything, below the inferior writings of Ben Jonson the "New Inn," for example in all that relates to structure, inven- tion, and comic situation. No such comparison can be made with Shakspeare, who. in thd very meanest of his acknowledged and unquestioned writings, is so infinitely beyond this performance, as to make any attempt at comparison impertinent. But the very maturity and continued strength, which everywhere exist in Shakspeare, are among the argum -ias which prompt the belief in unacknowl- edged works from his pen ; since, we can scarcely suppose him to have reached such an exquisite per- fection of his powers at a single bound, or to have retained them to the last chapter of a tolerably ad- vanced life, without diminution or decay. But this belongs to the g neral argument. The estimate of Mr. Knight, in regard to the mer- its of" The Puritan," may well take the place of our own. He says : " As a comedy of manners, ' The Puritan' is at once feeble and extravagant. The aii- i.or can not paint classes, in painting individuals. ' The Puritan' is a misnomer. We have no repre- sentation of the formal manners of that class. The family of the Widow of Watling street is meant to be puritanical ; but it is difficult to discover wherein they differ from the rest of the world, except in the coarse exhibition of the loose morality of one of their ser- vants, who professes to lie, though he swears not, and is willing to steal, if the crime is called by some gentler name. Yet the comedy is not without spirit and interest. The events are improbable, and some of the intrigues superfluous ; but the action seldom lingers ; and, if the characters seem unnatural, they are sufficiently defined to enable us to believe that such characters did exist, and might have been cop- ied from the life by the author." Referring to the scene in the house of the gentleman who rescues Pyeboard from the hands of the bailiffs, by becoming accessory to the stratagem of the prisoner, Mr. Knight remarks : " There is, no doubt, considerable truth in this picture ; but it is not such truth as we find in Shakspeare ; it belongs to the temporary and the personal, not to the permanent and the universal. Such is the characteristic merit of the whole com- edy, whatever merit it has." Of this character, Pyeboard, we are told by the Rev. Mr. Dyce, in his valuable edition of Peele's works, that George Pyeboard and George Peele have the same meaning "peel signifying a board with a long handle, with which bakers put things in and out of the oven." It would seem, then, that George Peel sat for the portrait of the profligate scholar, to the unknown dramatist. Peele was a man of profligate habits, and has published, in one of his tracts, two stories of his own tricks, which remind us of a couple of the stratagems in " The Puritan." THE PURITAN; OR, THE IDO OF VATLING STREET. PERSONS REPRESENTED. Sii GODFREY PLUS, brother-in-law to the Widow Plus. EDMOND, son to the Widow. Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, a rich city knight, and suitor to the Widow. Sir JOHN PENNYDUB, o country knight, and suitor to Mary. Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF, a courtier, and suitor to Fran- ces. GEORGE PYEBOARD, a scholar. The Sheriff of London. Captain IDLE, a highwayman. PULTOCK, ) , t sheriff's servants. RAVENSHAW, ) * DOG SON, a catchpole. Corporal OATH, a vain-glorious fellow. NICHOLAS ST. ANTLINGS, ^ T _ _.. SIMON ST. MARY-OVKRIES, 1 ^var^s oL a dy Plus, FRAILTY, J "^ Sir Godfrey. PETER SKIRMISH, an old soldier. A Nobleman. A Gentleman Citizen. Lady PLUS, a citizen's widow. FRANCES and MARY, her two daughters. Sheriff's Officers, Keeper of the Marshalsea Prison, Musicians, and Attendants. SCENE, LONDOW. ACT I. SCENE I. A Garden behind the Widow's House. Enter the Widow PLUS, FRANCES, MARY, Sir GOD- FREY, and EDMOND, all in mourning ; EDMOND in a Cyprus hat. 1 The Widow wringing her hands, and bursting out into passion, as newly come from the burial of her husband. Wid. Oh, that ever I was born, that ever I was born ! 1 In plain terms, a hat with a band of crape around it a mourning hat. The proper spelling should be, " cypress." Sir God. Nay, good sister, dear sister, sweet sis- ter, be of good comfort ; show yourself a woman now or never. Wid. Oh, I have lost the dearest man, I have buried the sweetest husband that ever lay by woman. Sir God. Nay, give him his due, he was indeed an honest, virtuous, discreet, wise man. He was my brother, as right as right. Wid. O, I shall never forget him, never forget him ; he was a man so well given to a woman. Oh ! Sir God. Nay, but kind sister, I could weep as much as any woman ; but, alas, our tears can not call him again : methinks you are well read, sister, and know that death is as common as Homo, a common name to all men. A man shall be taken when he's making water. Nay, did not the learned parson, Master Pigman, tell us, e'en now, that all flesh is frail. We are born to die. Man has but a time: with such like deep and profound persuasions ? as he is a rare fellow you know, and an excellent reader And, for example (as there are examples abundance) did not Sir Humphrey Bubble die t'other day? There's a lusty widow ! Why, she cried not above half an hour. For shame ! for shame ! Then fol- lowed him old Master Fulsome, the usurer : there's a wise widow ; why she cried ne'er a whit at all. Wid. O rank not me with those wicked women ; I had a husband outshined 'em all. Sir God. Ay, that he did, i'faith ; he outshined 'em all. Wid. Dost thou stand there and see us all weep and not once shed a tear for thy father's death ? oh, thou ungracious son and heir thou ! Edm. Troth, mother, I should not weep, I'm sure ; I am past a child, I hope, to make all my old school- fellows laugh at me ; I should be mocked, so I should ; pray, let one of my sisters weep for me, I'll laugh as much for her another time ? Wid. O thou past-grace thou ! Out of my sight, thou graceless imp ! thou grievest me more than the death of thy father. O, thou stubborn only son ! Hadst thou such an honest man to thy father that would deceive all the world to get riches for thee and canst thou not afford a little salt water ? He that so wisely did quite overthrow the right heir of these lands, which now you respect not : up every morning betwixt four and five ; so duly at Westminster hall every term- 120 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. time, with all his cards and writings, for thee, thou wicked Absalom. 0, dear husband ! Edm. Weep, quotha? I protest I am glad he's churched ; for now he's gone, I shall spend in quiet. Frances. Dear mother, pray cease ; half your tears suffice ; 'Tis time for you to take truce with your eyes : Let ine weep now. Wid. 0, such a dear knight, such a sweet husband have I lost, have I lost. If blessed be the corse the rain rains upon, 1 he had it pouring down. Sir God. Sister, be of good cheer. We are all mor- tal ourselves ; I come upon you freshly ; I ne'er speak without comfort. Hear me, what I shall say : my brother has left you wealthy ; you're rich. Wid. Oh ! Sir God. I say, you're rich : you are also fair. Wid. Oh ! Sir God. Go to, you are fair ; you can not smother it ; beauty will come to light. Nor are your years so far entered with you, but that you will be sought after, and may very well answer another husband. The world is full of fine gallants ; choice enow, sister ; for what should we do with all our knights, I pray ?* but to marry rich widows, wealthy citizens' widows ; lusty, fair-browed ladies ? Go to, be of good com- fort, I say ; leave sobbing and weeping. Yet my brother was a kind-hearted man. I would not have the elf see me now [aside], Come, pluck up a wo- man's heart ! Here stand your daughters, who be well estated, and at maturity will also be inquired after with good husbands : so all these tears shall be soon dried up, and a better world than ever. What, woman ? you must not weep still ! he's dead, he's buried yet I can not choose but weep for him. 3 Wid. Marry again ! Let me be buried quick, then ! And that same part o' the choir whereon I tread, To such intent, O may it be my grave ! And that the priest may turn his wedding-prayers, Even with a breath, to funeral dust and ashes ; 0, out of a million of millions, I should ne'er find such a husband ; he was unmatchable unmatchable : nothing was too hot, nor too dear for me. 4 I could not speak of that one thing that I had not. Besides, I had keys of all, kept all, received all, had money in my purse, spent what I would, went abroad when I would, came home when I would, and did all what I would. O, my sweet husband ! I shall never have the like. Sir God. Sister, never say so. He was an honest brother of mine ; and so ; and you may light upon one as honest again, or one as honest again may light upon you ; that's the properer phrase, indeed. Wid. Never ! O, if you love me, urge it not : O, may I be the by-word of the world, [kneels. The common talk at table in the mouth i The old proverb has it, " Happy the bride that the sun shines on ; blessed the corse the clouds rain on." 9 M alone suggests that this may have been meant as a sneer at the multitude of knights made by Ring James soon after his succession. 3 The same expression occurs in Hamlet, spoken by Ophelia. * This is unsatisfactorily explained by some of the com- mentators to be a proverbial phrase. I should prefer to suppose it an error of the press. It may properly read, " too good, nor too dear." Of every groom and waiter, if ever more I entertain the carnal suit of man. Mary. I must kneel down, for fashion, too. Frances. And I, whom never man as yet hath scaled, Even in this depth of general sorrow, vow Never to marry, to sustain such loss, As a dear husband seems to be, once dead. Mary. I loved my father well, too ; but to say, Nay vow, I would not marry for his death, Sure I should speak false latin, should I not? I'd as soon vow never to come in bed : Tut ! women must live by the quick, and not by the dead. Wid. Dear copy of my husband, let me kiss thee : [Kisses her Husband's picture. How like him is this model ! this brief picture Quickens my tears : my sorrows are renewed At this fresh sight. Sir God. Sister Wid. Away ! All honesty with him is turned to clay ! my sweet husband ! O Frances. My dear father ! [Exeunt Widow and FRAHCES. Mary. Here's a puling, indeed ! I think my mother weeps for all the women that ever buried husbands . for if from time to time all the widowers' tears in England had been bottled up, I do not think all would have filled a three-halfpenny bottle. Alas ! a small matter bucks a handkerchief; 5 and sometimes the spittle stands too nigh Saint Thomas-a-Waterings.s Well, I can mourn in good sober sort as well as an- other ; but where I spend one tear for a dead father, 1 could give twenty kisses for a quick husband. [Exit MART. Sir God. Well, go thy ways, old Sir Godfrey, and thou may'st be proud on't, thou hast a kind, loving sister-in-law. How constant, how passionate, how full of April the poor soul's eyes are ! Well, I would my brother knew on't : he should then know what a kind wife he hath left behind him. Truth, an 'twere not for shame that the neighbors at the next garden should hear me betwixt joy and grief, I should even cry outright. [Exit Sir GODFREY. Edm. So ; a fair riddance ! My father's laid in dust ; his coffin and he is like a whole meat-pie, and the worms will cut him up shortly. Farewell, old dad, farewell ! I'll be curbed in no more. I perceive a son and heir may quickly be made a fool, an he will be one ; but I'll take another order. Now, she would have me weep for him, forsooth ; and why ? Because he cozened the right heir, he being a fool, and be- stowed those lands on me his eldest son ; and there- fore I must weep for him : ha ! ha ! Why. all the world knows, as long as 'twas his pleasure to get me, 'twas his duty to get for me. I know the law on that point : no attorney can gull me. Well, my uncle is an old ass, and an admirable coxcomb. I'll rule the roast myself ; I'll be kept under no more ; I know what I may do well enough, by my father's copy ; the law's in mine own hands now. Nay, now I know my strength, I'll be strong enough for my mother, I warrant you. [Exit. 6 That is, wets. Washings were called " buckings." 6 A pun upon the word hospital, of which "spital ia a con- traction. ACT L SCENE II. 121 SCENE II. A Street. Enter PTEBOAHD and SKIRMISH. Pye. What's to be done now, old lad of war ? Thou that wert wont to be as hot as a turnspit, as nimble as a fencer, and as lousy as a schoolmaster now thou art put to silence like a sectary. War sits now like a justice of peace, and does nothing. Where be your muskets, calivers, and hot-shots ? In Long-lane, at pawn, at pawn? Now keys are your only guns: key- guns, key-guns, and bawds the gunners who are your sentinels in peace, and stand ready charged to give warning with hems, hums, and pocky coughs. Only your chambers are licensed to play upon you, and drabs enow to give fire to 'em. Skir. Well, I can not tell, but I am sure it goes wrong with me ; for since the ceasure of the wars, I have spent above a hundred crowns out of purse. I have been a soldier any time this forty years ; and now I perceive an. old soldier and an old courtier have both one destiny, and in the end turn both into hobnails. Pye. Pretty mystery for a beggar, for indeed a hob- nail is the true emblem of a beggar's shoe-sole. Skir. I will not say but that war is a bloodsucker, and so ; but in my conscience as there is no soldier but has a piece of one, though it be full of holes like a shot ancient 1 no matter, 'twill serve to swear by in my conscience, I think some kind of peace has more hidden oppressions, and violent, heady sins, though looking of a gentle nature, than a professed war. Pye. Troth, and for mine own part, I am a poor gentleman and a scholar : I have been matriculated in the university ; wore out six gowns there ; seen some fools, and some scholars ; some of the city, and some of the country ; kept order ; went bareheaded over the quadrangle ; eat my commons with a good stomach, and battled with discretion ; at last, hav- ing done many sleights and tricks to maintain my wit in use as my brain would never endure me to be idle I was expelled the university, only for stealing a cheese out of Jesus college.* Skir. Is't possible ? Pye. 0, there was one Welshman God forgive him ! pursued it hard, and never left, till I turned my staff toward London ; where, when I came, all my friends were pit-holed, gone to graves, as, indeed, there was but a few left before. Then was I turned to my wits ; to shift in the world ; to tower among sons and heirs, and fools, and gulls, and ladies' eldest sons ; to work upon nothing ; to feed out of flint ; and ever since has my belly been much beholden to my brain. 3 But now to return to you, old Skirmish : I say as you say ; and, for my part, wish a turbulency in the world ; for I have nothing in the world but my wits, and I think they are as mad as they will be : 1 Shot in the sense of cannon. In Henry IV., we have " an old-faced ancient." 2 The commentators assume, from the accumulation of college phrases, that the author must have been an aca- demic. I need not remark that phrases in French and Latin are to be picked up just as easily by those who have studied neither language. 3 An ingenious commentator, determined on proving this play to have been written by Shakspeare, might adduce these passages to show his history. " Pit-holed" might be a quibble upon a favorite part of the theatre as well as a buri- al-place. and to strengthen your argument the more, I say that an honest war is better than a bawdy peace. As touching my profession : the multiplicity of scholars, hatched and nourished in the idle calms of peace, makes 'em like fishes, one devour another ; and the community of learning has so played upon affections, that thereby almost religion is come about to phan- tasy, and discredited by being too much spoken of in so many and mean mouths. I myself, being a schol- ar and a graduate, have no other comfort by my learn- ing but the affection of my words ; to know how, scholar-like, to name what I want, and can call my- self a beggar both in Greek and Latin. And, there- fore, not to cog with peace, I'll not be afraid to say, 'tis a great breeder, but a bad nourisher ; a great get- ter of children, which must either be thieves or rich men, knaves or beggars. Skir. Well, would I had been born a knave, then, when I was born a beggar ! for, if the truth was known, I think I was begot when my father had never a penny in his purse. Pye. Puh ! faint not, old Skirmish ; let this warrant thee : facilis descensusAverni 'tis an easy journey to a knave ; thou may'st be a knave when thou wilt ; and peace is a good madam to all other professions, and an arrant drab to us. Let us handle her accord- ingly, and, by our wits, thrive in despite of her ; for, since the lawyer lives by quarrels, the courtier by smooth good-morrows, and every profession makes itself greater by imperfections : why not we, then, by shifts, wiles, and forgeries ? And, seeing our brains are the only patrimonies, let's spend with judgment ; not like a desperate son and heir, but like a sober and discreet templar one that will never march beyond the bounds of his allowance. And, for our thriving means, thus : I myself will put on the deceit of a for- tune-teller. Skir. A fortune-teller ? Very proper. Pye. And you a figure-caster, or a conjurer. Skir. A conjurer ? Pye. Let me alone ; 111 instruct you, and teach you to deceive all eyes but the devil's. Skir. 0, ay ; for I would not deceive him, an I could choose, of all others. Pye. Fear not, I warrant you. And so, by these means, we shall help one another to patients : as the condition of the age affords creatures enow for cun- ning to work upon. Skir. wondrous ! new fools and fresh asses. Pye. O fit, fit, excellent ! [Suddenly. Skir. What now, in the name of conjuring ? Pye. My memory greets me happily with an admi- rable subject to graze upon. The lady-widow, who of late I saw weeping in her garden for the death of her husband : sure she's but a waterish soul, and half on't by this time is dropped out of her eyes. Device well managed may do good upon her : it stands firm ; my first practice shall be there. Skir. You have my voice, George. Pye. She's a gray gull to her brother, a fool to her only son, and an ape to her youngest daughter. I overheard them severally, and from their words I'll derive my device ; and thou, old Peter Skirmish, shalt be my second in all sleights. Skir. Ne'er doubt me, George Pyeboard ; only, you must teach me to conjure. Pye. Puh .' I'll perfect thee, Peter. 122 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. IDLE, pinioned, and attended by a Guard of Sheriff's Officers, passes over the Stage. How now ? what's he ? Skir. O George ! this sight kills me ! 'Tis my sworn brother, Captain Idle ! Pye. Captain Idle ? Skir. Apprehended for some felonious act or oth- er. He has started out ; has made a night on't ; lacked silver ; I can not but commend his resolution ; he would not pawn his buffjerkin : I would either some of us were employed, or might pitch our tents at usu- rers' doors, to kill the slaves as they peep out at the wicket. Pye. Indeed, they are our ancient enemies : they keep our money in their hands, and make us to be hanged for robbing of 'em. But come, let's follow after to the prison, and know the nature of his of- fence ; and what we can stead him in, he shall, be sure of it : and I'll uphold it still, that a charitable knave is better than a soothing 1 puritan. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Street. Enter NICHOLAS ST. ANTLINOS^ SIMON ST. MARY- OvERiES, 3 and FRAILTY, in black, scurvy Mourning' Coats, and Books at their Girdles, as coming from Church. To them Corporal OATH. Nich. What, Corporal Oath ! I am sorry we have met with you ; next our hearts, you are the man that we are forbidden to keep company withal. We must not swear, I can tell you, and you have the name for swearing. Sim. Ay, Corporal Oath, I would you would do so much as forsake us ; we can not abide you j we must not be seen in your company. Frail. There is none of us, I can tell you, but shall be sound! y whipped for swearing. Corp. Why, how now? we three 4 puritanical scrape- shoes flesh o' Good Fridays ! a hand. All. Oh ! [Shakes them by the hand. Corp. Why, Nicholas Saint Antlings, Simon Saint Mary-Overies, has the de'il possessed you, that you swear no better ? You half-christened catomites, you ungodmothered varlets ! 5 does the first lesson teach you to be proud, and the second to be coxcombs proud coxcombs not once to do duty to a man of mark ? Frail. A man of mark, quoth'a ? I do not think he can show a beggar's noble. 6 Corp. A corporal, a commander, one of spirit, that is able to blow you up all dry with your books at your girdles. Nich. We are not taught to believe that, sir, for we know the breath of man is weak. [OATH breathes on FRAILTY. Frail. Fob ! you lie, Nicholas ! for here's one strong enough. Blow us up, quoth'a ! he may well blow me 1 Quere: sobbing? *, s The names of well-known churches. * So in Twelfth Night : " Did you ever see the picture of We three?" A common sign in the time of Shakspeare, &c., consisting of two men in fools' coats. The spectator, or in- quirer concerning its meaning, was supposed to make the third. STEEVENS. The puritans objected to the practice of having god- fathers and godmothers in baptism. PKBCT. _ 6 A quibble between mark, an ancient coin, and mark, a sign of distinction ; and between noble, a coin, and noble, the opposite of beggar. above twelvescore off on him : I warrant, if the wind stood right, a man might smell him from the top of Newgate to the leads of Ludgate. Corp. Sirrah, thou hollow book of wax-candle? Nich. Ay, you may say what you will, so you swear not. Corp. I swear by the Nich. Hold, hold, good Corporal Oath ; for if you swear once, we shall fall down in a swoon presently. Corp. I must and will swear, you quivering cox- combs ! My captain is imprisoned, and by Vulcan's leather cod-piece point Nich. 0. Simon, what an oath was there ! Frail. If he should chance to break it, the poor man's breeches would fall down about his heels ; for Venus allows but one point to his hose. 8 Corp. With these, my bully-feet, I will thump ope the prison-doors, and brain the keeper with the beg- ging-box, but I'll set my honest, sweet Captain Idle at liberty. Nich. How, Captain Idle ? my old aunt's son, my dear kinsman, in Cappadochio ? Corp. Ay, thou church-peeling, thou holy-paring, religious-outside, thou ! If thou hadst any grace in thee, thou wouldst visit him, relieve him, swear to get him out. Nich. Assure you, corporal, indeed, la ! 'tis the first time I heard on't. Corp. Why, do ? t now, then, marmozet. Bring forth thy yearly wages : let not a commander perish. Sim. But if he be one of the wicked, he shall per- ish. Nich. Well, corporal, I'll e'en along with you, to visit my kinsman : if I can do him any good, I will ; but I have nothing for him. Simon Saint Mary-Over- ies and Frailty, pray make a lie for me to the knight my master, old Sir Godfrey. Corp. A lie ? may you lie, then ? Frail. 0, ay, we may lie, but we must not swear. Sim. True, we may lie with our neighbor's wife, but we must not swear we did so. Corp. O, an excellent tag of religion ! Nich. O, Simon, I have thought upon a sound ex- cuse ; it will go current. Say that I am gone to a fast. 9 Sim. To a fast ? Very good. Nich. Ay, to a fast ; say, with Master Fullbelly, the minister. Sim. Master Fullbelly ? An honest man : he feeds the flock well, for he's an excellent feeder. [Exeunt OATH and NICHOLAS. Frail. O, ay ; I have seen him eat a whole pig, and afterward fall to the pettitoes. [Exeunt SIMON and FRAILTY. SCENE IV. A Room in the Marshalsea Prison. Enter IDLE ; to him afterward PYEBOAED and SKIR- MISH. Pye. [within]. Pray turn the key. Skir. [within]. Turn the key, I pray. 7 I suppose alluding to the rolls of wax-candle coiled up in the form of a book. PERCY. 8 Points were the metal hooks by which the breeches and waistcoat were anciently held together. A similar pleasant- ry occur* In Henry IV, thus : "Their points being broken, Down fell their hose." 9 A fast a gaol a lock-up-fast-enough. ACT L SCENE IV. 123 Capt. Who should these be ? I almost know their voices ! [Enter PYEBOARD and SKIRMISH ] 0, my friends ! you are welcome to a smelling-room here ; you newly took leave of the air : is it not a strange savor ? Pye. As all prisons have smells of sundry wretch- es, who, though departed, leave their scents behind 'em. By gold, captain, I am sincerely sorry for thee. Capt. By my troth, George, I thank thee ; but, pish ! what must be must be. Skir. Captain, what do you lie in for ? is't great ? What's your offence ? Capt. Faith, my offence is ordinary common a highway : and I fear me my penalty will be ordinary and common too, a halter. Pye. Nay, prophesy not so ill ; it shall go hard, but I'll shift for thy life. Capt. Whether I live or die, thou'rt an honest George. I'll teJl you : silver flowed not with me, as it had done. For now the tide runs to bawds and flat- terers. I had a start out, and by chance set upon a fat steward, thinking his purse had been as pursy as his body ; and the slave had about him but the poor purchase of ten groats. Notwithstanding, being de- scried, pursued, and taken, I know the law is so grim in respect of many desperate, unsettled soldiers, that I fear me I shall dance after their pipe for't. Skir. I am twice sorry for you, captain : first, that your purchase was so small, and now that your dan- ger is so great. Capt. Pish ! the worst is but death. Have you a pipe of tobacco about you ? Skir. I think I have hereabouts. [Gives tobacco ; Captain blows a pipe. Capt. Here's a clean gentleman, too, to receive. 1 Pye. Well, I must cast about some happy sleight : Work, brain, that ever didst thy master right. Corp. [within]. Keeper, let the Jcey be turned. [OATH and NICHOLAS knock within. Nich. [within] . Ay, I pray, master keeper, give's a cast of your office. [Enter OATH and NICHOLAS. Capt. How now ? more visitants ? What ! Corpo- ral Oath ? Pye. and Skir. Corporal ! Corp. In prison, honest captain? This must not be. Nich. How do you, captain kinsman ? Capt. Good coxcomb ! What makes that pure, starched fool here ? Nich. You see, kinsman, I am somewhat bold to call in, and see how you do. I heard you were safe enough ; and I was very glad on't, that it was no worse. Capt. This is a double torture, now. This fool, by the book, Doth vex me more than my imprisonment. What meant you, corporal, to hook him hither? Corp. Who, he ? he shall relieve thee, and supply thee : I'll make him do't. Capt. Fie ! what vain breath you spend ! He sup- ply ? I'll sooner expect mercy from a usurer when my bond's forfeited ; sooner kindness from a lawyer when my money's spent ; nay, sooner charity from the devil, than good from a puritan. I'll look for re- lief from him when Lucifer is restored to his blood,* and in heaven again. A clear pipe to receive it in. 3 That is, to his rank to his family honors. Nich. I warrant my kinsman's talking of me, fo". my left ear burns most tyrannically. 3 Pye. Captain Idle ! what's he there ? He looks like a monkey upward, and a crane downward. Capt. Pshaw ! a foolish cousin of mine. I must thank God for him. Pye. Why, the better subject to work a 'scape up- on. Thou shall e'en change clothes with him, and leave him here, and so Capt. Pish ! I published him e'en now to my cor- poral ; he will be damned ere he do me so much good. Why, I know a more proper, a more hand- some device than that, if the slave would be sociable. Now, goodman Fleerface ! Nich. O, my cousin begins to speak to me now ; I shall be acquainted with him again, I hope. Skir. Look ! what ridiculous raptures take hold of his wrinkles ! Pye. Then what say you to this device a happy one, captain ? Capt. Speak low, George. Prison-rats have wider ears than those in malt-lofts. Nich. Cousin, if it lay in my power, as they say, to do Capt. 'Twould do me an exceeding pleasure indeed, that ; but ne'er talk further on't ; the fool will be hanged ere he do't. [To the Corporal. Corp. Pox ! I'll thump him to't. Pye. Why, do but try the fopster, and break it to him bluntly. Capt. And so my disgrace will dwell in his jaws, and the slave slaver out our purpose to his master ; for would I were but as sure on't as I am sure he will deny to do't. Nich. I would be heartily glad, cousin, if any of my friendships, as they say, might stand, ha Pye. Why, you see he offers his friendship foolish- ly to you already. Capt. Ay, that's the hell on't ; I would he would offer it wisely. Nich. Verily and indeed, la ! cousin Capt. I have took note of thy fleers a good while. If thou art minded to do me good as thou gap'st upon me comfortably, and giv'st me charitable faces which, indeed, is but a fashion in you all that are puritans wilt soon as 4 night steal me thy master's chain ? Nich. Oh, I shall swoon ! Pye. Corporal, he starts already. Capt . I know it to be worth three hundred crowns ; and, with the half of that, I can buy my life at a bro- ker's, at second hand, which now lies in pawn to the law. If this thou refuse to do, being easy and noth- ing dangerous, in that thou art held in good opinion of thy master, why, 'tis a palpable argument thou hold'st my life at no price, and these thy broken and unjointed offers are but only created in thy lip : now born, and now buried ; foolish breath only .' What, wilt do't ? Shall I look for happiness in thy answer ? Nich. Steal my master's chain, quoth'a? No, it shall ne'er be said that Nicholas Saint Antlings com- mitted bird-lime ! Capt. Nay, I told you as much, did I not ? Though he be a puritan, yet he will be a true man. Nich. Why, cousin, you know 'tis written, Thou shall not steal. 3 So in Hamlet, " most tyrannically." * "At" in former editions. 124 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Capt. Why, and fool, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and help him in extremities. Nich. Mass, I think it be, indeed ; in what chap- ter's that, cousin ? Capt. Why, in the first of charity, the second verse. Nich. The first of charity, quoth'a ? That's a good jest ; there's no such chapter in my book ! Capt. No, I knew 'twas torn out of thy book, and that makes so little in thy heart. Pye. [Takes NICHOLAS aside]. Come, let me tell you, you are too unkind a kinsman, i 'faith ; the cap- tain loving you so dearly ay, like the pome water of his eye 1 and you to be so unconformable.* Fie, e! Nich. Pray, do not wish me to be hanged. Any- thing else that I can do : had it been to rob, I would ha' don't ; but I must not steal. That's the word, the literal, Thou shall not steal ; and would you wish me to steal, then? Pye. No, i'fakh, that were too much, to speak truth. Why, wilt thou nym it from him ? Nich. That I will. Pye. Why, enough, bully. He will be content with that, or he shall have none. Let me alone with him now. Captain, I have dealt with your kinsman in a corner ; a good, kind-natured fellow, methinks : go to, you shall not have all your own asking ; you shall 'bate somewhat on't ; he is not contented absolutely, as you would say. to steal the chain from him ; but, to do you a pleasure, he will nym it from him. Nich. Ay, that I will, cousin. Capt. Well, seeing he will do no more, as far as I see, I must be contented with that. Corp. Here's no notable gullery ! Pye. Nay, I'll come nearer to you, gentlemen. Be- cause we'll have only but a help and a mirth on't, the knight shall not lose his chain neither, but be only laid out of the way some one or two days. Nich. Ay, that would be good, indeed, kinsman. Pye. For I have a further reach, to profit us better, by the missing oft only, than if we had it outright, as my discourse shall make it known to you. When thou hast the chain, do but convey it out at a back door into the garden, and there hang it close in the rosemary bank, but for a small season ; and, by that harmless device, I know how to wind Captain Idle out of prison : the knight thy master shall get his par- don and release him, and he satisfy thy master with his own chain, and wondrous thanks on both hands. Nich. That were rare indeed, la ! Pray, let me know how. Pye. Nay, 'tis very necessary thou shouldst know, because thou must be employed as an actor. Nich. An actor ? Oh no, that's a player, and our parson rails against players mightily, I can tell you, because they brought him drunk upon the stage once as he will be horribly drunk. Corp. Mass ! I can not blame him, then ; poor church-spout ! Pye. Why, as an intermeddler, then ? Nich. Ay that, that. Pye. Give me audience, then. When the old knight thy master has raged his fill for the loss of the chain, 1 The apple of his eye. Pomewater is a kind of apple. But it must not be forgotten that Pyeboard is a scholar. Written " uncomfortable" in previous editions. tell him thou hast a kinsman in prison of such exquis- ite art, that the devil himself is French lackey to him, and runs bareheaded by his horse's belly, when he has one whom he will cause, with most Irish dex- terity, 3 to fetch his chain, though 'twere hid under a mine of sea-coal, and ne'er make spade or pickaxe his instruments. Tell him but this, with further in- structions thou shalt receive from me, and thou show- est thyself a kinsman, indeed. Corp. A dainty bully. Skir. An honest book-keeper. Corp. And my three-times-thrice-honey-cousin. Nich. Nay, grace of God, I'll rob him on't sudden- ly, and hang it in the rosemary bank ; but I bear that mind, cousin, I would not steal anything, methinks, for mine own father. Skir. He bears a good mind in that, captain. Pye. Why, well said. He begins to be an honest fellow, i'faith. Corp. In truth he does. Nich. You see, cousin, I am willing to do you any kindness, always saving myself harmless. Capt. Why, I thank thee ; fare thee well ; I shall requite it. [Exit NICHOLAS. Corp. 'Twill be good for thee, captain, that thou hast such an egregious ass to thy cousin. Capt. Ay, is not that a fine fool, corporal ? But, George, thou talk'st of art and conjuring : How shall that be ? Pye. Puh ! be't not your care : Leave that to me and my directions. Well, captain, doubt not thy delivery now, Even with the 'vantage, man, to gain by prison, As my thoughts prompt me. Hold on, brain, and I aim at many cunning, far events, [plot ! All which I doubt not but to hit at length. I'll to the widow with a quaint assault : Captain, be merry. Capt. Who, I ? Kerry merry buff jerkin. Pye. Oh, I am happy in more sleights, and one Will knit strong in another. Corporal Oath Corp. Ho! bully. Pye. And thou, old Peter Skirmish; I have a neces- sary task for you both. Skir. Lay't upon us, George Pyeboard. Corp. Whate'er it be, we'll manage it. Pye. I would have you two maintain a quarrel before the lady-widow's door, and draw your swords i'th' edge of the evening. Clash a little clash, clash. Corp. Fuh ! Let us alone to make our blades ring noon, Though it be after supper. Pye. I know you can ; And out of that false fire, I doubt not but to raise strange belief. And, captain, to countenance my de- vice the better, and grace my words to the widow, I have a good plain satin suit, that I had of a young reveller t'other night ; for words pass not regarded now a-days, unless they come from a good suit of clothes ; which the fates and my wits have bestowed upon me. Well, Captain Idle, if I did not highly love thee, I would ne'er be seen within twelve score of* a 3 With the agility of a running footman. In the time of Queen Elizabeth and King James I., many noblemen hud Irish running footmen in their service. MALONK. Yard}, understood. ACT II. SCENE I. 125 prison ; for I protest, at this instant, I walk in great danger of small debts. I owe money to several host- esses, and you know such gills will quickly be upon a man's jack. Capt. True, George. Pye. Fare thee well, captain. Come, corporal and ancient. Thou shalt hear more news next time we greet thee. Corp. More news ? Ay, by yon Bear at Bridge-foot, in the evening 1 shalt thou. [Exeunt PYEBOARD, SKIRMISH, and OATH. Capt. Enough ; my friends, farewell ! This prison shows as ghosts did part in hell. z [Exit. ACT II. SCENE I. A Room in the Widow's House. Enter MARY. Mary. Not marry ! forswear marriage ! Why, all women know 'tis as honorable a thing as to lie with a man ; and I, to spite my sister's vow the more, have entertained a suitor already, a fine gallant knight of the last feather. 3 He says he will coach me too ; and well appoint me ; allow me money to dice withal ; and many such pleasing protestations he sticks upon my lips. Indeed, his short-winded father i'the country is wondrous wealthy ; a most abomina- ble farmer ; and therefore he may dote in time. 4 Troth, I'll venture upon him. Women are not with- out ways enough to help themselves : if he prove wise and good as his word, why I shall love him, and use him kindly ; and if he prove an ass, why, in a quarter of an hour's warning I can transform him into an ox ; there comes in my relief again. Enter FRAILTY. Frail. 0, Mistress Mary, Mistress Mary. Mary. How now? what's the news? Frail. The knight, your suitor, Sir John Pennydub. Mary. Sir John Pennydub ? where ? where ? Frail. He's walking in the gallery. Mary. Has my mother seen him yet ? Frail. O no ; she's spitting in the kitchen. 5 Mary. Direct him hither softly, my good Frailty. I'll meet him half way. Frail. That's just like running a tilt ; but I hope he'll break nothing this time.s [Exit. Enter Sir JOHN PEWITYDUB. Mary. 'Tis happiness my mother saw him not O welcome, good Sir John. 1 The old copies read, " in heaven" 2 Doubtless, a meaning may be conjured out of the pas- ga^e, but the idea of the author contracted to the limits of the line, compasses a volume of obscurity. Perhaps it might be something clearer to read " do part," or even " depart in hell." 3 Of the latest fashion. 4 I have left the reading in the old folio as it was. In other copies it is made to read, " do it in time," that is, provide me with what he promises. But the reference is to the old father, whose dotage would set the son free to do what he pleased. 6 Superintending the spit or roasting machine. * Comparison drawn from the tourney. The knights meenng midway in the encounter, and splintering lances. Penny. I thank you 'faith. Nay, you must stand me till I kiss you : 'tis The fashion everywhere i'faith, and I Came from the court even now. Mary. Nay, the fates forefend That I should anger the fashion ? Penny. Then, not forgetting the sweet of new cer emonies, I first fall back ; then, recovering myself, make my honor to your lip thus ; and then accost it. [Kisses her. Mary. Trust me, very pretty and moving; you're worthy of it, sir. O my mother, my mother ! now she is here, we'll steal into the gallery. [Exeunt Sir JOHN and MART. Enter Widow and Sir GODFREY. Sir God. Nay, sister, let reason rule you ; do not play the fool ; stand not in your own light ; you have wealthy offers, large tenderings ; do not with- stand your good fortune. Who comes a-wooing to you, I pray ? No small fool ; a rich knight o' the city. Sir Oliver Muckhill ; no small fool, I can tell you. And, furthermore, as I heard late by your maid- servants (as your maid-servants will say to me any- thing, I thank 'em) both your daughters are not with- out suitors ; ay, and worthy ones too ; one a brisk courtier, Sir Andrew Tipstaff, suitor afar off to your eldest daughter, and the third a huge wealthy farmer's son, a fine young country knight ; they call him Sir John Pennydub ; a good name, marry ; he may have it coined when he lacks money. What blessings are these, sister ? Wid. Tempt me not, Satan. Sir God. Satan ! do I look like Satan ? I hope the devil's not so old as I, I trow. Wid. You wound my senses, brother, when you A suitor to me. Oh, I can't abide it ; [name I take in poison when I hear one named. Enter SIMON. How now, Simon ? where is my son Edmond ? Sim. Verily, madam, he is at vain exercise ; drip- ping in the Tennis-court. Wid. At Tennis-court ? Oh, now his father's gone, I shall have no rule with him ; Oh wicked Edmond ! I might well compare this with the prophecy in the chronicle, though far inferior. As Harry of Mou- mouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all, so Ed- mond of Bristow, that was the father, got all, and Edmond of London, that's his son now, will spend all. Sir God. Peace, sister, we'll have him reformed ; there's hope of him yet, though it be but a little. Enter FRAILTY. Frail. Forsooth, madam ; there are two or three archers at door would very gladly speak with your ladyship. Wid. Archers? Sir God. Your husband's fletcher, 7 1 warrant. Wid. Oh, Let them come near, they bring home things of his ; Troth, I should ha' forgot them. How now, villain ! Which be those archers ? 1 Arrow-maker probably one who put on the feather. 126 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Enter Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF, Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, and Sir JOHN PENNYDUB. Frail. Why, do you not see 'em before you ? Are not these archers? what do you call 'em shoot- ers?! Shooters and archers are all one, I hope. WiA. Out. ignorant slave. Sir Oliver. Nay, pray be patient, lady ; We come in way of honorable love. Sir And. Sir John. Sir Oliver. To you. Sir And. > . Sir John. { And to y ur dau & hters ' Wid. O, why will you offer me this, gentlemen ? Indeed, I will not look upon you. When the tears are scarce out of mine eyes, not yet washed off from my cheeks ; and my dear husband's body scarce so cold as the coffin, what reason have you to offer it ? I am not like some of your widows, that will bury one hi the evening, and be sure to have another ere morning. Pray away ; pray take your answers, good knights ; an you be sweet knights ; I have vowed never to marry ; and so have my daughters, too ! Sir John. Ay, two of you have, but the third's a good wench ! Sir Oliver. Lady, a shrewd answer, marry. The best is, 'tis but the first ; and he's a blunt wooer that will leave for one sharp answer. Sir And. Where be your daughters, lady ? I hope they'll give us better encouragement. Wid. Indeed, they'll answer you so ? take it on my word they'll give you the very same answer verbatim, truly, la. Sir John. Mum : Mary's a good wench still ; I know what she'll do ? Sir Oliver. Well, lady, for this time we'll take our Hoping for better comfort. [leaves Wid. O never, never: an I live these thousand years, an you be good knights, do not hope ; 'twill b>e all vain , vain. Look you, put off all your suits, an you come to me again. [Exeunt Sir JOHIC and Sir GODFREY. Frail. Put off all their suits, quotha ? Ay, that's the best wooing of a widow indeed, when a man's nonsuited ; that is, when he's a-bed with her. Sir Oliver. Sir Godfrey, here's twenty angels more. Work hard for me ; there's life in't yet. 8 Sir God. Fear not, Sir Oliver Muckhill ; I'll stick close for you : leave all with me. [Exit Sir OLIVER. Enter PYEBOARD. Pye. By your leave, lady widow. Wid. What, another suitor now ? Pye. A suitor .' no, I protest, lady, if you'd give me yourself, I'd not be troubled with you. Wid. Say you so, sir ? then you're the better wel- come, sir. Pye. Nay, Heaven bless me from a widow, unless I were sure to bury her speedily ! Wid. Good bluntness. Well, your business, sir ? Pye. Very needful ; if you were in private once. Wid. Needful? Brother, pray leave us: and you, sir. [Exit Sir GODFREY. 1 Shooters suitors. So Lear : " Then there's life in it" Stcevtns. And Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night : " There's life in it, man." Frail. I should laugh now, if this blunt fellow should put them all beside the stirrup, and vault into the saddle himself. 1 have seen as mad a trick. [Exit FRAILTY. Wid. Now, sir? here's none but we. [Enter Daughters.] Daughters, forbear. Pye. O no, Pray let them stay ; for what I have to speak Importeth equally to them as you ? Wid. Then you may stay. Pye. I pray bestow on me a serious ear, For what I speak is full of weight and fear. Wid. Fear? Pye. Ay, ift pass unregarded and uneffected. Else, peace and joy: I pray attention, widow. I have been a mere stranger for these parts that you live in, nor did I ever know the husband of you, and father of them, but I truly know, by certain spiritual intelligence, that he is in purgatory. Wid. Purgatory ! tub ; that word deserves to be spit upon. I wonder that a man of sober tongue, as you seem to be, should have the folly to believe there's such a place. Pye. Well, lady, in cold blood I speak it ; I assure you that there is a purgatory, in which place I know your husband to reside, and wherein he is like to re- main, till the dissolution of the world, till the last general bonfire : when all the earth shall melt into nothing, and the seas scald their finny laborers : so long is his abidance, unless you alter the property of your purpose, together with each of your daughters theirs ; that is, the purpose of single life in yourself and your eldest daughter, and the speedy determina- tion of marriage in your youngest. Mary. How knows he that ? what, has some devil told him? Wid. Strange he should know our thoughts Why? But daughter, have you purposed speedy marriage ? Pye. You see she tells you ay, she says nothing. Nay, give me credit as you please ; I am a stranger to you, and yet you see I know your determinations, which must come to me metaphysically, and by a supernatural intelligence. Wid . This puts amazement on me. Frances. Know our secrets ? Mary. I had thought to steal a marriage. Would bis tongue Had dropped out when he blabbed it. Wid. But, sir, my husband was too honest a deal- ing man, to be now in any purgatories. Pye. O do not load your conscience with untruths, 'Tis but mere folly now to gild him o'er, That has past but for copper. Praises here, Can not unbind him there. Confess but truth ; I know he got his wealth with a hard gripe : Oh, hardly, hardly ! Wid. This is most strange of all, how knows he that? Pye. He would eat fools and ignorant heirs cleaa up; And had his drink from many a poor man's brow, Even as their labor brewed it. He would scrape Riches to him most unjustly. The very dirt Between his nails was ill got ; not his own ! Oh ! I groan to speak of it. The thought makes m shudder ! shudder ! Wid. It quakes me too, now I think on't. [asidt. ACT II. SCENE II. 127 Sir, I am much grieved, that you a stranger, should So deeply wrong my dead husband ! Pye. Oh? Wid. A man that would keep church so duly ; rise enrly before his servants, and even, for religious haste, go ungartered, unbuttoned, nay, sir reverence, un- trussed, to morning prayer ? Pye Oh, uffi ^Vid. Dine quickly upon high-days, and when I had great guests, would even shame me, and rise from the table, to get a good seat at an afternoon ser- mon. Pye. There's the devil, there's the devil ! True : he thought it sanctity enough, if he had killed a man, so it had been done in a pew; or undone his neigh- bor, so it had been near enough to the preacher. Oh ! a sermon's a line short cloak of an hour long, and will hi 'Say on" that is, essay to do on or don a new doublet 128 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. little and little, most puritanically ! We shall have Frail. Ay, I knew, by their shuffling, clubs would good sport anon, when he has missed it, about my be trurnp. Mass ! here's the knave, an he can do cousin the conjurer. The world shall see I'm an hon- any good upon 'em. Clubs ! clubs ! clubs ! est man of my word : for now I'm going to hang it [Exit FRAILTY between heaven and earth amongst the rosemary- Enter PYEBOARD. branches. [Exit. Corp. 0, villain ! thou hast opened a vein in my leg. Pye. How now ? For shame, for shame ! put jip, put up. Corp. By yon blue welkin, 'twas out of my part, George, to be hurt on the leg. Enter Officers. Pye. Oh, peace,, now. I have a cordial here to comfort thee. OJfi. Down with 'em, down with 'em ; lay hands upon the villain ! Skir. Lay hands on me ? Pye. I'll not be seen among 'em now. [Exit PYEBOARD. Corp. I'm hurt, and had more need to have a sur- Lay hands upon me, than rough officers. [geon Off,. Go, carry him to be dressed, then : [Exeunt some with OATH. This mutinous soldier shall along with me To prison. Skir. To prison ? where's George ? Qffi. Away with him ! [Exeunt Officers with SKIRMISH. SCENE II. The same. Enter PYEBOARD. Pye. So ! All lights as I would wish. The amazed widow Will plant me strongly now in her belief, And wonder at the virtue of my words : For the event turns those presages from them, Of being mad and dumb, and begets joy Mingled with admiration. These empty creatures, Soldier and corporal, were but ordained As instruments for me to work upon. Now to my patient : here's his potion. [Exit PYEBOARD. SCENE III. An Apartment in the Widow's House. Enter the Widow, FRANCES, and MARY. Wid. O wondrous happiness, beyond our thoughts ! lucky, fair event ! I think our fortunes Were blest even in our cradles : we are 'quitted Of all those shameful, violent presages By this rash, bleeding chance. Go, Frairty un, and Whether he be yet living, or yet dead, [know That here before my door received his hurt. Frail. Madam, he was carried to the superior ; but if he had no money when he came there, I warrant he's dead by this time. [Exit FRAILTY. Frances. Sure that man is a rare fortune-teller ! never looked upon our hands, nor upon any mark about us ; a wondrous fellow, surely. Mary. I am glad I have the use of my tongue yet, though of nothing else. I shall find the way to mar- ry, too, I hope, shortly. Wid. 0, where's my brother Sir Godfrey? I would he were here, that 1 might relate to him how prophet- ically the cunning gentleman spoke in all things. ACT III. SCENE I. The Street before the Widow's House. Enter SIMON and FRAILTY. Frail. Sirrah, Simon Saint Mary-Overies, my mis- tress sends away all her suitors, and puts fleas in their ears. Sim. Frailty, she does like an honest, chaste, and virtuous woman ; for widows ought not to wallow in the puddle of iniquity. Frail. Yet, Simon, many widows will do't, what- soe'er comes on't. Sim. True, Frailty ; their filthy flesh desires a con- junction copulative. What strangers are within, Frailty ? Frail. There's none, Simon, but Master Pilfer the tailor ; he's above, with Sir Godfrey, 'praising 1 of a doublet : and I must trudge anon to fetch Master Suds the barber. Sim. Master Suds's a good man : he washes the sins of the beard clean. Enter SKIRMISH. Skir. How now, creatures ? what's o'clock ? Frail. Why, do you take us to be jacks o' the clock-house ? 2 Skir. I say again to you, what's o'clock ? Sim. Truly, la ! we go by the clock of our con- science. All worldly clocks we know go false, and are set by drunken sextons. Skir. Then what is't o'clock in your conscience ? Oh, I must break oiF: here comes the corporal. Enter Corporal. Hum .' buna ! What is't o'clock ? Corp. O'clock ? why, past seventeen ! Frail. Past seventeen ? Nay, he has met with his match now : Corporal Oath will fit him. Skir. Thou dost not balk or baffle me, dost thou ? I am a soldier. Past seventeen ! Corp. Ay, thou art not angry with the figures, art thou ? I will prove it unto thee : twelve and one is thirteen, I hope ; two, fourteen ; three, fifteen ; four, sixteen; and five, seventeen : then, past seventeen. I will take the dial's part in a just cause. Skir. I say 'tis but past five, then. Corp. I'll swear 'tis past seventeen, then. Dost thou not know numbers ? Canst thou not cast ? Skir. Cast ? Dost thou speak of my casting i'th' street ?s [ They draw and fight. Corp. Ay, and in the market-place. Sim. Clubs ! clubs ! clubs ! [SIMON runs away. 1 Appraising. * Figures formerly placed in the great clocks of churches, which, by mechanism, struck the hours. s To " cast in the street'' was a cant phrase for Yomiting. Hence the insult conveyed by the word casting. ACT III. SCENE IV. 129 Enter Sir GODFREY, in a rage. Sir God. 0, my chain, my chain ! I have lost my chain. Where be these villains, varlets ? Wid. Oh ! he has lost his chain. Sir God. My chain, my chain ! Wid. Brother, be patient ; hear me speak. You know I told you that a cunning-man told me that you should have a loss, and he has prophesied so true Sir God. Out ! he's a villain to prophesy of the loss of my chain. 'Twas worth above three hundred crowns. Besides, 'twas my father's, my father's fa- ther's, my grandfather's huge grandfather's. 1 I had as lief ha' lost my neck as the chain that hung about it. 0, my chain, my chain ! Wid. Oh, brother, who can be guarded against a misfortune ? 'Tis happy 'twas no more. Sir God. No more ? O goodly, godly sister, would you had me lost more ? My best gown, too, with the cloth of gold lace? my holyday gaskins, and my jer- kin set with pearl ? No more ! Wid. Oh, brother, you can read Sir God. But I can not read where my chain is. What strangers have been here ? You let in stran- gers, thieves, and catchpoles. How comes it gone ? There was none above with me but my tailor, and my tailor will not steal, I hope. Mary. No, he's afraid of a chain. Enter FRAILTY. Wid. How now, sirrah ? the news ? Frail. 0, mistress, he may well be called a corpo- ral now, for his corpse is as dead as a cold capon's. Wid. More happiness. Sir God. Sirrah, what's this to my chain ? where's my chain, knave ? Frail. Your chain, sir ? Sir God. My chain is lost, villain. Frail. I would he were hanged in chains that has it, then. For me, alas ! sir, I saw none of your chain since you were hung with it yourself. Sir God. Out, varlet ! it had full three thousand I have oft told it over at my prayers [links : Over and over ; full three thousand links. Frail. Had it so, sir? Sure it can not be lost, then. I'll put you in that comfort. Sir God. Why? why? Frail. Why, if your chain had so many links, it can not choose but come to light. 8 Enter NICHOLAS. Sir God. Delusion ! Now, long Nicholas, where is my chain ? Nick. Why, about your neck, is't not, sir ? Sir God. About my neck, varlet ? my chain is lost ; 'tis stolen away ; I'm robbed. Wid. Nay, brother, show yourself a man. Nick. If it be only lost or stole, if he would be pa- tient, mistress, I could bring him to a cunning fins- man of mine, that would fetch it again with a sesa- rara. 3 Sir God. Canst thou ? I will be patient : say, where dwells he ? i A huge grandfather is no more than a great-grandfather. * A link was a torch or light. 3 Certiorari is probably intended " to be made more cer- tain" the term and tenor of a law-writ. In pur forest re- gions, the vulgar corruption makes it a " sashirary." Nich. Marry, he dwells now, sir, where he would not dwell an he could choose in the Marshalsea, sir ; but he's an excellent fellow if he were out : has travelled all the world over, he, and been in the seven- and-twenty provinces. Why, he would make it be fetched, sir, if it were rid a thousand mile out of town. Sir God. An admirable fellow ! What lies he for ? Nich. Why, he did but rob a steward of ten groats t'other night, as any man would ha' done, and there he lies for't. Sir God. I'll make his peace. A trifle ! I'll get his Besides a bountiful reward. I'll about it ; [pardon, But see the clerks ; the justice will do much : I will about it straight. Good sister, pardon me ; All will be well, I hope, and turn to good : The name of conjurer has laid my blood. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Street. Enter PUTTOCK, RAVENSHAW, and DOGSON. Put. His hostess where he lies will trust him no long- er. She hath feed me to arrest him. And If you will accompany me because I know not of what nature the scholar is, whether desperate or swift 4 you shall share with me, Sergeant Ravenshaw. I have the good angel to arrest him.s Rav. Troth, I'll take part with thee, then, ser- geant ; not for the sake of the money so much, as for the hate I bear to a scholar. Why, sergeant, 'tis natural in us, you know, to hate scholars natural, because they will publish our imperfections, knave- ries, and conveyances upon scaffolds and stages. Put. Ay, and spitefully too. Troth, I have won- dered how the slaves could see into our breasts so much, when our doublets are buttoned with pewter. Rav. Ay, and so close without yielding. Oh, they're parlous fellows ; they will search more with their wits than a constable with all his officers. Put. Whist, whist, whist, yeoman Dogson, yeoman Dogson. Dog. Ha ? what says sergeant ? Put. Is he in the 'pothecary's shop still ? Dog. Ay, ay ! Put. Have an eye, have an eye. Rav. The best is, sergeant, if he be a true scholar he wears no weapon, I think. Put. No, no, he wears no weapon. Rav. Mass, I am right glad of that : it has put me in better heart. Nay, if I clutch him once, let me alone to drag him if he be stiff-necked I have been one of the six myself, that has dragged as tall men of their hands, when their weapons have been gone, as ever bastinadoed a sergeant. I have done I can tell you. Dog. Sergeant Puttock, Sergeant Puttock. Put. Ho ! Dog. He's coming out single. Put. Peace, peace, be not too greedy; let him play a little, let him play a little ; we'll jerk him up of a sudden. I ha' fished in my time. Rav. Ay, and caught many a fool, sergeant. Enter PYEBOARD. Pye. I parted now from Nich'las : the chain's couched, 4 That is, whether he will stand and fight, or run. 6 He means the coin of that name. 130 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. And the old knight has spent his rage upon't. The widow holds me in great admiration For cunning art : 'mongst joys I'm even lost, For my device can no way now be crossed ; And now I must to prison, to the captain, And there Put. I arrest you, sir. Pye. Oh ! I spoke truer than I was aware ; I must to prison, indeed. Put. They say you're a scholar, Nay, sir : yeo- man Dogson, have care to his arms. You'll rail against sergeants, and stage 'em ? You'll tickle their vices ? Pye. Nay, use me like a gentleman ; I'm little less. Put. You a gentleman ! that's a good jest, i'faith. Can a scholar be a gentleman, when a gentleman will not be a scholar ? Look upon your wealthy citizen's sons, whether they be scholars or no. that are gentle- men by their fathers' trades. A scholar a gentleman ! Pye. Nay, let fortune drive all her stings into me, she can not hurt that in me. A gentleman is accidens inseparable to my blood. Rav. A rabJement ! nay, you shall have a bloody rablement upon you, I warrant you. Put. Go, yeoman Dogson, before, and enter the ac- tion i'th' counter. [Exit DOGSON. Pye. Pray do not handle me cruelly ; I'll go Whither you please to have me. Put. Oh, he's tame ; let him loose, sergeant. Pye. Pray, at whose suit is this ? Put. Why, at your hostess's suit, where you lie ; Mistress Conyburrow's, for bed and board, the sum four pound, five shillings, and five pence. Pye. I know the sum too true, yet I presumed Upon a further day. Well, 'tis my stars ; And I must bear it now, though never harder. I swear now, my device is crossed indeed. Captain must lie by't : l this is deceit's seed. Put. Come, come away. Pye. Pray, give me so much time as to knit my garter, And I'll away with you. Put. Well, we must be paid for this waiting upon you ; this is no pains to attend thus. 3 [PYEBOARD pretends to tie his garter. Pye. I am now wretched and miserable ; I shall never recover of this disease. Hot iron gnaw their fists ! They have struck a fever into my shoulder, which I shall ne'er shake out again, I fear me, till, with a true habeas corpus, the sexton remove me. Oh, if I take prison once, I shall be pressed to death with actions ; but not so happily as speedily ; per- haps I may be forty year a pressing till I be a thin old man ; that, looking through the grates, men may look through me. All my means confounded, what shall I do ? Have my wits served me so long, now to give me the slip, like a trained servant, when I have most need of 'em ? No device to keep my poor car- cass from these puttocks ? Yes, happiness ! have I a paper about me now ? Yes, two ; I'll try it, it may hit ; Extremity is touchstone unto wit. Ay ! Ay ! [Answering Officer. Put. 'Sfoot, how many yards are in thy garters, 1 Or lost by it * That is, there is neither pain nor penalty which compels us to this servility. that thou art so long a tying of them ? Come away, sir. Pye. Troth, sergeant, I protest, you could never have took me at a worse time ; for now, at this in- stant, I have no lawful picture' about me. Put. 'Slid, how shall we come by our fees, then ? Rav. We must have fees, sirrah. Pye. I could have wished, i'faith, that you had took me half an hour hence for your own sake, for I pro- test if you had not crossed me, I was going in great joy to receive five pound of a gentleman, for the device of a mask here, drawn in this paper. But now, come, I must be contented ; 'tis but so much lost, and an- swerable to the rest of my fortunes ? Put. Why, how far hence dwells that gentleman ? Rav. Ay, well said, sergeant ; 'tis good to cast about for money. Put. Speak, if it be not far Pye. We are but a little past it ; the next street be- hind us. Put. 'Slid, we have waited upon you grievously al- ready ; if you'll say you'll be liberal when you have it ; give us double fees, and spend upon us ; why, we'll show you that kindness, and go along with you to the gentleman. Rac. Ay, well said still, sergeant ; urge that. Pye. Troth, if it will suffice, it shall all be among you ; for my part I'll not pocket a penny ; my hostess shall have her four pound, five shillings, and bate me the five pence, and the other fifteen shillings I'll spend upon you. Rav. Why now thou art a good scholar. Put. An excellent scholar, i'faith ; has proceeded very well o' late. Come, we'll along with you. [Exeunt PCTTOCK, RAVENSHAW, and PYEEOARD. The latter knocks at the door of a Gentleman's house, at the inside of the stage. SCENE V. A Gallery in a Gentleman's House. Enter a Servant. Sere. Who knocks ? who's at door ? We had need of a porter. Pye. [within]. A few friends here pray is the gentleman your master within ? Serv. Yes ; is your business to him ? [Opens the door ; enter PYEBOARD, PUT- TOCK, RAVENSHAW, and DOGSON. Pye. Ay, he knows it when he sees me : I pray you, have you forgot me ? Serv. Ay, by my troth, sir ; pray, come near ; I'll in and tell him of you. Please you to walk here in the gallery till he comes. [Exit Servant. Pye. We will attend his worship. Worship, I think ; for so much the posts at his door should sig- nify, 4 and the fair coming in, and the wicket ; else, I neither knew him nor his worship ; but 'tis happiness he is within doors, whatsoe'er he be. If he be not too much a formal citizen, he may do me good [aside]. Sergeant and yeoman, how do you like this house ? Is't not most wholesomely plotted ? 5 Rav. Troth, prisoner, an exceeding fine house. Pye. Yet I wonder how he should forget me ; for 3 Lawful coin. The picture of his majesty. < Posts at the door, in Queen Elizabeth's time, were signs of a justice of the peace and sheriff. 6 Laid out the ground-plot, the garden. ACT III. SCENE V. 131 he ne'er know me [aside]. No matter, what is forgot in you will be remembered in your master. :A pretty comfortable room this, mcthinks : You have no such rooms in prison now ? Put. Oh, dog-holes to't. Pye. Dog-holes, indeed. I can tell you, I have great hope to have my chamber here shortly, nay, and diet too ; for he's the most free-heartedst gen- tie man where he takes: you would little think it? And what a fine gallery were here for me to walk and study, and make verses. Put. 0, it stands pleasantly for a scholar. Enter Gentleman. Pye. Look what maps, and pictures, and devices, and things, neatly, delicately ! Mass, here he comes j he should be a gentleman ; I like his beard well. All happiness to your worship. Gent. You're kindly welcome, sir. Put. A simple salutation. Rav. Mass, it seems the gentleman makes great account of him. Pye. [aloud] . I have the thing here for you, sir. [ Takes the Gentleman aside. I beseech you, conceal me, sir; I'm undone else [aside]. I have the mask here for you, sir [aloud]. Look you, sir [aside], I beseech your worship, first pardon my rudeness, for my extremes make me bolder than I would be. I am a poor gentleman, and a scholar, and am now most unfortunately fallen into the hands of unmerciful officers, arrested for debt, which, though small, I am not able to compass, by reason I am des- titute of lands, money, and friends ; so that if I fall into the hungry swallow of the prison, I am like ut- terly to perish, and with fees and extortions be pinch- ed clean to the bone. Now, if ever pity had interest in the blood of a gentleman, I beseech you, vouch- safe but to favor that means of my escape which I have already thought upon. Gent. Go forward. Put. I warrant he likes it rarely. Pye. In the plunge of my extremities, being giddy, and doubtful what to do, at last it was put into my laboring thoughts, to make a happy use of this paper ; and to blear their unlettered eyes, I told them there was a device for a mask drawn in't, and that (but for their interception) I was going to a gentleman to re- ceive my reward for't. They, greedy at this word, and hoping to make purchase of me, offered their attendance, to go along with me. My hap was to make bold with your door, sir, which my thoughts showed me the most fairest and comfortablest en- trance ; and I hope I have happened right upon un- derstanding and pity. May it please your good wor- ship, then, but to uphold my device, which is to let one of your men put me out at a back-door, and I shall be bound to your worship for ever. Gent. By my troth, an excellent device. Put. An excellent device, he says j he likes it won- derfully. Gent. 0' my faith, I never heard a better. Rav. Hark, he swears he never heard a better, ser- geant. Put. 0, there's no talk on't ; he's an excellent scholar, and especially for a mask. Gent. Give me your paper, your device. I was never better pleased in all my life : good wit, brave wit, finely wrought ! come in, sir, and receive your money, sir. [Exit vnthin. Pye. I'll follow your good worship. You heard how he liked it, now? Put. Puh, we knew he could not choose but like it. Go thy ways ; thou art a fine witty fellow, i'faith ; thou shall discourse it to us at the tavern, anon ; wilt thou? Pye. Ay, ay, that I will. Look, sergeant, here are maps and pretty toys ; be doing, in the meantime ; I shall quickly have told out the money, you know. Put. Go, go, little villain ; fetch thy chink ; I be- gin to love thee ; I'll be drunk to-night in thy com- pany. Pye. This gentleman I may well call a part Of my salvation, in these earthly evils, For he has saved me from three hungry devils. [Exit PYEBOARD. Put. Sirrah, sergeant, these maps are pretty paint- ed things, but I could ne'er fancy them yet ; me- thinks they're too busy, and full of circles and conju- rations ; they say all the world's in one of them, but I could ne'er find the counter in the poultry. 1 Rav. I think so. How could you find it? for you know it stands behind these houses. Dog. Mass, that's true ; then we must look o' the backside for't : 'sfoot, here's nothing ; all's bare. Rav. I warrant thee that stands for the counter ; for you know there's a company of bare fellows there. Put. 'Faith, like enough, sergeant ; I never marked so much before. Sirrah sergeant and yeoman, I should love these maps out o' cry now, if we could see men peep out of door in 'em. Oh, we might have 'em in a morning to our breakfast so finely, and ne'er knock our heels to the ground a whole day for 'em. Rav. Ay, marry, sir, I'd buy one then myself. But this talk is by the way. Where shall's sup to-night ? Five pound received, let's talk of that. I have a trick worth all. You two shall bear him to th' tav- ern, whilst I go close with his hostess, and work out of her. I know she would be glad of [halfj the sum, to finger [the] money ; because she knows 'tis but a desperate debt, and full of hazard. What will you say if I bring it to pass, that the hostess shall be con- tented with one half for all, and we to share t'other fifty shillings, bullies ? Put. Why, I would call thee king of sergeants, and thou shouldst be chronicled in the counter-book for ever. Rav. Well, put it to me ; we'll make a night on't, i'faith. Dog. 'Sfoot, I think he receives more money, he stays so long. Put. He tarries long, indeed. May be, I can tell you, upon the good liking on't the gentleman may prove more bountiful. Rav. That would be rare ; we'll search him. Put. Nay, be sure of it ; we'll search him, and make him light enough. Enter Gentleman. Rav. Oh, here comes the gentleman. By your leave, sir. Gen. Give 1 you god den sirs, Would you speak with me ? 1 The prison, BO called. MALONE. % In other copies " god." 132 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Put. No, not with your worship, sir ; only we are bold to stay for a friend of ours that went in with your worship. Gen. Who ? Not the scholar ? Put. Yes, e'en he, an it please your worship. Gen. Did he make you stay for him ! he did you wrong, then : why, I can assure you he's gone above an hour ago. Rav. How, sir? Gen. I paid him his money, and my man told me he went out at back-door. Put. Back-door? Gen. Why, what's the matter ? Put. He was our prisoner, sir ; we did arrest him. Gen. What ! he was not ? You the sheriff's offi- cers? You were to blame, then ! Why did you not make known to me as much ? I could have kept him for you. I protest, He received all of me in Britain gold, Of the last coining. Rav. Vengeance dog him with't ! Put. 'Sfoot, has he gulled us so ? Dog. Where shall we sup now, sergeants ? Put. Sup, Simon, now! eat porridge for a month. Well, we can not impute it to any lack of good will in your worship ; you did but as another would have done ; 'twas our hard fortunes to miss the purchase ; but if ever we clutch him again, the counter shall charm him. Rav. The hole shall rot him.i Dog. Amen. [Exeunt Sergeants. Gent. So : Vex out your lungs without doors ; I am proud It was my hap to help him. It fell fit : He went not empty neither for his wit. Alas ! poor wretch, I could not blame his brain, To labor his delivery, to be free From their unpitying fangs ; I'm glad it stood Within my power to do a scholar good. [Exit, SCENE VI. A Room in the Marshalsea Prison. Enter Captain IDLE ; to him PYEEOARD, in disguise. Capt. How now ? who's that ? what are you ? Pye. The same that I should be, captain. Capt. George Pyeboard ? honest George ! Why com'st thou in half-faced and muffled so ? Pye. Oh, captain, I thought we should ne'er have laughed again, never spent frolic hour again. Capt. Why? why? Pye. I, coming to prepare thee, and with news As happy as thy quick delivery, Was traced out by the scent arrested, captain. Capt. Arrested, George ? Pye. Arrested ! guess, how many dogs do you think I had upon me ? Capt. Dogs? I say, I know not. Pye. Almost as many as George Stone, the bear: 2 Three at once, three at once. Capt. How didst thou shake 'em off, then ? Pye. The time is busy, and calls upon our wits : Let it suffice Here I stand safe, and 'scaped by miracle : i One of the worst apartments in the counter-prison. A famous bear exhibited at Paris garden, and called af- ter his owner. Some other hour shall tell thee, when we'll steep Our eyes in laughter. Captain, my device Leans to thy happiness ; for, ere the day Be spent to th' girdle, 3 thou shall [sure] be free. The corporal's in's first sleep ; the chain is missed ; Thy kinsman has expressed thee, 4 and the old knight With palsy hams 5 now labors thy release. What rests, is all in thee to conjure, captain. Capt. Conjure? 'Sfoot! George, you know the devil o' conjuring I can conjure. Pye. The devil o' conjuring? Nay, by my say, I'd not have thee do so much, captain, as the devil, a- conjuring. Look here : I have brought thee a circle, ready charactered and all. Capt. 'Sfoot ! George, art in thy right wits ? Dost know what thou say'st ? W r hy dost talk to a captain of conjuring ? Didst thou ever hear of a captain con- jure in thy life ? Dost call't a circle ? 'Tis too wide a thing, methinks. Had it been a lesser circle, then I knew what to have done. Pye. Why, every fool knows that, captain. Nay, then I'll not cog with you, captain ; if you'll stay and hang, the next sessions, you may. Capt. No, by my faith, George. Come, come ; let's to conjuring. Pye. But if you look to be released (as my wits have took pain to work it, and all means wrought to further it), besides, to put crowns in your purse ; to make you a man of better hopes ; and, whereas, be- fore you were a captain or poor soldier, to make you now a commander of rich fools which is truly the only best purchase peace can allow you safer than highways, heath, or cony-groves, and yet a far bet- ter booty ; for your greatest thieves are never hanged, never hanged: for why? they're wise, and cheat with- in doors ; and we geld fools of more money in one night than your false-tailed geldings will purchase in a twelve-month's running which confirms the old beldam's saying : He's u-isest that keeps himself warm- est ; that is, he that robs by a good fire. Capt. Well opened, i'faith, George ; thou hast pulled that saying out of the husk. Pye. Captain Idle, 'tis no time now to delude or de- lay. The old knight will be here suddenly. I'll per- feet you, direct you, tell you the trick on't : 'tis noth- ing. Ciipt. 'Sfoot ! George, I know not what to say to't Conjure? I shall be hanged ere I conjure. Pye. Nay, tell not me of that, captain ; you'll ne'er onjure after you're hanged, I warrant you. Look you, sir : a parlous matter, sure ! first, to spread your circle upon the ground; then, with a little conjuring ceremony (as I'll have a hackney-man's wand silvered o'er a-purpose for you) ; then, arriving in the circle, with a huge word, and a great trample as, for in- stance, have you never seen a stalking, stamping play- r, that will raise a tempest with his tongue, and thun- der with his heels ? T Capt. yes, yes, yes ; often, often. Pye. Why, be like such a one. For anything will blear the old knight's eyes ; for you must note that 3 To the horizon. * Acted thy wishes. 6 That is, bending. He is seeking, soliciting on thy be- half. 6 A highwayman's horse, the tail of which is removable at the will of the owner. 1 "A robustious, periwig-pated fellow," &c. Hamlet. ACT III. SCENE VI. 133 he'll ne'er dare to venture into the room, only perhaps peep fearfully through the keyhole, to see how the play goes forward. Ca.pt. Well, 1 may go about it when I will ; but mark the end on't : I shall but shame myself, i'faith, George. Speak big words, and stamp and stare, and he look in at keyhole ! Why, the very thought of that would make me laugh outright, and spoil all. Nay, I'll tell thee, George, when I apprehend a thing once, I am of such a laxative laughter, that, if the devil himself stood by, I should laugh in his face ! Pye. Puh ! that's but the babe of a man, and may easily be hushed as, to think upon some disaster, some sad misfortune, as the death of thy father i'th' country. Capt. 'Sfoot ! that would be the more to drive me into such an ecstasy, that I should ne'er lini laughing else. Pye. Why, then, think upon going to hanging. Capt. Mass ! that's well remembered : now I'll do well, I warrant thee ; ne'er fear me now. But how shall I do, George, for boisterous words and horrible names? Pye. Puh ! any fustian invocations, captain, will serve as well as the best, so you rant them out well ; or you may go to a 'pothecary's shop, and take all the words from the boxes. Capt. Troth, and you say true, George : there's strange words enow to raise a hundred quack-salvers. though they be ne'er so poor when they begin. But here lies the fear on't : how, if in this false conjura- tion, a true devil should pop up indeed ? Pt/e. A true devil, captain ? why. there was ne'er such a one. Nay, i'faith, he that has this place, is as false a knave as our last church- warden. Capt. Then he's false enough o' conscience, i'faith, George. [Prisoners cry within.] Good gentlemen over the way, send your relief; good gentlemen over the way, good Sir Godfrey ! Pye. He's come, he's come ! Enter Sir GODFREY, EDMOND, and NICHOLAS. Nich. Master, that's my kinsman yonder, in the buffjerkin. Kinsman, that's my master yonder, i'th' taffaty hat. Pray, salute him entirely. [Sir GODFREY and IDLE salute, and PYEBOARD salutes EDMOND. Sir God. Now, my friend [Sir GODFREY and IDLE converse apart. Pye. May I partake your name, sir ? Edm. My name is Master Edmond. Pye. Master Edmond ? Are you not a Welshman, sir? Edm. A Welshman ? why ? Pye. Because master is your Christian name, and Edmond your surname. Edm. O no ; I have more names at home : Master Edmond Plus is my full name at length. Pye. O, cry you mercy, sir. Capt. [asiJeto Sir GODFREY]. I understand that you are my kinsman's good master, and, in regard of that, the best of my skill is at your service. But had you fortuned a mere stranger, and made no means to me by acquaintance, I should have utterly denied to have i ' Lin" to stop, to cease. been the man ; both by reason of the act of parlia- ment against conjurers and witches, 2 as also because I would not have my art vulgar, trite, and common. Sir God. I much commend your care there, good captain conjurer ; and that I will be sure to have it private enough, you shall do't in my sister's house mine own house I may call it, for both our charges therein are proportioned. Capt. Very good, sir. What may I call your loss, sir? Sir God. O, you may call't a great loss, a grievous loss, sir : as goodly a chain of gold, though I say it, that wore it how say'st thou, Nicholas ? Nich. O, 'twas as delicious a chain of gold, kins- man, you know Sir God. You know ? did you know't, captain ? Capt. Trust a fool with secrets! [Aside]. Sir, he may say I know. His meaning is, because my art is such, that by it 1 may gather a knowledge of all things Sir God. Ay, very true. Capt. A pox of all fools ! The excuse stuck upon my tongue like ship-pitch upon a mariner's gown, not to come off in haste. [Aside.] By'r l.uly, knight, to lose such a fair chain of gold were a foul loss. Well, I can put you in this good comfort on't, if it be be- tween heaven and earih, knight, I'll have it for you. Sir God. A wonderful conjurer ! O, ay ; 'tis be- tween heaven and earth, 1 warrant you : it can not go out of the realm. I know 'tis somewhere about the earth. Capt. Ay, nigher the earth than thou wot'st of. [Aside. Sir God. For, first, my chain was rich : and no rich thing shall enter into heaven, you know. Nich. And as for the devil, master, he has no need on't, for you know he has a great chain of his own. Sir God. Thou say'st true, Nicholas, but he has put off that now ; that lies by him. Capt. I'faith, knight, in few words. I presume so much upon the power of my art, that I could warrant your chain again. Sir God. O dainty captain ! Capt. Marry, it will cost me much sweat. I were better go to sixteen hot-houses. Sir God. Ay, good man, I warrant thee. Capt. Beside great vexation of kidney and liver.. Nich. O, 'twill tickte you hereabouts, cousin, be* cause you have not been used to't. Sir God. No? Have you not been used to't, cap- tain ? Capt. Plague of all fools still! [ Aside. \ Indeed, knight, I have not used it a good while, and therefore 'twill strain me so much the more, you know. Sir God. O, it will, it will ! Capt. What plunges he puts me to ! Were not this knight a fool, I had been twice spoiled now. That captain's worse than accursed that has an ass to his kinsman. 'Sfoot ! I fear he will drivel it out before I come to't. [Aside.} Now, sir, to come to the point indeed, you see I stick here in the jaw of the Mar- shalsea, and can not do't. Sir God. Tut, tut I know thy meaning. Thou wouldst say thou'rt a prisoner. I tell thee thou art none. a An act passed in the first year of James 1. t.1604). 134 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Capt. How, none ? Why, is not this the Marshal- sea ? Sir God. Wilt hear me speak ? I heard of thy rare conjuring : My chain was lost ; I sweat for thy release, As thou shall do the like at home for me. Keeper ! Enter Keeper. Keep. Sir ! Sir God. Speak, is not this man free ? Keep. Yes, at his pleasure, sir, the fees discharged. S/r God. Go, go ; I'll discharge them, I. Keep. I thank your worship. [Exit Keeper. Capt. Now, trust me, you are a dear knight. Kind- ness unexpected ! O, there's nothing to a free gen- tleman. I will conjure for you, sir, till froth come through my buff jerkin. Sir God. Nay, then thou shall not pass wilh so lit- tle a bounty, for, at the first sight of my chain again, forty-five angels shall appear unto thee. Capt. 'Twill be a glorious show, i'faith, knight, a very fine show ; but are all these of your own house ? are you sure of that, sir ? Sir God. Ay. ay ; no, no : what's he yonder talking with my wild nephew ? Pray Heaven, he give him good counsel. Capt. Who, he? He's a rare friend of mine, an admirable fellow, knight the finest fortune-teller ! Sir God. 0, 'tis he, indeed, that came to my lady- sister, and foretold the loss of my chain. I am not angry with him now, for I see 'twas my fortune to lose it. By your leave, master fortune-teller, I had a glimpse of you at home, at my sister's the widow's. There you prophesied of the loss of a chain. Sim- ply, though I stand here, 1 was he that lost it. Pye. Was it you, sir ? Edm. O' my troth, nuncle, he's the rarest fellow has told me my fortune so right ; I find it so right to my nature ! Sir God. What is't ? God send it a good one. Edm. 0, 'tis a passing good one, nuncle : for he says I shall prove such an excellent gamester in my time, that I shall spend all faster than my father got it. Sir God. There's a fortune, indeed ! Edm. Nay, it hits my humor so pat. Sir God. Ay, that will be the end on't. Will the curse of the beggar prevail so much, that the son shall consnme that foolishly which the father got craftily? Ay, ay, ay ; 'twill, 'twill, 'twill. Pye. Stay, stay, stay ! [PYEBOARD opens an alma- nac, and takes IDLE aside. Capt. Turn over, George. Pye. June, July ; here, July : that's the month : Sunday thirteen, yesterday fourteen, to-day fifteen. Capt. Look quickly for the fifteenth day. If, with- in the compass of these two days there would be some boisterous storm or other, it would be the best ; I'd defer him off till then. Some tempest, an it be thy will. Pye. Here's the fifteenth day. [Reads.] Hot and fair. Capt. Puh ! wonld it had been hot and foul. Pye. The sixteenth day ; that's to-morrow. The morning, for the most part, fair and pleasant. Capt. No luck. Pye. But about high noon, lightning and thunder. Capt. Lightning and thunder? Admirable! best of all ! I'll conjure to-morrow just at high noon, George. Pye. Happen but true to-morrow, almanac, and I'll give thee leave to lie all the year after. Capt. Sir, I must crave your patience, to bestow this day upon me, that I may furnish myself strongly. I sent a spirit into Lancashire t'other day, to fetch back a knave-drover, and I look for his return this evening. To-morrow morning, my friend here and I will come and breakfast with you. Sir God. 0, you shall be most welcome. Capt. And about noon, without fail, I purpose to conjure. Sir God. Midnoon will be a fit time for you. Edm. Conjuring? do you mean to conjure at our house to-morrow, sir ? Capt. Marry, do I, sir ; 'tis my intent, young gen- tleman. Edm. By my troth, I'll love you while I live, for't. rare ! Nicholas, we shall have conjuring to-mor- row. Nich. Puh ! ay ; I could have told you of that. Capt. La, he could have told him of that ! Fool, coxcomb, could you ? [Aside.] Edm. Do you hear me, sir ? I desire more acquaint- ance of you. You shall earn some money of me, now 1 know you can conjure ; but can you fetch any that is lost ? Capt. Oh, anything that's lost. Edm. Why, look you, sir ; I tell't you as a friend and a conjurer: I should marry a 'pothcary's diugh- ter, and 'twas told me she lost her maidenhead at Stony-Stratford. Now if you'll do but so much as conjure for't, and make all whole again Capt. That I will, sir. Edm. By my troth, I thank you, la. Copt. A little merry with your sister's son, sir. Sir God. Oh, a simple young man, very simple. Come, captain ; and you, sir : we'll e'en part with a gallon of wine till to-morrow breakfast. Capt. and Pye. Troth, agreed, sir. Nich. Kinsman, scholar! Pye. Why, now thou art a good knave, worth a hundred Brownists. Nich. Am I, indeed ? la, I thank you heartily, la ! [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Widow's House. Enter MARY and Sir JOHN PEHNYDUE. Sir John. But I hope you will not serve a knight so, gentlewoman, will you ? to cashier him, and cast him off at your pleasure ! What, do you think I was dubbed for nothing ? No, by my faith, lady : s daugh- ter Mary. Pray, Sir John Pennydub, let it be deferred a while ; I have as much heart to marry as you can have ; but, as the fortune-teller told me Sir John. Pox o' th' fortune-teller ! Would Der- rick 1 had been his fortune seven year ago to cross my love thus ! Did he know what case I was in ? I Derrick was the name of the common hangman at this period. ACT IV. SCENE II. 135 Why, this is able to make a man drown himself in his father's fish-pond. Mary. And then he told me, moreover, Sir John, that the breach of it kept my father in purgatory. Sir John. In purgatory ? Why, let him purge out his heart there ; what have we to do with that? there's physicians enow there to cast his water -, 1 is that any matter to us now? can he hinder our love ? Why, let him be hanged, now he's dead. Well, have I rid post day and night, to bring you merry news of my father's death, and now Mary. Thy father's death? Is the old farmer dead ? Sir John. As dead as his barn-door, Moll. Mary. And you'll keep your word with me now, Sir John, that I shall have my coach and my coach- man ? Sir John. Ay, i'faith. Mary. And two white horses with black feathers to draw it ? Sir John. Two. Mary. A guarded lackey 2 to run before it, and pied liveries to come trashing 3 after't ? Sir John. Thou shall, Moll. Mary. And to let me have money in my purse to go whither I will ( Sir John. All this. Mary. Then come ; whatsoe'er comes on't, we'll be made sure together before the maids o'th' kitchen. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Room in the Widow's House, with a door at the side, leading to another Apartment. Enter Widow, FRANCES, and FHAILTT. Wid. How now? where's my brother Sir Godfrey? Went he forth this morning ? Frail. O no, madam ; he's above at breakfast, with Sir Reverence, a conjurer. Wid. A conjurer ? what manner of fellow is he ? Frail. Oh, a wondrous rare fellow, mistress ; very strongly made upward, for he goes in a buff jerkin. He says he will fetch Sir Godfrey's chain again, if it hang between heaven and earth. Wid. What ! he will not ? Then he's an excellent fellow, I warrant. How happy were that woman, to be blest with such a husband ! A cunning man ! how does he look, Frailty? Very swartly, I warrant with black beard, scorched cheeks, and smoky eye- brows. Frail. Foh ! he's neither smoke-dried, nor scorched, nor black, nor nothing, i tell you, madam, he looks as fair to see to as one of us. I do not think but, if you saw him once, you'd take him to be a Christian. Frances. So fair, and yet so cunning ? That's to be wondered at, mother. Enter Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL and Sir ANDREW TIP- STAFF. Sir Oli. Bless you. sweet lady. Sir And. And you, fair mistress. [E-s.it FRAILTY. 1 Medical divination from the inspection of urine. 2 A " guarded lackey" was one whose liveries were faced or guarded. 3 " Trashing" really means trailing, in this connexion. It is a term derived from the mode of breaking dogs who were too eager in the chase, by a long rope, which trashed or trailed along the ground, and impeded his movements. Wid. Coades, what do you mean, gentlemen ? Fie, did I not give you your answers ? Sir Oli. Sweet lady ! Wid. Well, I will not stick with you for a kiss : Daughter, kiss the gentleman for once. Frances. Yes, forsooth. Sir And. I'm proud of such a favor. Wid. Truly, la ! Sir Oliver, you are much to blame to come again when you know my mind so well de- livered as a widow could deliver a thing. Sir Oli. But I expect a further comfort, lady. Wid. Why la you now ! did I not desire you to put off your suit quite and clean when you came to me again ? How say you ? Did I not ? Sir Oli. But the sincere love which my heart bears to you Wid. Go to, I'll cut you oft. And, Sir Oliver, to put you in comfort, afar off, my fortune is read me : I must marry again. Sir Oli. blest fortune ! Wid. But not as long as I can choose ; nay, I'll hold out well. Sir Oli. Yet are my hopes now fairer. Enter FRAILTY. Frail. O, madam, madam ! Wid. How now ? what's the haste ? [FRAILTY whispers her. Sir And. I'faith, Mistress Frances, I'll maintain you gallantly. I'll bring you to court ; wean you among the fair society of ladies, poor kinswomen of mine, in cloth of silver ; besides, you shall have your monkey, your parrot, your musk-cat, and your Frances. It will do very well. Wid. What, does he mean to conjure here, then? How shall I do to be rid of these knights ? Please you, gentlemen, to walk a while i'th' garden, to gath- er a pink or a gilliflower ? Both. With all our hearts, lady, and 'count us fa- vored. [Exeunt Sir ANDREW, Sir OLIVER, and FRAILTY ; the Widow and FRANCES go into the adjoining room. Sir God. [within]. Step in, Nicholas ; look, is the coast clear ? Nich. [within]. Oh, as clear as a cat's eye, sir ? Sir God. Then enter, captain conjurer. Enter Sir GODFREY, Captain IDLE, PYEBOARD, ED- MONO, and NICHOLAS. Now, how like you your room, sir ? Capt. O, wonderful convenient. Edm. I can tell you, captain, simply though it liev here, 'tis the fairest room in my mother's house ; as dainty a room to conjure in, methinks why, you may bid, I can not tell how many devils, welcome in't ; my father has had twenty in't at once. Pye. What, devils ? Edm. Devils? no, deputies, and the wealthiest men he could get. Sir God. Nay, put by your chats now ; fall to your business roundly. The fescue of the dial is upon the Christ-cross of noon. 4 But oh, hear me, captain ; a qualm comes o'er my stomach. Capt. Why, what's the matter, sir? Sir God. 0, how if the devil should prove a knave, and tear the hangings ? < " Fescue," the pointer. 136 THE PURITAN; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Capt. Foh ! I warrant you, Sir Godfrey. Edm. Ay, nuncle, or spit fire upo' the ceiling? Sir God. Very true, too ; for 'tis but thin plastered, and 'twill quickly take hold o' the laths ; and if he chance to spit downward too, he will burn all the boards. Capt. My life for yours, Sir Godfrey. Sir God. My sister is very curious and dainty of this room, I can tell you ; and, therefore, if he must needs spit, I pray desire him to spit i'th' chimney. Pye. Why, assure you, Sir Godfrey, he shall not be brought up with so little manners, to spit and spawl o' the floor. Sir God. Why, I thank you ; good captain, pray, have a care. [IDLE and PYEBOAHD retire to the upper end of the room.] Ay, fall to your circle ; we'll not trouble you, I warrant you. Come, we'll into the next room ; and, because we'll be sure to keep him out there, we'll bar up the door with some of the god- ly's zealous works. Edm. That will be a fine device, nuncle ; and, be- cause the ground shall be as holy as the door, I'll tear two or three rosaries in pieces, and strew the pieces about the chamber. Oh, the devil already ! [Lightning and thunder. Pye. 'Sfoot ! captain, speak somewhat, for shame : it lightens and thunders before thou wilt begin. Why, when Capt. Pray, peace, George ; thou'lt make me laugh anon, and spoil all. [Lightning and thunder. Pye. Oh, now it begins again ; now, now, now, cap- tain ! Capt. Rhumbos-ragdayon, pur, pur, colucundrion, hoisplois ! Sir God. [at the door]. 0, admirable conjurer ! has fetched thunder already. Pye. Hark, hark ! Again, captain ! Capt . Benjamino, gaspois-kay-gofgothoteron-umbrois ! Sir God. [at the door] . Oh, I would the devil would come away quickly ; he has no conscience, to put a man to such pain ! Pye. Again. Capt. Flowste kak opumpos-dragone-leloomenos-hodge podge ! Pye. Well said, captain. Sir God. [at the door] . So long a coming ? O, would I had ne'er begun it, now, for I fear me these roaring tempests will destroy all the fruits of the earth, and tread upon my corn [thunder] oh i'th' country ! Capt. Gog de gog, hobgoblin huncks hounslow hock- ley te coom park ! Wid. [at the door] . 0, brother, brother, what a tem- pest i'th' garden ! Sure there's some conjuration abroad. Sir God. [at the door}. 'Tis at home, sister. Pye. By-and-by, I'll step in, captain. Capt. Nunck-nunck, rip-gascoines, ips, drip-dropite ! Sir God. [at the door] . He drips and drops, poor man ; alas ! alas ! Pye. Now, I come ! Capt. 0, sulphur e sootface ! Pye. Arch-conjurer, what wouldst thou with me ? Sir God. [at the door]. Oh, the devil, sister, i'th' dining-chamber ! Sing, sister ; I warrant you that wiL keep him out : quickly, quickly, quickly ! Pye. So, so, so : I'll release thee. Enough, cap- tain, enough. Allow us some time to laugh a little ; they're shuddering and shaking by this time, as if an earthquake were in their kidneys. Capt. Sirrah George, how was't, how was't ? did I do't well enough ? Pye. Woult believe me, captain ? better than any conjurer; for here was no harm in this, and yet their horrible expectations satisfied well. You were much beholden to thunder and lightning at this time ; it graced you well, I can tell you. Capt. I must needs say so, George. Sirrah, if we could have conveyed hither cleanly a cracker, or a. fire-wheel, it had been admirable. Pye. Blurt, blurt ! There's nothing remains to put thee to pain now, captain. Capt. Pain ? I protest, George, my heels are sorer than a Whitsun morris-dancer's. Pye. All's past now ; only to reveal that the chain's i'th' garden, where, thou know'st, it has lain these two days. Capt. But I fear that fox Nicholas has revealed it already. Pye. Fear not, captain ; you must put it to th' ven- ture now. Nay, 'tis time : call upon 'em, take pity on 'em ; for I believe some of 'em are in a pitiful case by this time. Capt. Sir Godfrey ! Nicholas kinsman ! 'Sfoot ! they're fast at it still, George. Sir Godfrey ! Sir God. [at the door] . Oh ! is that the devil's voice ? how comes he to know my name ? Capt. Fear not, Sir Godfrey ; all's quieted. Enter Sir GODFREY, the Widow, FRANCES, and NICH- OLAS. Sir God. What ! is he laid ? Capt. Laid : and has newly dropped your chain i' th' garden. Sir God. I'th' garden ? in our garden ? Capt. In your garden. Sir God. 0, sweet conjurer ! whereabouts there ? Capt. Look well about a bank of rosemary. Sir God. Sister, the rosemary-bank ! Come, come : there's my chain, he says. Wid. Oh, happiness ! run, run ! [Exeunt Widow, Sir GODFREY:, FRANCES, and NICHOLAS. Edm. [at the door] . Captain conjurer ! Capt. Who ? Master Edmond ? Edm. Ay, Master Edmond. May I come in safely without danger, think you ? Capt. Puh ! long ago ; it is all as 'twas at first : Fear nothing ; pray, come near. How now, man ? Edm. Oh ! this room's mightily hot, i'faith. 'Slid ! my shirt sticks to my belly already. What a steam the rogue has left behind him ! Foh ! this room must be aired, gentlemen ; it smells horribly of brimstone. Let's open the windows. Pye. I'faith, Master Edmond, 'tis but your conceit. Edm. I would you could make me believe that, i'faith. Why, do you think I can not smell his savor from another ? Yet I take it kindly from you, be- cause you would not put me in a fear, i'faith. O' my troth, I shall love you for this the longest day of my life. Capt. Puh ! 'tis nothing, sir : love me when you see more. Edm. Mass, now I remember : I'll look whether ha has singed the hangings or no. Pye. Captain, to entertain a little sport till they ACT IV. SCENE III. 137 come, make him believe you'll charm him invisible He's apt to admire anything, you see. Let me alone to give force to't. Capt. Go, retire to yonder end, then. Edm. I protest you are a rare fellow, are you not Capt. 0, Master Edmond, you know but the leas part of me yet. Why now, at this instant, I couk flourish my wand thrice o'er your head, and charm you invisible. Edm. What ! you could not ? Make me walk in visible, man ? I should laugh at that, i'faith ; troth I'll requite your kindness, an you'll do't, good cap- tain conjurer. Capt. Nay, I should hardly deny you such a small kindness, Master Edmond Plus. Why, look you, sir 'tis no more but this, and thus again and now you are invisible. Edm. Am I, i'faith ? who would think it ? Capt. You see the fortune-teller yonder, at farther end o'th' chamber? Go toward him, do what you will with him he shall ne'er find you. Edm. Say you so, I'll try that, i'faith. [Jostles him. Pye. How now, captain ? who's that jostled me ? Capt. Jostled you ? I saw nobody. Edm. Ha, ha, ha ! say 'twas a spirit. [Aside to IDLE. Capt. Shall I? May be some spirits that haunt the circle. [EDMOND pulls PYEBOARD'S nose. Pye. 0, my nose, again ! Pray conjure them, cap- tain. Edm. Troth, this is excellent. I may do any knavery now and never be seen. And now I remem- ber me, Sir Godfrey, my uncle abused me t'other day, and told tales of me to my mother. Troth, now I'm invisible, I'll hit him a sound wherrit o'th' ear, when he comes out o'th' garden. I maybe revenged on him now finely. Enter Sir GODFREY, Widow, and FRANCES. Sir God. I have my chain again ; my chain's found again. O, sweet captain ! O, admirable conjurer ! [EDMOND strikes him.] O, what mean you by that, nephew ? Edm. Nephew? I hope you do not know me, uncle? Wid. Why did you strike your uncle, son ? Edm. Why, captain, am I not invisible ? Capt. A good jest, George ! Not now you are not, sir! Why, did not you see me when I did uncharm you ? Edm. Not I, by my troth, captain. Then pray you pardon me, uncle. I thought I had been invisible when I struck you. Sir God. So, you would do't ? Go, you're a fool- ish boy, And were I not o'ercome with greater joy, I'd make you taste correction. Edm. Correction ! puh. No, neither you nor my mother [now] shall think to whip me as you have done. Sir God. Captain, my joy is such, I know not how to thank you ; let me embrace you. O, my sweet chain ! gladness e'en makes me giddy. Rare man ! 'twas just i'th' rosemary bank, as if one should have laid it there. 0, cunning, cunning ! Wid. Well, seeing my fortune tells me I must mar- ry, let me marry a man of wit, a man of parts Here's a worthy captain, and 'tis a fine title truly, la, to be a captain's wife. A captain's wife ! it goes very finely ; beside, all the world knows that a worthy captain is a fit companion to any lord ; then why not a sweet bedfellow for any lady ? I'll have it so. Enter FRAILTY. Frail. 0, mistress gentlemen there's the bravest sight coming along this way. Wid. What brave sight ? F rail. O, one going to burying, and another going to hanging. Wid. A rueful sight ! Pye. 'Sfoot, captain, I'll pawn my life the corporal's coffined, and old Skirmish the soldier going to exe- cution ; and 'tis now about the time of his waking. Hold out a little longer, sleepy potion, and we shall have excellent admiration ; for I'll take upon me the cure of him. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The Street before the Widow's Howe. Enter from the House, Sir GODFREY, the Widow, IDLE, PYEBOARD, EDMOND, FRAILTY, and NICHOLAS. A Coffin, with Corporal OATH in it, brought in. Then enter SKIRMISH, bound and led by Officers, the Sher- iff, SfC., attending. Frail. O, here they come, here they come .' Pye. Now must I close secretly with the soldier, prevent his impatience, or else all's discovered. Wid. O, lamentable seeing, these were those brothers, that fought and bled before our door. Sir God. What ! they were not, sister ? Skir. George, look to't, I'll 'peach at Tyburn else. Pye. Mum. Gentles all, vouchsafe me audience, And you especially, good master sheriff: Yon man is bound to execution, because He wounded this that now lies coffined [here]. Sher. True, true ; he shall have the law, and I enow the law. Pye. But, under favor, master sheriff: if this man lad been cured and safe again, he should have been released, then ? Sher. Why, make you question of that, sir ? Pye. Then I release him freely, and will take upon me the death that he should die, if, within a little season, I do not cure him to his proper health again. Sher. How, sir ? recover a dead man ? That were most strange of all ! [FRANCES approaches PYEBOAHD. Frances. Sweet sir, Hove you dearly, and could wish tfy best part yours ! do not undertake Such an impossible venture ! Pye. Love you me ? then for your sweet sake I'll do't: et me entreat the corpse be set down [here] . Sher. Bearers, set down the coffin. This is won- derful, and worthy Stow's Chronicle. Pye. I pray bestow the freedom of the air upon our wholesome art. Mass, his cheeks begin to receive ;atural warmth : nay, good corporal, wake betime, r I shall have a longer sleep than you. 'Sfoot, if ie should prove dead indeed now, he were fully re- enged upon me for making a property of him ; yet I ad rather run upon the ropes, than have the rope 138 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. like a tetter run upon me. O, he stirs ! he stirs again ! ! look, gentlemen, he recovers ! he starts .' he rises ! Sher. Oh, oh, defend us ! Out, alas ! Pye. Nay, pray be still ; you'll make him more giddy else. He knows nobody yet. Corp. Zounds ! where am I ? covered with snow ? I marvel ? Pye. Nay, 1 knew he would swear the first thing he did, as soon as he came to life again. Corp. 'Sfoot, hostess some hot porridge. Oh ! oh! lay on a dozen of fagots in the moon parlor, there. Pye. Lady, you must needs take a little pity of him, i'faith, and send him into your kitchen fire. Wid. 0, with all my heart, sir ; Nicholas and Frail- ty, help to bear him in. Nich. Bear him in, quotha ! pray call out the maids. I shall ne'er have the heart to do't, indeed, la. Frail. Nor I neither. I can not abide to handle a ghost, of all men. Corp. 'Sblood, let me see, where was I drunk last night ? hah Wid. 0, shall I bid you once again, take him away ? Frail. Why, we're as fearful as you, 1 warrant you oh Wid. Away, villains, bid the maids make him a caudle presently to settle his brain or a posset of sackj quickly, quickly. [Exeunt NICHOLAS and FRAILTY, pushing in the Corporal. Sher. Sir, whatsoe'er you are, I do more than ad- mire you. Wid. 0, ay, if you knew all, master sheriff, as you shall do, you would say then, that here were two of the rarest men within the walls of Christendom. Sher. Two of 'em ? wonderful ! Officers, I dis- charge you ; set him free ; all's in tune. Sir God. Ay, and a banquet ready by this time, master sheriff, to which I most cheerfully invite you, and your late prisoner there. See you this goodly chain, sir? Mum! no more words; 'twas lost and is found again. Come, my inestimable bullies, we'll talk of your noble acts in sparkling charnico, 1 and, instead of a jester, we'll have the ghost i'th' white sheet sit at upper end o'th' table. Sher. Excellent ! merry man, i'faith. [Exeunt all but FRANCES. Frances. Well, seeing I'm enjoined to love and marry, My foolish vow thus I cashier to air Which first begot it. Now, love, play thy part ; The scholar reads his lecture in my heart. [Exit. ACT V. SCENE I. The Street before the Widow's House. Enter EDMOND and FRAILTY. Edm. This is the marriage-morning for my mother and my sister. Frail. me, Master Edmond ! we shall have rare doings. i Ckanrico a sweet wine of Lisbon. Edm. Nay, go, Frailty, run to the sexton ; you know my mother will be married at Saint Antlings. Hie thee ; 'tis past five ; bid them open the church door ; my sister is almost ready. Frail. What, already, Master Edmond ? Edm. Nay, go ; hie thee. First run to the sexton, and run to the clerk ; and then run to Master Pigman, the parson ; and then run to the milliner : and then run home again. Frail. Here's run, run, run. Edm. But hark, Frailty. Frail. What, more yet ? Edm. Have the maids remembered to strew the way to the church. Frail. Foh ! an hour ago : I helped 'em myself. Edm. Away, away, away ; away then. Frail. Away, away, away j away then. [Exit FRAILTY. Edm. I shall have a simple father-in-law, a brave captain, able to beat all our street, Captain Idle. Now my lady mother will be fitted for a delicate name ; my lady Idle, my lady Idle ! the finest name that can be for a woman ; and then the scholar, Master Pye- board, for my sister Frances, that will be, Mistress Frances Pyeboard ; Mistress Frances Pyeboard ! They'll keep a good table, I warrant you. Now all the knights' noses are put out of joint ; they may go to a bone-setter's now. Enter Captain IDLE, PYEBOARD, and Attendants. Hark, hark ! 0, who comes here with two torches be- fore them ? my sweet captain and my fine scholar ? 0, how bravely they are shot up in one night ! They look like fine Britons now methinks. Here's a gallant change, i'faith. 'Slid, they have hired men, and all, by the clock. Capt. Master Edmond ; kind, honest, dainty Mas- ter Edmond. Edm. Foh, sweet captain father-in-law ! a rare per- fume, i'faith. Pye. What, are the brides stirring ? May we steal upon 'em, thinkst thou, Master Edmond? Edm. Foh ! they're e'en upon readiness, I can as- sure you ; for they were at their torch e'en now ; by the same token I tumbled down the stairs. Pye. Alas, poor Master Edmond. Enter Musicians. Capt. O, the musicians ! I pry'thee, Master Ed- mond, call 'em in, and liquor 'em a little. Edm. That I will, sweet captain father-in-law, and make each of them as drunk as a common fidler. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The same. Enter MART in a balcony abate. To her below Sir JOHN PENNYDUB. Sir John. Whew ! Mistress Moll, Mistress Moll. Mary. Who's there ? Sir John. 'Tis I. Mary. Who ? Sir John Pennydub ? 0, you're an early cock, i'faith. Who would have thought you to be so rare a stirrer ? Sir John. Pry'thee, Moll, let me come up. Mary. No, by my faith, Sir John ; I'll keep you ACT V. SCENE IV. 139 down ; for you knights are very dangerous, if once you get above. Sir John. I'll not stay, i'faith. Mary. I'faith, you shall stay ; for, Sir John, you must note the nature of the climates : your northern wench in her own country may well hold out till she be fifteen ; but if she touch the south once, and come up to London, here the chimes go presently after twelve. Sir John. 0, thou'rt a mad wench, Moll, but I pr'ythee make haste, for the priest is gone before. Mary. Do you follow him ; I'll not be long after. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL'S House. Enter Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF, and SKIRMISH. Sir Oli. 0, monstrous, unheard-of forgery ! Sir And. Knight, I never heard of such villany, in our own country, in my life. Sir Oli. Why, 'tis impossible. Dare you maintain your words ? Skir. Dare we ? Even to their weazen-pipes. We know all their plots ; they can not squander with us ; they have knavishly abused us ; made only properties of us to advance themselves upon our shoulders : but they shall rue their abuses. This morning they are to be married. Sir Oli. 'Tis too true. Yet if the widow be not too much besotted on sleights and forgeries, the revela- tion of their villanies will make 'em loathsome. And, to that end be it in private to you I sent late last night to an honorable personage, to whom I am much indebted in kindness, as he is to me, and therefore presume upon the payment of his tongue, and that he will lay out good words for me ; and, to speak truth, for such needful occasions only, I preserve him in bond ; and sometimes he may do me more good here in the city, by a free word of his mouth, than if he had paid one half in hand, and took doomsday for t'other. Sir And. In troth, sir, without soothing be it spo- ken, [words. You have published much judgment in these few Sir Oli. For you know, what such a man utters will be thought effectual, and to weighty purpose ; and therefore into his mouth we'll put the approved theme of their forgeries. Skir. And I'll maintain it, knight, if she'll be true. Enter a Servant. Sir Oli. How now, fellow ? Serv. May it please you, sir, my lord is newly light- ed from his coach. Sir Oli. Is my lord come already? His honor's You see he loves me well. Up before seven ? [early. Trust me, I have found him night-capped at eleven : There's good hope yet ; come, I'll relate all to him. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Street; Church in the Distance. Enter Captain IDLE, PYEBOARD, Sir GODFREY, and EDMOND ; the Widow in bridal Dress; Sir JOHN PEN- NYDUB, MARY and FRANCES, NICHOLAS, FRAILTY, and other Attendants. To them a Nobleman, Sir OLIVER MUCKHILL, and Sir ANDREW TIPSTAFF. Noble. By your leave, lady ! Wid. My lord, your honor is most chastely welcome . Noble. Madam, though I came now from court, I come not to flatter you. Upon whom can I justly cast this blot, but upon your own forehead, that know not ink from milk? such is the blind besotting in the state of an unheaded woman that's a widow. For it is the property of all you that are widows (a handful excepted) to hate those that honestly and carefully love you, to the maintenance of credit, state, and posterity ; and strongly to dote on those that only love you to undo you. [They who] regard you least, are best regarded ; who hate you most, are best be- loved. And if there be but one man amongst ten thou- sand millions of men that is accursed, disastrous, and evilly.planeted whom fortune beats most, whom God hates most, and all societies esteem least that man is sure to be a husband. Such is the peevish moon that rules your bloods. An impudent fellow best woos you, a flattering lip best wins you ; or, in mirth, who talks roughliest, is most sweetest. Nor can you distinguish truth from forgeries, mists from simplicity : witness these two deceitful monsters, that you have entertained for bridegrooms ! Wid. Deceitful Pye. All will out. Capt. 'Sfoot ! who has blabbed, George ? that fool- ish Nicholas ! Noble. For, what they have besotted your easy blood withal, were nought but forgeries : the fortune- telling for husbands, and the conjuring for the chain ; Sir Godfrey, hear the falsehood of all : nothing but mere knavery, deceit, and cozenage. Wid. 0, wonderful ! Indeed, I wondered that my husband, with all his craft, could not keep himself out of purgatory. Sir God. And I more wondered that my chain should be gone, and my tailor had none of it. Mary. And I wondered most of all that I should be tied from marriage, having such a mind to't. Come, Sir John Pennydub, fair weather on our side : the moon has changed since yesternight. Pye. The sting of every evil is within me ! Noble. And that you may perceive I feign not with you, behold their fellow-actor in these forgeries, who, full of spleen and envy at their so sudden advance* ments, revealed all their plot in anger. [SKIRMISH comes forward. Pye. Base soldier, to reveal us ! Wid. Is't possible we should be blinded so, and otrr eyes open ? Noble. Widow, will you now believe that false, which too soon you believed true ? Wid. Oh, to my shame, I do. Sir God. But, under favor, my lord, my chain was truly lost, and strangely found again. Noble. Resolve him of that, soldier. Skir. In few words, knight, then, thou wert the arch-gull of all. Sir God. How, sir ? Skir. Nay, I'll prove it : for the chain was but hid in the rosemary-bank all this while, and thou got'st him out of prison to conjure for it, who did it admira- bly, fustianly : for indeed what needed any other, when he knew where it was ? Sir God. 0, villany of villains ! but how came my chain there ? 140 THE PURITAN ; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. Skir. Where's Truly la, indeed to 1 he that will not swear, but lie he that will not steal, but rob pure Nicholas Saint Antlings ? Sir God. 0, villain ! one of our society Deemed always holy, pure, religious : A puritan a thief ! when was't ever heard ? Sooner we'll kill a man than steal, thou know'st. Out, slave ! I'll rend my lion from thy back With mine own hands. Nich. Dear master ! oh ! Noble. Nay, knight, dwell in patience. And now, widow, being; so near the church, 'twere great pity, nay, uncharity, to send you home again wi thout a husband : Draw near, you of true worship, state, and credit, That should not stand so far off from a widow, And suffer forged shapes to come between you : Not that in these I blemish the true title Of a captain, or blot the fair margent of a scholar ; For I honor worthy and deserving parts in the one, And cherish fruitful virtues in the other. Come, lady, and you, virgin, bestow your eyes and your purest affections upon men of estimation, both in court and city, that have long wooed you, and both with their hearts and wealth sincerely love you. Sir God. Good sister, do ; sweet little Franke, these 1 The exclamations of Nicholas. are men of reputation : you shall be welcome at court a great credit for a citizen, sweet sister Noble. Come, her silence does consent to't. Wid. I know not with what face Noble. Poh ! poh ! with your own face : they de- sire no other. Wid. Pardon me, worthy sirs, I and my daughter, Have wronged your loves. Sir OIL 'Tis easily pardoned, lady, If you vouchsafe it now. Wid. With all my soul. Frances. And I. with all my heart. Mary. And I, Sir John, with soul, heart, lights, and all. Sir John. They are all mine, Moll. Noble. Now, lady, What honest spirit but will applaud your choice, And gladly furnish you with hand and voice ? A happy change, which makes e'en heaven rejoice. Come, enter in your joys ; you shall not want For fathers now ; 1 doubt it not, believe me, But that you shall have hands enough to give me.* [Exeunt. 2 Some of the copies read, " give ye," but the original reading, which is here followed, seems more proper, and accords with the wants of the rhyme. The last section of the sentence is meant to suggest the applauses of the audi- ence. It is their " hands enough" which the speaker antici- pates. THE END OF THE PURITAN; OR, THE WIDOW OF WATLING STREET. INTRODUCTION T8 THE YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY. " A Yorkshire Tragedy not so new, as lamenta- ble and true : written by W. Shakspeare." This was the title of the original edition of the play which fol- lows, printed in 1608. Upon a subsequent titlepage, we have " All 's One, or, One of the four Plaies in one, called a Yorkshire Tragedy." We may receive " All's One" as the general title of four short plays, represented in the same day, and standing in the place of a regular tragedy or comedy. Of the four plays thus presented, it is to be remarked, that " The Yorkshire Tragedy" is the only one which appears to have been published. This was entered, on the 2d of May, 1608, on the stationers' registers, as "A booke The Yorkshire Tragedy, written by Wylliam Shakespere." The publisher of the play, Thomas Pavyer, in 1605, entered " A Ballad of lamentable Murther done in Yorkshire, by a Gent, upon two of his owne Children, sore wounding his Wyfe and Nurse." The fact upon which the ballad and the tragedy are founded, is thus related in Stow's Chron- icle, under the year 1604 : " Walter Calverly, of Calverly, Yorkshire, esquire, murdered two of his young children, stabbed his wife into the body, with full purpose to have murdered her, and instantly went from his house to have slain his youngest child, at nurse, but was prevented : for which fact, at his trial in York, he stood mute, and was judged to be pressed to death ; according to which judgment he was exe- cuted, at the castle of York, the 5th of August." " Concerning this play," says Mr. Malone, " I have not been able to form any decided opinion. The ar- guments produced by Mr. Steevens, in support of its authenticity, appear to me to have considerable weight. If its date were not so precisely ascertained, little doubt would remain, in my mind at least, upon the subject. I find it, however, difficult to believe that Shakspeare could have written Macbeth, King Lear, and the Yorkshire Tragedy, at nearly the same period." There would be more force in this objec- tion, could we be sure when these several plays of Shakspeare were written ; but most of the attempts to ascertain the dates of their original production 142 INTRODUCTION. have only tended to make the facts more doubtful. Besides, even were they productions of the same pe- riod, there would be nothing in the inequality of the pieces to urge against the argument, when we make the usual allowances for the inferiority of subject, and the differing mental moods, or different bodily condi- tion of the writer. This short play was evidently written for an emergency to grasp a popular occa- sion, and make use of an event fresh in the public mind, by which it had been greatly possessed and excited. Very unlike Shakspeare, in every essential particular, it is yet possible that he wrote it, in night- gown and slippers, scene by scene, to meet the wants of the actors. The demands of a theatre, the hurried competition of rival houses, might readily prompt him to this drudgery, as an aside from his usual labors, at the very moment that he was most busy, on his most glorious achievement. I attach but little importance to the scruple of Mr. Malone. Dr. Farmer has something after the same fashion. "The Yorkshire Tragedy," saith he, "hath been frequently called Shakspeare's earliest attempt in the drama ; but, most certainly, it was not written by our poet at all. The fact on which it is built, was perpe- trated no sooner than 1605 much too late for so mean a performance from the hand of Shakspeare." " I confess," says Mr. Steevens, in a very elaborate note, " I have always regarded this little drama as a genuine but a hasty production of our author." This opinion he sustains by a series of generalities, which most readers can readily conceive for themselves. A writer in the Retrospective Review, analyzing the Yorkshire Tragedy, says : " There is no reason why Shakspeare should not have written it, any more than why he should." To this Mr. Knight answers : " The reason why Shakspeare should not have writ- ten it is, we think, to be deduced from the circum- stance that he, who had never even written a comedy in which the scene is placed in his own country in his own times, would very unwillingly have gone out of his way to dramatize a real incident of horror, occur- ring in Yorkshire hi 1604, which of necessity could only have been presented to the senses of an audience, as a fact admitting of very little elevation by a poet- ical treatment, which might seize upon their imagin- ations." We really see very little in this argument, which depends wholly on an assumption. Certainly, there is nothing in it to oppose to the suggestion of that policy, on the part of a manager, which 'would be apt to consult the tastes of his audience, rather than his own, and which, whatever might be his po- etical nature, would scarcely suffer this to interfere with his interests. Besides, Mr. Knight has not ta- ken all the facts into this connexion. Though the event took place in 1604, its freshness had been pre- served by ballads. These were popular, and the play is probably neither more nor less than the amplifica- tion of a ballad. The Retrospective Review further says : " If he [Shakspeare] had written it, on the principle of mere- ly dramatizing the known fact, he would not have done it much better than it is here done ; and there were many of his contemporaries who could have done it quite as well." "We agree," says Mr. Knight, " with this assertion. If the Yorkshire Tragedy had been done better than it is that is, if the power of the poet had more prevailed in it it would not have answered the purpose for which it was intended ; it would, in truth, have been a mistake in art. Shak- speare would not have committed this mistake. But then, we doubt whether he would have consented at all to have had a circle drawn around him by the antipoetical, within which his mastery over the spir- its of the earth and of the air was unavailing." All this seems to us a mere waste of speculation. To say what Shakspeare would have done, as a poet, is one thing ; but Mr. Knight can hardly venture to say that, as a manager, largely interested in the suc- cess of his theatre, Shakspeare would have been so tenacious of his particular tastes as to have rejected a popular topic, solely because of its poverty and rudeness. This is surely exceedingly gratuitous. If Shakspeare wrote the piece at all, upon which I do not propose to decide, this alone would have been the motive. It certainly would not have been a favorite study of the artist. One fact is indisputable, howev- er : the play was entered in the stationers' books, and published by the press, with the name of William Shakspeare, at full length, in 1608; not only while Shakspeare was living, but while he was connected with the London theatres and the publication re- mained, and still remains, without alteration or con- tradiction. This is one of those facts which, it appears to me, no editor can possibly reject or set aside, by a refer- ence to the mere general inferiority of this piece to the other productions of the supposed author. The truth is, the nature of the subject rendered it unsusceptible of any high poetical embellishments, if only because it was one which did not, and could not, commend itself to the tastes and affections of the poet. As a domestic sketch, though one mainly of horror, it has yet considerable merit. The patience and gentleness of the wife are well contrasted with the insane brn- tality, and the passionate selfishness, of the husband ; and, in the selection and distribution of his material the choice of the subject itself being kept from sight the author shows equal good taste and dis- cretion. Mr. Knight is of opinion that it belongs to the numerous performances of Thomas Heywood, whom Charles Lamb has called " a sort of prose Shakspeare ;" and, if not Shakspeare's, it is most likely to have been Heywood's. Indeed, regarding the intrinsic evidence only, we should at once prefer the claims of Heywood to those of any of his con- temporaries. A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY. PERSONS REPRESENTED. Husband. Master of a college. A Knight fa Magistrate}. Several Gentlemen. OLIVER, J RALPH, ^servants. SAMUEL. ) Other servants, officers, a little boy, fyc. Wife. Maid- Servant. SCENE I. An old House in Yorkshire. Servants' Hall. Enter OLIVER and RALPH. OH. Sirrah Ralph, my young mistress is in such a pitiful passionate humor for the long absence of her love Ralph. Why, can you hlame her? Why. apples hanging longer on the tree than when they are ripe, makes so many fallings ; viz., mad wenches, because they are not gathered in time, are fain to drop of themselves, and then 'tis common, you know, for ev- ery man to take them up. OH. Mass, thou say'st true, 'tis common indeed ! But, sirrah, is neither our young master returned, nor our fellow Sam come from London ? Ralph. Neither of either, as the puritan bawd says. 'Slid, I hear Sam. Sam's come ; here he is ; tarry ; come, i'faith : now my nose itches for news. Oli. And so does mine elbow. Sam. [within] . Where are you, there ? Boy. look you walk my horse with discretion. I have rid him simply t 1 I warrant his skin sticks to his back with very heat. If he should catch cold and get the cough of the lungs, I were well served, were I not ? Enter SAMUEL. What, Ralph and Oliver ! Both. Honest fellow Sam, welcome, i'faith. What tricks hast thou brought from London? Sam. You see I am hanged after the truest fashion : three hats, and two glasses bobbing upon them ; two rebate wires 3 upon my breast, a cap-case by my side, a brush at my back, an almanac in my pocket, and 1 I am inclined to think that the proper word here is sin- fully, and not " simply," which would seem purposeless. * ' Rebato" was the name of an ancient head-dress. The wires were used to distend the hair or lace. PEKCY. 10 three ballads in my codpiece. 3 Now am 1* the true picture of a common servingman. Oli. I'll swear thou art ; thou may'st set up when thou wilt : there's many a one begins with less, I can tell thee, that proves a rich man ere he dies. But what's the news from London, Sam ? Ralph. Ay, that's well said ; what's the news from London, sirrah? My young mistress keeps such a puling for her love. Sam. Why, the more fool she ; ay, the more ninny- hammer she. Oli. Why, Sam, why? Sam. Why, he is married to another long ago. Both. I'faith? You jest. Sam. Why, did you not know that till now? why, he's married, beats his wife, and has two or three children by her. For you must note, that a woman bears the more when she is beaten . Ralph. Ay, that's true, for she bears the blows. Oli. Sirrah Sam, I would not for two years' wages my young mistress knew so much ; she'd run upon the left hand of her wit, and ne'er be her own woman again. Sam. And I think she was blest in her cradle, that he never came in her bed. Why, he has consumed all, pawned his lands, and made his university brother stand in wax for him : 6 there's a fine phrase for a scrivener. Puh ! he owes more than his skin is worth. Oli. Is't possible ? Sam. Nay, I'll tell you, moreover, he calls his wife whore, as familiarly as one would call Moll and Doll ; and his children bastards, as naturally as can be. But what have we here ? I thought 'twas something pulled down my breeches ; I quite forgot my two po- king-sticks : these came from London. Now, any- thing is good here that comes from London. Oli. Ay, far-fetched, you know, Sam. But speak in your conscience, i'faith ; have not we as good po- king-sticks i'the country as need to be put in the fire ? Sam. The mind of a thing is all ; the mind of a thing is all ; and as thou saidst even now, far-fetched are the best things for ladies. OK. Ay, and for waiting-gentlewomen too. Sam. But, Ralph, what, is our beer sour this thun- der? Ralph. No, no, it holds countenance yet. 3 A protuberance in the breeches, sometimes used as a pincushion. An article of the same name, and used for a like purpose, was worn by women about the breast * Written elsewhere, " Nay, I am," &c. 6 The old proverb has it, "A woman and a walnut-tree bear the better for being thrashed." 6 Give bond sign and seal for him. 144 A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY. Sam. Why, then follow me ; I'll teach you the finest humor to be drunk in : I learned it at London last week. Both. Tfaith? Let's hear it, let's hear it. Sam. The bravest humor ! 'twould do a man good to be drunk in it : they call it knighting in London, when they drink upon their knees. 1 Both. Tfaith, that's excellent. Sam. Come, follow me ; I'll give you all the degrees of it in order. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Room in Calverly HalL Enter Wife. Wife. What ^U become of us ? All will away : My husband never ceases in expense, (Both to consume his credit and his house ; And 'tis set down by Heaven's just decree, That riot's child must needs be beggary. Are these the virtues that his youth did promise ? Dice and voluptuous meetings, midnight revels, Taking his bed with surfeits ; ill beseeming The ancient honor of his house and name ? And this not all, but that which kills me most, When he recounts his losses and false fortunes, The weakness of his state so much dejected, Not as a man repentant, but half mad His fortunes can not answer his expense, He sits, and sullenly locks up his arms ; Forgetting heaven, looks downward ; which makes Appear so dreadful that he frights my heart : [him Walks heavily, as if his soul were earth ; Not penitent for those his sins are past, 'But vexed his money can not make them last : A fearful melancholy, ungodly sorrow ! O, yonder he comes ; now in despite of ills I'll speak to him, and I will hear him speak, Ana do my best to drive it from his heart. Enter Husband. HIM. Pox o' the last throw ! It made five hundred angels Vanish from my sight. I am damned, I'm damned ! The angels have forsook me. Nay, it is Certainly true ; for he that has no coin Is damned in this world ; he is gone, he's gone. Wife. Dear husband ! Hus. O ! most punishment of all, 1 have a wife. Wife. I do entreat you, as you love your soul, Tell me the cause of this your discontent. Hus. A vengeance strip thee naked ! thou art the The effect, the quality, the property ; [cause, Thou, thou, thou ! . [Exit. Wife. Bad turned to worse ! A 2 beggary of the soul As of the body. And so much unlike Himself at first, as if some vexing 3 spirit Had got his form upon him. He comes again ! i As the person to be knighted always knelt to receive the honor. * The old folio reads, " both beggary of the soul as of the body." Subsequent editors, in amending the grammar of .the sentence, have converted " at" into " and," and thus, it appears to me, though rendering the line grammatically cor- rect, have lessened something of the euphony and force of Courier. * * * It is lively without triviality, and replete with interest from the first to the last. New York Day Book. * * * Believing this work adapted to lead mothers to rightly trair. the little shoots springing up around the parent tree, and to restrain their wandering inclinations, we commend it to their perusal. Student. Cousin Cicely is gifted with rare powers. It is of home incidents she writes, and in a manner highly attractive. * * * Traces with graphic force the loved and petted child. The volume is full of instruction to parents, and should have a place in every family library Providence Daily Post. * * * Cousin Cicely is well known, ind a work from her pen will meet with ready welcome. Providence ) >tuly Times. * * * Her works are of decided merit, and should be possessed by all. Rochester Daily American* * * * She has got the hearts of parents and children tnrough the Silver Lake Stories and Lewie. Rochester L'aily Democrat. * * * The moral of the story is good, snd the plot is so touching, that we cannot wonder at the book's success N. Y. Commercial Adv. * * * Agnes, the sister of spoiled Lewie, v treated with uumotherly injustice ; grows up a character of uncommon oveliness ; and, though "only a Governess," marries splendidly. N. Y Churclt Journal, * * * Downright interesting story. It if crowded with domestic pictures, true to nature. * * * The short HA 1 melancholy career of poor Lewie, shows the importance of properly mauling children. WM~ tern Literary Messenger. * * * The description of an American horn? it t*ue to the life. Ma- ny of the incidents are truly affecting. * * * PwsAges of remarkable benutv of expression and sentiment. We give the fvh owing as a speci- men of the thought and style which characterizes the woik : "It is strange how much a human heart may suffer and beat on and reqiin tranquility, and even cheerfulness at last. It is a most merciful protis-on of Provi- dence, that our griefs do not always fall as heavily as they do at first, else how could the burden of this life of change and sorrow be borne. But the loved ones are not fo-gotton when the tear is dried, and *h smile re- turns to the cheek ; they ire remembered, but with less of sadness and gloom in the remembrance; and at length, if we can think o.'tHm aa happy, it is onlv pleasure to recall them to mind." Patriot, Jargon Michigan. Four Thousand in Thirty Days! TWO ERAS OF FRANCE (Dm, TOOT SIP mra TODM MSIP MY 2 BY H.UGH DE N.QRMA.N.B', One volume 12nw., (uniform with Lewie and Pearl Fishing,) ^i 368 pages. '!& %* In the Stories of the Revolution, the author nas detailed the mournful history of the " Dauphin." and presented a summa- ry of the evidence so far discovered, in regard to that most inter- esting historical question the, identity of the Rev. Eleazer Wil- liams with Louis XVIL Muslin, Gilt, $1, Gilt Edges, 51.25, Full Gilt Edges & Sides, $1,7$, ALDEN.BEARDSLEV & Co., Auburn, N. Y., ) ... , WANZER, BEARDS LEY &. Co., Rochester, N. Y., \ fut NOTICES OF THE PRESS. * * * We have read this volume with a good degree of satisfaction and interest. * * * The soul-stirring events of the incarceration of the Dauphin, Prince Louis XVII. his probable escape through the aid of the friends of the reigning King, and the evidence pro and con, relating to the claims of Rev. Eleazer Williams, now a missionary in this country, to be the identical person the rightful heir to the throne of France, in place of the present incumbent. Ontario Messenger. * * * A most interesting volume. We need but mention the fact that the author has selected for his stories two of the most important periods in the annals of France. To the general reader, as well as to the scholar, this portion of French history is confessedly remarkable for its intense interest. Syracuse Journal. * * * The author treats of the Williams Dauphin question, and has stated the arguments, and pronounced it " at least highly probable" that Mr. W. is the Dauphin. This volume will be found a very attractive one to young readers, and should have a place in all the libraries for young men. Evening Mirror, New- York. * * * These stories traverse one of the most deeply interesting pe- riods of French History. * * A fine steel engraving of the reverend gentleman prefaces the volume. The Medina Whig. * * * Thrilling events. The revolution of 1789 stands distinguished Tor deep and world-wide interest. * * The fate of the helpless infant Dauphin has excited the deepest emotions of the civilized world. What- ever relates to these events is read with interest. * * * It is, there- fore, with peculiar pleasure that we have perused the late issue. Full of startling incident, and withal bearing the stamp of truth on all its pages, it cannot fail to entertain and instruct him who sits down to itf perusal. Lima Visitor. * * * Of remarkable and intense interest to the general reade and the scholar. * * * Its contents are worthy of examination. Palmyra Ulee Book. * * * The facts which are given to prove the identity of Mr. Wil- liams with the Dauphin, are of an exceedingly interesting character, and deserve a careful examination. The extraordinary resemblance which the Indian Missionary bears to the portraits of Louis XVI. and Louis XV11I. is not the least remarkable part of the matter. \Ve commend this readable book to the attention of our friends, as one well worthy of notice. Fred. Douglass 1 Paper, Rochester. i * * * Two of the most interesting periods in all tht ntstory of that nation. * * * Some of the more striking points iu the history of those events. Rochester Daily Advertiser, * * * The sketches are written in pleasant style, and are authen- tic. * * * It can be read with pleasure and profit by all persons who would have a correct statement of two most important events. Rochester Daily American. * * * v The fate of the Hugenots of France and the mysterious his- rory of the Dauphin or son of Louis XI V., constitute the points or' attrac- tion in this book The Wesleyan, Syracuse, N. Y. * * * These are portions of history of remarkable interest. * * * Every new book upon the subject is eagerly snatched up by the public, especially by a lively and graphic pen, like the one which drew these sketches. The work is replete with interest, and will repay a pe- rusal. * * * The author's object has been to re-produce these great eras with vividness and freshness, rather than to express any novel views respecting them. He has certainly produced vivid pictures, and con- densed a variety of historic information that ought to be in every read- er's possession. The idea is a capital one, which ought to be more fully carried out. The reader may be assured of a very impressive and reada- ble book. AT. Y. Tribune. * * * The volume will be found a very attractive one to young readers and should have a place in all the libraries for young men. N. Y. Mirror. * * * This is a book of great interest and excellence. It contains two stories ; but each one is full of stirring events } each developes an era m the history of France. Boston Traveller. This work is of great interest and of usefulness to the general reader, the student and statistician. It is a sketch of Biographies, thrilling in- cidents and recitals, replete with Historical Fact and valuable informa- tion, divested of the prolixity which necessarily appertains to standard Historic works. * * * \Ve commend the book as a digest of Histo- ry. TJie American Citizen.